#and that everything works out before the deadline

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 12 - flagrant foul]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: When a photo of Paige and Azzi appears online, the threat of exposure forces Azzi to confront what she’s tried to avoid: her feelings, the risks, and the terms she set to stay in control.

Despite Paige’s heartfelt confession and willingness to fight for their relationship, Azzi chooses the other way.

The fallout leaves both women reeling. Paige in silence, Azzi through conversations that slowly challenge her decision.

Word count: 6,591

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. September 2025.  

Azzi’s office held the pause that settled just after noon. Morning meetings had tapered off, her inbox thinned out, and her calendar was plotted in precise increments for the next several weeks.  

Yet she remained at her desk, posture composed, one elbow resting near her tablet while her fingers traced the metal edge without purpose. Her gaze hovered somewhere past the screen, thoughts already detached from the tasks in front of her. 

The buzz of her phone was soft against the wood. She glanced down, expecting a calendar alert or a board ping. 

James 

Azzi paused. He almost never texted. He was the type to call without warning, with his voice already halfway into a story before she even answered. A message from him was rare. Curiosity tugged her out of her concentration. 

She unlocked the screen and opened it. 

The image loaded slowly. A grainy shot, taken without care for angles or lighting. The alley outside the used bookstore on Valencia. Familiar to her now. She saw two figures, side by side, caught in soft motion.  

One was unmistakably Paige. The frame caught her half smiling, hair pulled low, a beanie slouched over her head.  

The other figure—blurred, hood drawn up, her face obscured by the tilt of her chin and the poor lighting—stood closer than expected.  

Their shoulders brushed. The intimacy of it read more clearly than any facial recognition algorithm could produce. 

It was them. 

James: u look good in sweats, lil sis. didn’t know they were in ur rotation. 

Azzi stared at the message, then at the photo again. Her fingers stayed on the edge of her screen, unmoving. She let the image linger for another breath before finally exhaling and pressing the phone icon. Her thumb hovered for half a second, just long enough to recompose the calm she wore like a uniform, then tapped the call. 

It rang twice. 

“You calling to confirm or deny?” James answered, voice already edged with amusement. 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Where did you get that photo?” 

“Everywhere,” he said. “Instagram, Twitter, one of those thirsty fan accounts. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re just seeing it. Thought you’d have an alert set for anything involving your number one draft pick.” 

Azzi pushed her chair back, the leather catching softly beneath her. She stood and paced toward the windows, phone still at her ear. The sunlight hit her desk at an angle, gold streaks warming the otherwise cold lines of glass and steel. 

“I’ve been working,” she said, carefully. “Deadlines. The arena renovation proposal just got out of committee.” 

“Ah,” James replied. “So too busy to check if you’re going viral for soft-launching your personal life?” 

Azzi sighed as her eyes followed the skyline just beyond the glass. Her reflection hovered faintly in the window, a muted echo of composure she wasn’t entirely feeling. 

“You can barely see me,” she said. “The photo isn’t clear.” 

James let out a low chuckle. “I’m your big brother. You really think a grainy 160p photo is gonna fool me into thinking that’s not my little sister looking real damn comfortable next to Golden State’s Golden Girl?” 

Azzi drew her free hand across her brow, thumb and forefinger pressing briefly at her temples.  

She could still hear Paige’s laugh from that moment. The way their shoulders brushed, how easy it had felt to exist like that for once, just one of two women ducking into an alley after dinner. 

“Has anyone else sent it to you?” she asked, quieter this time. 

“You mean Mom?” James said. “She’s too busy posting about her herb garden.” 

Azzi breathed in through her nose, let it settle in her chest. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

James gave a short laugh. “Then tell me, what does it look like? Because all I see is my little sister stepping out of her glass tower for once. Hanging around an alleyway, at midnight, with someone who makes her laugh. I’ve never seen you do that before. Kinda looks like living to me.” 

The warmth in his voice softened something in her chest, even as her grip on the phone stayed firm. James had always known when to mock and when to mean it. Sometimes, like now, he managed both in the same sentence. 

Azzi sat back in her chair, posture precise but strained. The screen in front of her had long gone dark, her reflection barely visible in the glass. She stared down at her phone, James’s name still at the top of the screen, his words echoing louder than they should have. 

Her voice, when it came, was measured. “The public cannot find out about this. Whatever Paige and I are... it stays where it started. Away from cameras. Away from stories.” 

There was a pause on the line, the weight of familiarity and older-brother instinct building into something firmer. 

“You think I’d send that photo if anyone could tell it was you?” James said. “They don’t know. The internet’s busy guessing, but your name hasn’t come up. Just some mystery woman next to the WNBA’s golden girl. That’s all they’ve got.” 

Azzi exhaled through her nose, gaze fixed on the grain of her desk. “Let’s hope that’s all of it. I’ve allowed this to go further than it should have. It was supposed to be temporary. I can’t afford this kind of distraction, and neither can she.” 

“You’re not describing a distraction,” James said. “You’re describing something real and trying to make it sound disposable.” 

Azzi pressed her fingertips together. Her pulse thudded against her ribs. “It’s immature. All of it. Meeting in alleys, letting myself fall into something undefined with someone I’m supposed to be leading. I need to stop acting like—like this.” 

James’s voice shifted, less teasing now. “You built a life on precision, and it’s served you well. But somewhere along the line, you started thinking control meant cutting yourself off from feeling anything at all.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt, but her expression hardened faintly. 

“I’ve seen you chase impossible deals. Risk ten times more on things you believed in,” James went on. “So don’t stand there pretending you don’t have the nerve to fall in love just because it came dressed like a headline. You’re allowed to live, Az. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s with the league’s favorite daughter.” 

His voice softened. “Especially if she looks at you like you’re hers.” 

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand stayed on her desk, palm flat against the surface like it could anchor her. Nothing in her face gave it away, but in her chest, something had started to shift. 

Azzi rubbed a thumb along the edge of her desk, the tension beginning to loosen beneath her ribs.  

“You and Nika should start an alliance,” she said dryly, lifting her phone off speaker and bringing it to her ear. “You’d be unstoppable. Half interventions, half judgmental commentary.” 

James’s laughter rumbled through the line. “What can I say? You’re fun to gang up on. It’s rare we get a reaction out of you.” 

Her lips curved, just slightly. “Maybe you’re both too predictable.” 

“Maybe. But predictable is what makes us reliable. Unlike someone who skipped out on Mom and Dad’s anniversary dinner without so much as a voicemail.” 

Azzi winced, but she didn’t argue. She leaned back into her chair, letting her head rest against the leather with a sigh. “I was caught up in a project.” 

“Whatever that project is,” James said, voice softening just enough to be felt, “it better not be the reason you miss your niece’s birthday next month.” 

At that, Azzi smiled. It started small but lifted into something real. Her niece had a way of doing that, pulling warmth from her without trying. 

“She still wants that telescope?” Azzi asked. 

“She wants a galaxy projector, a telescope, and a trip to Saturn,” James said. “But more than that, she wants you there.” 

Azzi’s smile lingered. 

“I swear,” he added, mock dramatic now, “she looks up to you like you invented the moon. I asked if she wanted McDonald’s and she said, ‘Aunt Azzi never eats fast food.’ You’ve ruined my daughter’s life.” 

A soft, smug sound escaped Azzi. “She has taste. And standards. I take full credit.” 

“You would,” James muttered. “Anyway, expect an invite. And clear your damn schedule.” 

Azzi reached for her tablet, thumb swiping through her calendar. “Send it over. I’ll move some things.” 

“Good. Because we’re all expecting a plus one this year.” James paused. “Preferably tall, blonde, six-foot with a mean mid-range jumper.” 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The knock arrived faint and uneven, like hesitation disguised as courage. Azzi stood in the kitchen, her hand curved loosely around the base of a glass.  

The stemless bowl of it held more than wine. It held the weight of restraint. Her tablet sat dim beside her, notifications untouched.  

Azzi set the glass down. Her movements were deliberate, the kind born from years of managing fire with poise. She walked toward the door, pressed her fingers against the handle, and opened it. 

Paige stood beneath the dim lighting of the hallway, posture hunched beneath the hood of her sweatshirt. Her eyes struggled to meet Azzi’s. She didn’t speak. 

Azzi didn’t invite her in with words. She stepped back, leaving just enough space for a decision to be made. 

Paige entered with her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She looked around the condo as though she was trying to remember what calm felt like. The scent of rosemary and warm stone hovered in the air. The room was clean, minimal, the kind of place that had been curated for control. 

“I know you’re pissed,” Paige said, her voice low and edged with exhaustion. “I would be too.” 

Azzi returned to the kitchen and picked up her glass. Her thumb traced the rim instead. 

“I didn’t know anyone was watching,” Paige added. “I swear.” 

Azzi’s gaze stayed fixed. “They always are. Whether you know it or not.” 

Paige dropped her hood. Her hair was still damp at the ends. She looked like she had changed three times before showing up. “It’s just a photo. We weren’t doing anything.” 

Azzi held Paige’s gaze, steady and unyielding. Her voice carried the weight of everything unsaid. “We agreed on boundaries for a reason. These terms protect more than just our reputations. They protect us.”  

The concern beneath her firmness was unmistakable, a careful guard around something fragile. 

Paige’s hands tightened around the edge of her hoodie as if anchoring herself. “I understand that. But this photo—it’s just a shadow, blurred and distant. No one knows who I was with. No one will connect the dots.”  

She tried to infuse confidence into her words, but the edge of worry still lingered in her tone. 

“What if someone takes another picture? One where my face is unmistakable? What then?” Azzi’s question hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed slightly, piercing through the attempt. 

Paige met her eyes with a quiet resolve. “It won’t happen again. We’ll be more careful. I promise. We’ll keep everything away from prying eyes.” 

A shadow passed over Azzi’s expression. Her disappointment was palpable, slipping through the cracks of her composed facade.  

“This situation could have been avoided if you had stuck to our terms from the beginning. Staying inside was not a suggestion. It was essential.” 

Paige lowered her gaze, the weight of responsibility pressing down. The defensiveness she had held faltered, leaving a raw honesty exposed. “I hear you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

“It will not happen again because we need to stop seeing each other. That is the only way to protect what’s left.” Azzi’s eyes softened briefly before hardening with a resolve that tightened the space between them. Her voice was steady but carried the weight of finality. 

Paige’s heart pounded as panic surged through her veins. The thought of losing Azzi felt like a sudden emptiness clawing at her chest.  

“That’s not the answer,” she said, voice trembling with urgency. “Walking away won’t fix anything. We can be careful. We can make this work.” 

“Careful has already failed us. Every time we try, it pulls us closer to exposure. We cannot afford mistakes, not with everything on the line.” 

“What happens to us then? Is letting it go the only way? I’m ready to fight for this. For us.” The vulnerability beneath Paige's words pulled at everything inside her. 

Azzi looked away for a moment, the tension in her jaw betraying the struggle inside. “I want that too, more than you know. But desire does not erase reality. The risks are too great. Our worlds are too different. I cannot let either of us fall because of this.” 

“These terms are bullshit. They’re just a way for you to keep me at a distance. You’re scared. Afraid of what this could become.” Paige’s eyes burned with anger and frustration, refusing to back down. “You hide behind these rules because letting me in means losing control. But I’m not here to be locked away or silenced. I’m here because I want this, all of it” 

Azzi’s eyes narrowed as she held Paige’s gaze with steady intensity. “These were the terms you agreed to from the start. This is on you as much as it is on me. Since they’ve been broken, there is no reason to keep going.” 

Paige’s breath hitched, but she refused to retreat. 

“I agreed because it was the only way to have you. The only way I could hold you, kiss you, treat you like you deserve—to make you feel special.” Her voice softened, trembling with something raw and true.  “You’re worlds above me in every way, but I’d give everything just for a moment to be with you.” 

“Paige —” 

“No Azzi,” Paige shook her head, voice steady but charged with everything she had held back. “I love the moments we steal inside these walls, when it’s just us and the world feels smaller. Those times make me feel like I’m exactly where I belong. But there’s a part of me that aches for more. To take you out on dates where the whole world knows who you are to me. To hold your hand in public without glances or whispered questions. To shout from the rooftops how proud I am of the woman you are—not just the CEO, not just the rich woman everyone sees, but you. Azzi, the woman who laughs at my terrible jokes. The one who steals the blanket and denies it with a straight face. The one who hums under her breath when she thinks I’m asleep. The one who sends me reminders to drink water like I’m the one who needs taking care of, even though your entire world runs on your shoulders.” 

Her breath caught on the weight of it all, vulnerability spilling out in every word. “I see beyond the power suits and the empire you’ve built. I see the woman who hides her fears behind a steel mask, the woman I’ve fallen for completely.” 

The word landed harder than Azzi expected.  

Fallen. 

It struck something deep and unguarded, something she had spent years building layers around. Her breath stalled, caught somewhere between disbelief and a sudden, visceral ache that curled low in her stomach.  

She had been prepared for resistance, even for anger. But not this. Not Paige handing her something so raw, so real, like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing between them. 

She held herself still. Her spine locked into place, but her hands betrayed her, curling slightly at her sides. She felt the room shift around her, like the air had grown heavier, more difficult to stand beneath.  

That word echoed in her chest, threatening to unseat all the careful control she’d spent a lifetime mastering. 

She wanted to speak. To cut through the tension with something definitive, something clean. Instead, she found herself staring at Paige, heart thudding behind her ribs with a rhythm she could not slow. 

She saw it in her mind with sharp clarity—Paige, standing there with her whole heart exposed, offering something Azzi had convinced herself she never needed.  

A future.  

A risk.  

A possibility she hadn’t allowed herself to want. The part of her that spent years making brutal decisions, negotiating mergers, cutting losses and letting go, screamed to end this now before it grew into something irreversible. 

But beneath that instinct was another feeling. Softer, older, more honest.  

She wanted to be chosen like that. She wanted someone to look at her and still want her for who she was. The version stripped of position and power. 

Her voice, when it finally came, was low. “You shouldn’t have said that.” 

It was all she could manage. Anything else would have unraveled her. 

Paige stepped in, slow and certain, until barely a breath sat between them. Her hands stayed at her sides, but her eyes never left Azzi’s face. She could see the tension drawn tight across her expression, the effort it took to stay composed. Azzi looked like she was trying to hold up a wall with trembling arms. 

“I said it because it’s true,” Paige answered, voice low but steady. “And because you needed to hear it, whether you want to or not.” 

A slow tension climbed through Azzi’s chest, as if the truth in Paige’s words had pressed against a part of her she wasn’t ready to name. 

 

“You can try to scare it away. You can stand there and pretend it didn’t crack something open in you. But I’m not sorry I said it. I meant every word.” Paige whispered. 

Azzi’s shoulders sagged slightly as the weight pressed down on her. Her voice came out tight, fragile. “I can’t do this. You’re—” 

“I’m willing to risk everything for this because it’s not just about a secret kept behind closed doors. It’s about us—something real, something worth fighting for. Even if the world tries to keep us apart, I’ll stand by you. I already have.”  

Paige’s eyes locked onto Azzi’s with fierce determination, refusing to let her look away. 

“I love you.” 

“What?”

Paige reached out with deliberate care, her fingers brushing softly against Azzi’s cheek. The warmth of her touch seemed to steady the turmoil beneath Azzi’s composed exterior. For a moment, the world around them slipped away, leaving only the shared weight of their breath and the steady pulse of something fragile and real between them.  

Azzi’s eyes softened as she leaned into the contact, the tension loosening just enough to reveal the vulnerability she usually kept hidden.  

The unspoken promises hung heavy in the space they held together, a tether stronger than any words. Then the moment shifted, the reality of their situation pressing back in like a tide reclaiming the shore. 

“You don’t have to say anything back. I just want you to know how I feel and where I stand.” Paige’s eyes held steady, vulnerable yet unwavering. “That’s all.” 

Azzi’s breath caught as Paige’s words settled in a place she tried to keep locked away. She turned her gaze downward, feeling the weight of everything pressing against her chest. 

“I can’t say the same. I can’t. Sometimes feelings don’t matter when everything else is at stake.” 

When Azzi looked back, she let her fingers brushed a loose strand of Paige’s hair with a hesitant tenderness, a small touch that spoke more than her words.  

“I want this to mean something, but I’m scared it won’t keep us safe. I’m sorry, Paige.” 

- 

Nika’s condo, Oakland. September 2025.  

Azzi’s knock was hesitant, but firm enough to echo softly against the cool walls of Nika’s apartment. The door swung open before she could repeat the sound, revealing Nika standing framed by the warm glow of the living room. Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line of curiosity mixed with something sharper—an intuition that unsettled Azzi more than she expected. 

“You,” Nika said with a half-smile, stepping aside without waiting for an invitation. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

Azzi stepped in, the faint scent of rain still clinging to her coat. The apartment felt both lived-in and calm, a refuge from the chaos she carried inside. She paused by the doorway, collecting the heaviness that weighed down her shoulders.  

“There’s been a photo,” she said, her voice low and brittle. 

Nika’s expression softened, the sharp edges fading into something warmer but no less serious. “I saw it online this morning. You don’t exactly live in the shadows, but I guess some things find a way to catch up no matter what.” 

Azzi eased down onto the worn leather sofa, the familiar texture grounding her amid the restless swirl of thoughts. She let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the grain of the armrest as if searching for solid footing. 

“I tried to calculate everything, every risk, every move. I never thought being careful would not be enough.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the strain beneath the surface. “I thought if we stuck to the terms, if Paige and I stayed grounded, we could keep it all hidden.” 

She looked up, eyes searching Nika’s face for judgment or disappointment but finding only steady understanding. “But the photo, someone saw us. And now everything feels unraveling. I feel like I am losing control and I do not know how to fix it.” 

Nika moved closer and settled beside Azzi on the sofa, her hand reaching out to pull her into a gentle hug. The warmth of the embrace was steady, a soft anchor in the storm of Azzi’s unraveling thoughts. 

“I could say I told you so, but that wouldn’t help right now.” Her smile was fleeting, fading as her eyes settled on Azzi with steady care. “It’s alright to fall apart. You don’t have to hold everything inside. You’re allowed to crash, to feel broken sometimes. That doesn’t make you any less strong.” 

Azzi’s breath caught, the carefully guarded walls around her emotions beginning to crumble in that moment. 

“You have me,” Nika continued, her eyes locking with Azzi’s. “And you have more people in your corner than you realize.” 

“You don’t have to be nice to me for a raise.” Azzi tried to joke.  

Nika let out a soft snort, shaking her head as she leaned back just enough to see Azzi’s face.  

“Please. I’m getting a raise whether I’m nice to you or not.” Her grin was crooked, but her tone was clear and even. “But I’m not saying this because I want something from you. I’m saying it because it’s true.” 

Azzi’s eyes lowered, jaw tight, as if accepting kindness demanded more strength than holding the world on her shoulders. 

“You’re so locked in—work, Paige, keeping everything airtight—that you miss what’s right in front of you. You’re not alone in this. You never were.” Nika kept her voice even, but her gaze pressed in, steady and sure.  

“Ines has been holding that schedule of yours like it's classified military intel. She’s been screening calls and dodging press better than most publicists I’ve met. That’s loyalty. She’s not there because it’s a paycheck. She’s there because she believes in you.” 

Something in Azzi shifted in the lines of her expression.  

Nika went on, calm and certain. “Your team at Fudd Holdings? The people in that company would walk through fire if you asked them. Half of them already have. They don’t speak to you like a boss because they’re afraid. They do it because they respect you. Deeply.” 

Nika paused, her voice dropping into something quieter, more certain. “And the Valkyries… you think they’re waiting for a reason to question you, but they’re not. Some of them put the pieces together, I’m sure. But they kept it to themselves. Because they know who you are. You didn’t build that team on ego or impulse. You drafted Paige because she’s the best guard available, because you want banners on the wall, not headlines in the tabloids. They respect that. They respect you.” 

Azzi’s shoulders slumped. The weight hadn’t lifted, but Nika’s words carved out enough space to breathe. The kind of space she hadn’t allowed herself in weeks. 

Nika held her close, arms wrapped around Azzi with the kind of steadiness that never asked for permission. She stayed, anchoring Azzi in a moment that allowed her to let go just enough. 

Azzi leaned into it, her cheek brushing Nika’s shoulder as her voice came in a low, strained breath. “She said she loves me.” 

The words sat between them, fragile but heavy. Nika tightened her hold slightly. 

“We talked earlier,” Azzi continued, the edges of her composure softening. “It caught me off guard. I’ve spent so much time trying to keep this under control, trying to keep her from getting too close. But then she says that, and suddenly everything I’ve been holding back crashes in.” 

Her throat worked around the next part. “I didn’t know how to stay. I’ve never known what to do with something that feels that real. So I did the only thing I could. I told her we had to stop.” 

She pulled back just enough to see Nika’s face, her own expression unguarded. “I thought it would protect us. That if I ended it, I could keep us safe from the fallout. But all it did was leave me standing there, feeling like I just stepped out of something I might never find again.” 

Nika studied her, the way only someone who had seen Azzi in every version of herself could. 

"Az, you’re not bulletproof. You never were. You just got real good at pretending to be.” 

She reached for Azzi’s hand and held it between both of hers. 

“You didn’t lose your grip. You let yourself feel something, and now it scares the hell out of you. That’s not failure. That’s human. And you’re allowed to be that. Even if you don’t know what to do next. Even if you think you messed it up.” 

Azzi’s breath caught, her shoulders lifting in a futile attempt to keep it together, but the weight had been pressing in too long. Her face folded as the first tear broke past her defenses, then another. She leaned forward, eyes glassed and unfocused, like the ground had been slipping beneath her for weeks and only now had she looked down. 

Her voice cracked, raw and barely audible. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

“Just cry and let it all out, babe.”  

- 

Chase Center Arena, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The room hummed with anticipation, reporters pressing forward beneath the harsh glare of cameras and bright lights. Paige sat at the head of the table. Questions about the game came swiftly, voices overlapping with excitement and urgency. 

Then a sharp voice cut through the noise.  

“Paige, there’s been a photo circulating online that has caught everyone’s attention. Can you tell us who the other person is?” 

Paige’s breath faltered for a moment, but her expression stayed composed.  

She met the questioner’s gaze directly, voice steady and calm. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m here to talk about the team’s success and the hard work behind it. My focus remains on the game and the players who made this win possible.” 

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd as cameras clicked rapidly.

Another reporter pressed, “Is it someone we know? Or someone connected to the team?” 

Paige’s lips curved into a polite, guarded smile. “I’m not at liberty to discuss personal matters. Right now, the priority is celebrating what we’ve achieved together.” 

She took a breath, then added with genuine warmth, “But let me have this opportunity to say that she’s an amazing person. The world is lucky to have her grace us with her presence. So I hope the media and everyone can respect her privacy. She deserves that much—just to be seen as a person, not a headline.” Her voice carried a quiet but firm resolve, grounding her words in both care and conviction. 

- 

Golden State Valkyries Charity Gala, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The convention center buzzed with muted excitement, a flowing crowd of elegant guests beneath crystal chandeliers. Azzi moved through the room with deliberate grace, her luxurious black dress sculpting her figure with quiet power. Every step felt like a careful performance, one she could not afford to falter in. 

Across the room, Paige stood among the Valkyries, her tailored suit sharp against the sea of gowns and tuxedos. She laughed with her teammates, but her eyes betrayed a restless focus, drifting toward the entrance, searching for Azzi. 

When Azzi caught sight of Paige, the familiar pull inside her tightened, a mixture of longing and hesitation she kept carefully locked away.  

The press swarmed around them, filling the space with flashing cameras and intrusive questions, but neither could look away. 

Azzi answered inquiries about her business ventures with measured calm, though each word felt distant. Her thoughts kept returning to Paige’s poised figure, the way she carried herself with an ease that both unsettled and captivated her. 

Paige kept her attention on her team, though the tension coiled beneath her skin. Every time her eyes met Azzi’s across the crowded room, a silent conversation passed between them. 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. September 2025. 

The television screen glowed blue across the walls, a paused replay of their last home game frozen in place. Paige lay across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, the other bent at the knee. Her socks were mismatched. 

Her phone rested on her chest. Every few minutes, she picked it up and stared at the same screen.  

Azzi’s contact hovered near the top of her recents, untouched since the night they ended things. 

Paige tapped the message box. Her thumbs hesitated. 

I miss you. 

She stared at it. Too simple. Too soft.  

She deleted it. 

Typed again. 

I still wear your stupid expensive hoodie. I don’t know why. It smells like you, and I think that makes me feel worse. 

Delete. 

She tried something else. 

You made me feel seen, even when you were pushing me away. I know you think you’re protecting me. But you’re not. You’re just protecting the version of yourself that never learned how to stay. 

Her hand dropped to her stomach. She exhaled slowly, eyes stinging. The message sat there, waiting for her to commit. She didn’t move. 

Her thumb hovered, trembling slightly. Then she erased the entire thing. 

She set the phone face down on the couch beside her and stared at the ceiling. Her hand rested over her ribs, right where the ache sat thickest. The city outside kept moving, streetlights flaring against the walls, cars groaning past. But inside, everything stilled into something tight and quiet and sore. 

After a while, she reached for the phone again.  

No new messages.  

She opened their thread. It looked untouched, but the weight behind each message pressed back at her like pressure behind glass. 

She started typing again. 

I wish you’d let me fight for you. 

She let the cursor blink. 

And then she deleted it too. 

- 

Fudd Private Estate, Northern California. September 2025.  

The gates of the Fudd estate closed behind her with a low hum, but Azzi remained still in the back seat, her eyes fixed on the gravel drive ahead.  

The car rolled forward slowly, trees arching overhead, their summer leaves shifting in a breeze that made her eyelids heavier. Sleep tugged at her like a weight around her ribs. She had not given into it all week. 

The house stood as it always had—elegant, composed, unchanging. But as she stepped out of the car, her reflection in the side mirror gave her pause. She adjusted the collar of her coat, though it had already fallen into place. The gesture was less about neatness than control. 

Inside, the scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs greeted her. Her mother always cooked on Sundays. Even when she didn’t expect guests. The dining room doors were open, letting in the early afternoon light that spilled in sharp angles across the table. 

Her mother looked up from where she was placing a serving dish down. Surprise flickered across her features, then gave way to concern as she looked Azzi over. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she said, taking in her daughter’s drawn face, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Or maybe ten.” 

Azzi kissed her cheek lightly before sitting at the far end of the table. “I’ve been working,” she said. She unfolded her napkin with slow precision, focusing on the motion instead of her mother’s expression. 

“I can see that.” Her mother sat across from her, one brow arched. “The work must be tremendous to strip you down like this.” 

Azzi gave a small shrug and reached for the water. “Tremendous is one word for it.” 

They ate for a few minutes in the kind of calm that came with practiced familiarity. Forks against porcelain. The soft clink of glass. Her mother watched her with the kind of attention that made evasion impossible. 

“You used to come here to rest,” she said, her voice low but certain. “But you look more tired than when you left the city. This kind of pace only serves the fire until it burns you with it.” 

Azzi chewed, swallowed, and reached for a piece of bread she wasn’t sure she wanted. “It’s just work.” 

Her mother gave her a look that said she knew better but would wait for the truth to come on its own. “Then let work stay outside these walls. You came home for a reason. Even if you don’t want to say it yet.” 

Azzi toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding it once, then again, pressing the seam with a steady hand that felt anything but steady. Across from her, her mother waited. Her silence held no pressure, only the kind of calm that invited honesty without demanding it. 

Azzi stared down at her plate, then pushed it slightly away. Her appetite had vanished, if it had ever been there at all. She drew a slow breath and spoke, her voice level but threaded with something fragile. 

“I met someone.” 

Her mother stayed still, but Azzi caught the way her gaze sharpened with focus, a quiet shift that said she was listening more closely now. 

“She’s loud. She talks with her whole body and never waits to be invited into a room. She eats like she’s got three games a day, leaves her shoes wherever she kicks them off, and has an opinion about everything, even the things that don’t concern her.” 

A pause. 

“She is everything I am not.” 

Azzi’s mouth twisted slightly, but there was a softness behind it. The memory of something recent. 

“I tried to keep my distance. I thought she’d eventually get bored, that she’d lose interest in someone who reads the market before breakfast and keeps her life on a spreadsheet. But she didn’t leave. She kept showing up. In her own way. Loud, stubborn, and always smiling like she knew some secret I hadn’t figured out yet.” 

Her hand dropped to the table. 

“She’s the chaos in my structure. And somehow, instead of pushing me over the edge, she makes the fall feel manageable.” 

Her eyes lifted to her mother’s, quieter now, not with defeat but with truth. 

“She pulls me into this world I’ve never had room for. I keep resisting it, stepping back when it feels too far from what I know. But then she says something or laughs or looks at me like I matter more than all of it, and I feel still. I feel calm in a way that terrifies me, because it doesn’t make sense. Nothing about her should feel safe, but she does.” 

Her mother leaned back in her chair, watching her with the same patience she used to show when Azzi was a girl unraveling her shoelaces in frustration. Her voice came steady and warm. 

“What’s wrong with meeting someone like that?” she asked, chin tilted slightly, eyes knowing. 

Azzi’s jaw tensed. She looked down at her hands, fingers laced too tightly together. “She plays for my team. That alone is a big complication.” 

Her mother’s brow lifted, a slow grin creeping across her face. “The LGBTQ team?” 

Azzi huffed, the sound sharp but laced with something unwillingly amused. She dragged a hand down her face, not hiding the eye-roll that followed. “You’re impossible.” 

“I’m hilarious,” her mother replied, reaching for her tea with the poise of someone deeply pleased with herself. “And I just want to see my daughter laugh. You don’t do that enough these days.” 

Azzi pressed her thumb to the edge of her plate. She looked up slowly, the hint of a smile forming, not quite reaching full strength but trying. “It’s not that simple.” 

“I didn’t say it was. But love never is. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth the mess.” 

“You do realize how inappropriate it is to suggest having myself involved with someone under contract with my organization?” 

“Darling, she’s an athlete. You own the team. You’re not exactly her shift supervisor.” 

“I drafted her. I fund her salary. My signature is on half her contracts. And my last name is printed on everything the team wears. That counts.” 

Her mother sipped her tea with maddening calm. “You’re saying you’re afraid people will think she’s only playing for you because you like the way she looks in shorts.” 

Azzi’s sigh was audible. “I’m saying the optics are complicated.” 

“That’s not what you’re saying.” Her mother’s lips curled. “You’re saying you care about her, and that scares the hell out of you. So you’re clinging to technicalities like they’re policy manuals.” 

Azzi glanced away, jaw tightening. “My position requires everything to be responsible, professional, and calculated.” 

Her mother leaned forward slightly, tone gentler now. “Let me ask you something, my darling. When you look at this girl, when you see her name in your emails or schedule, or walk into a room and find her already there… do you feel steadier, or more lost?” 

Azzi's throat constricted. Her breath stuck somewhere in the middle.  

She hadn’t expected the question to land where it did. It wasn’t about rules or reputations, contracts or careers.  

It was personal. Painfully so. 

Her mother smiled, the kind of smile that came from watching your child fight the same wars you once did. “Sometimes the point isn’t to feel in control. Sometimes it’s to feel seen. You have every tool in the world to build distance, but what happens when someone finally closes it, and you don’t hate how it feels?” 

Azzi’s posture faltered, her shoulders curving inward like the words had taken the wind out of her spine. Her voice came out thinner than she liked. “It feels like a risk I don’t know how to take.” 

Her mother set her cup down with careful precision, then met Azzi’s eyes with quiet certainty. “You’ve mastered everything except letting yourself be known. At some point, you have to ask if protecting the life you’ve built is worth missing out on the one that could make you feel alive.” 

[meowabunga]

Super! - 1

Superman!Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Late nights and looming deadlines are part of the job when you’re a journalist at the Daily Planet. But getting mugged on your way home wasn’t in the assignment list. When Metropolis’s favorite hero swoops in and saves you, what starts as a scraped knees and shared soup slowly becomes something deeper when you find yourself caught up with two versions of the same man.

authors note: I just saw the superman movie and were so back

You always told yourself you’d stop working late.

But here you were, 12:37AM, bag clutched tightly against your side, heels clicking against the pavement. The Daily Planets towering glow fading behind you as you turned down the familiar side street shortcut.

The street grow darker the more turns you took. The usually bustling streets now quiet as the pale moons cast conveniently stopped at the narrow sidewalks between buildings.

It happened fast. A sharp voice behind you, “Purse, Now.” And cold metal pressed against your back.

You turned, breath catching in your throat. A tall man in a black hoodie and jeans. Mask covering the bottom half of his face.

You didnt think. You just ran.

Heels clicked against the ground before catching on a crack in the pavement. Shit!

The concrete dug into your knees. Skin peeled off and blood quickly soaking the open wounds. The mugger caught you quickly, steel toed boot meeting your side forcefully. “The purse, NOW!”

You blinked back tears, and heard a whoosh. As you opened your eyes he was gone. A loud band came from the alleyway a few feet away from you and you could vaguely make out papers fluttering to the ground around the dumpster at the end as the lid slammed shut.

A sigh escaped your lips.

The wind came back, this time next to you.

“You’re safe now ma’am. Are you alright?” A hand expended out next to you. Superman.

You blinked up at him, too stunned to move. Or speak. Or think.

Minutes later, you sat on a bench near the corner of 8th and Morris St. The streetlights flickered. Bits of concrete were still stuck in your bloodied knees. And superman, the actual superman, was crouched in-front of you, brushing it away with delicate fingers that somehow felt too soft for someone that could punch through meteors.

You hated crying in-front of anyone, let along a living legend. So you tilted your head back and blinked furiously. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and you were trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have an anxiety attack.  You cracked your knuckles, once, twice, trying to distract yourself.

“Im okay,” you managed to choke out, voice embarrassingly wobbly.

He gave you a look. Not quite buying it.

“I can get home myself, really. I just..”

“Nope.” He said, gently but firmly. “Hang on”

You barely had time to object before his arms were scooping you up, lifting you effortlessly against his chest. Warm and solid. Safe.

You buried your face in his shoulder and hoped your tears would stain his cape too much.

—

You weren’t entirely sure how he knew which building was yours. You pointed halfway through the flight, and he murmured, “got it.”

He didn’t just drop you at the door. He walked up six flights of stairs, because your elevator was broken, and stopped outside your apartment, waiting as you fumbled for your keys.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you mumbled as you nudged the door open.

He still hadn’t left.

The hallway somehow felt warmer with him inside.

“I, um…” you rubbed your arms, looking everywhere around the hallway but at him. “Are you… hungry? I don’t know if aliens eat human food..” You cut yourself off “I mean, sorry, that sounded..”

Superman laughed. “No offense taken. And yeah, I do. Not everything, but I can try.”

“Ah, okay. I have chicken and rice soup. Its my dad’s recipe, your more than welcome to stay. It’s good, I promise.” You stepped inside holding the door open for him.

The two of you shuffled inside and moments later you had scooped leftovers into a pot and began stirring over the heat of your stove. Superman sat politely at the end of your couch, looking wildly out of place and yet perfectly comfortable.

A few minutes later, you were both cradling mismatched bowls, the scent of warm oily broth and herbs filling the small space.

He took a bite. Paused, and smiled softly. “This is amazing”

“See?” You said, shoulders held a little higher, “my dad knows his stuff, I told you.”

You didn’t realize how much your were smiling until your cheeks began to ache. The tension in the room was slowly easing.

“So…” you rolled the spoon between your fingers. “I know this is totally unprofessional timing, but… how do you feel about interviews?”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Not right now! Obviously, but someday. I work at the Daily Planet. My friend… well, coworker, Clark always gets interviews. I swear he has some telepathic link or something. He’s always on scene, Gets the best photos too.” 

You rolled your eyes and switched the bowl between hands with a laugh. “I swear he’s trying to one up me.”

Superman leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “he’s trying to impress you.”

You blinked. Spoon paused halfway to your lips. “What?”

He smirked. “Ill tell clark to let his friend…”

“(Y/N).”

“Right. I’ll tell clark to let his friend (Y/N) get more interviews. Just don’t tell Lois.”

You let out a real laugh this time, “Deal.”

[uhuhmaries]

Hi! Could you write a one-shot where Harry is in his current era and in a low-key relationship with Y/N, who’s much younger than him? She’s sweet, gentle, very feminine and obedient. They’ve been together for less than a year and are spending the summer in Italy — he’s on a break from touring and she’s off from university.

Harry is protective, affectionate, and noticeably possessive in a quiet, controlled way. He takes care of every detail of the trip, loves guiding her, and makes it very clear — without needing to say much — that he’s the one in control of the relationship. And Y/N doesn’t just accept that, she craves it.

While in Italy, Harry decides to introduce her to a few of his closest friends, which makes her place in his life even more obvious.

It turned out a little more detailed than I planned, sorry for that hahaha. I just really love your writing and would love it if you’d consider creating something in this vibe 🩷

OOOOOH ITS SO GOOD LET ME COOKKKKK HERES MY BRIEF TAKE ON IT

La Sua Ragazza | H.S. Blurb

The morning sun breaks lazily across the Amalfi Coast, honey-dipped and slow, warming the white cotton sheets tangled at your ankles. You hear him before you see him—ceramic clinks, a soft grunt as the moka pot sputters its final breath, and then the sound of his bare feet against the tiles.

Your eyes flutter open just as he steps back into the bedroom, shirtless, tanned skin glowing, curls damp from the quick rinse he always takes before breakfast. He’s holding two espresso cups, and his rings glint in the light. He eyes you with a smirk that never quite leaves him, even when he’s quiet.

“Finally,” Harry murmurs, setting the cups down on the table by the window. “Was wondering if I’d have to wake you with my mouth again.”

You flush, sit up slowly, stretching. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He walks over, bends to kiss your temple. “Would, actually. But thought I’d give you the chance to open those pretty eyes first.”

You’ve been in Italy for two weeks now—a long, languid escape from London, from paparazzi, from lectures and library deadlines. It’s the longest uninterrupted stretch of time you’ve had together since you met, and Harry’s been savoring it quietly but intensely. Not with chaos or desperation, but with a steady, insatiable hunger. You feel it every time he grips your thigh beneath the table, every time he opens your car door like it’s second nature, every time he gently corrects your Italian for the fifth time that day only to kiss you hard for trying.

He’s usually dated someone his age or older, but this time… somehow, it’s you. The age difference is unmistakable—he was already in elementary school when you were just learning to crawl. Not so wide it feels impossible, but enough to remind you both that you come from very different worlds.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” you say, taking the espresso cup from his hand, fingers brushing.

“I didn’t,” he says, sipping his. “Had Lorenzo drop off some fruit and focaccia.”

Right. Lorenzo, the chef-slash-friend Harry seems to know in every city. You still don’t know how his web of connections works, but he always handles everything: food, transport, villas. Your job is just to show up, look pretty, and let him lead.

And God, do you let him.

You didn’t used to. Not with anyone. Even when you were soft-spoken and gentle, there was always a little wall up— something that said I can take care of myself, thanks. But Harry doesn’t fight that. He just makes you forget you ever needed the wall.

Today, he has plans. You can tell by the crisp linen shirt he slips on, the way he’s already got sunglasses hooked into the collar.

“We’re going to the marina later,” he says. “And I want you in something light. Something white.”

You nod, swallowing a sip of espresso. “Who are we seeing?”

He glances over, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Some mates. Keep it simple, yeah?”

You know what that means. Let him lead. Let him introduce you how he wants. Let his hand rest on your waist a little firmer than necessary when they ask who you are.

By early afternoon, you’re perched on the deck of a sleek, low yacht, surrounded by slow laughter and clinking wine glasses. The water is impossibly blue. You’re wearing a white linen sundress Harry picked out in Positano, and you feel it every time he looks at you— the approval.

He’s sitting beside you, hand draped casually over your thigh. Always touching. Never far. Every so often, his thumb strokes over your skin, quiet and grounding.

“Y/N, this is Mitch,” he says, nodding to a man across from you, beard thick and hair tucked into a cap. “And his wife, Elle. We go back years.”

You smile politely, fingers curling in your lap.

“How long have you two been together?” Elle asks warmly, tipping her sunglasses down.

Harry answers before you can.

“Nearly a year,” he says. “Still figuring out if she can put up with me.”

You turn toward him, about to make a playful retort, but he gives you that look. The one that says don’t get cheeky, darling, without saying a word. So instead, you blush and take another sip of wine, letting the group laugh.

He doesn’t always say much, but the message is clear. You’re his. You’re not here to impress them. You’re here because he wanted you here. Because he wants them to see how gentle you are, how quietly you fall in line. How much you trust him, even if it’s still new. Even if sometimes you hesitate.

But the truth is, you like that he takes the reins. You like how everything feels less overwhelming when you let him think for you. Plan for you. Speak for you. He makes you feel like it’s not just okay to let go— it’s expected.

And the way he looks at you when you do? It’s addictive.

Later, when the boat docks and everyone’s slipping into their cars, Harry opens your door and kisses your forehead. “You did well.”

Your heart jumps at the praise.

You drive in silence for a few minutes before he reaches over and places a hand on the back of your neck, thumb brushing your hairline. His voice drops.

“Know you don’t always like letting people in. But I like having them see you with me. Like showing you off.”

You blink out the window, heat blooming in your chest.

“I didn’t mind,” you whisper. “It’s just new.”

He hums. “You’re getting better at letting me take control.”

You bite your lip. “I didn’t mean to.”

He laughs softly, turns to look at you at a stoplight. “Doesn’t matter. You always do. And you like it.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because when he parks at the villa, you’re already moving around the car to his side before he can call you over. Already taking his hand when he offers it. Already looking up at him like he owns you.

And Harry? He always takes what’s his.

Even when you’re only just starting to understand how much you want to give.

La sua ragazza — his girl. Always.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

GOD IM IN MY FEELINGS BC OF THIS I CANNOTTTTT I MISS HIM SO MUCH

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝐹𝑜𝑐𝑢𝑠, 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑦

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Smut, Fluff

Word count- 4084

Warnings- 18+ interaction only, oral sex, fingering, dom Jimin, edging, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, NSFW

The dull hum of your laptop fan was the only real sound in the room, aside from the quiet, rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. You were locked in. Zoned out. Deep in that tunnel-vision kind of focus where everything else faded into the periphery. The document in front of you was nearly thirty pages, and the deadline sat like a weight in your chest. You weren’t just doing this for yourself — this project meant something. You had to finish it tonight.

Behind you, Yu Jimin sighed again.

You’d heard her. Several times now. The exaggerated kind of sigh that was less about air and more about attention. She was on the bed, where she’d been for the past hour, supposedly watching something on her phone — although you noticed that whatever show she’d picked had been paused at the 5-minute mark for the past twenty.

Your jaw flexed. You ignored the growing heat in your stomach and tried to focus on the paragraph in front of you.

“The current market landscape suggests—”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Another sigh.

Your hands froze over the keys, and your lips parted to speak — to maybe give her a please, baby, not now — but you didn’t even get a word out before you felt it: the subtle dip in the floorboards. A shift in the air. Then warmth at your calves as two hands slid up your legs, slow and smooth, and the scent of vanilla — her body lotion — hit you just before her head ducked beneath your desk.

“Jimin?” you whispered, already knowing the answer. Your eyes flicked down for a moment, and there she was. Kneeling between your legs with that devil-may-care look that always meant trouble. Her dark hair framed her face in soft waves, and her lips were already parted in a mischievous smile. Eyes half-lidded, hungry.

“Keep working,” she whispered, voice a low purr. “Don’t mind me.”

“I’m busy,” you said, and it came out more breathless than stern. Weak. Desperate, even.

“I know.” Her hands slid further up, fingers pushing the hem of your loose sleep shorts higher until they bunched around your hips. “That’s the fun part.”

You inhaled sharply. She leaned in, and before you could protest again — not that your body was putting up much of a fight — her mouth was already pressing gentle, teasing kisses against the inside of your thigh.

“Jimin—” You swallowed. “Seriously. I can’t—”

She didn’t say anything. Just exhaled slowly against your skin, the warm puff of breath ghosting far too close to where you were already starting to ache. Your thighs twitched. Your hands hovered uncertainly over the keyboard, your mind at war with itself.

On screen, the document blurred. Your eyes kept flicking down, traitorous, every few seconds, trying to keep track of her movements. She was slow. Methodical. Dangerous in the way she knew your body — every soft spot, every little gasp she could pull from you with a touch or a look. And right now, she looked determined.

You felt her fingers slide up to hook your panties to the side, and your hips jerked in response — not in protest. Her lips curved.

“You’re already wet,” she murmured. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

You stifled a sound. A half-moan, half-laugh that got caught somewhere in your throat and died before it could escape. The room suddenly felt too hot, your screen too bright, your task infinitely far away.

Still — you tried.

You tried to keep typing. Your fingers moved, even if your brain couldn’t quite keep up. You were painfully aware of every movement under the desk. Her breath on your skin. The gentle drag of her fingernails along your inner thighs. The way she waited, not giving you what you wanted — not yet — because she wanted to watch you unravel first.

“Keep going,” she said again, softer now. Almost tender. “Do your work.”

And then her tongue was on you.

You choked on a whimper, fingers flying off the keyboard. Your legs tensed. Your entire body jolted like a livewire had been touched. You reached down to clutch the edge of the desk for support as her tongue moved — slow and purposeful, like she had all the time in the world and none of your deadlines mattered.

“Shit—” You gasped.

“You said you needed to focus,” she murmured between strokes. “I’m just helping.”

You wanted to curse her. You wanted to melt into the seat. You wanted her to never stop.

She picked up the pace — just a little. Just enough to make your thighs shake and your back arch. Her tongue flattened, pressed, circled. She knew exactly what to do, exactly how much to give you before pulling back and letting your frustration build.

And you were trying. God, you were trying to stay composed.

You stared at your screen with wide eyes, vision flickering in and out of focus. The cursor blinked on an empty line. You hadn’t written a single word since she started.

“Fuck, Jimin,” you whispered, grinding your hips forward despite yourself.

She pulled back for just a second, lips glistening, eyes sparkling. “Language,” she teased.

You whimpered. “I can’t… I can’t concentrate like this—”

“That’s the point.” Her voice was silk. Sin. Pure seduction wrapped in mock-innocence.

She dipped her head again, tongue pressing into you deeper this time. Your hands gripped the arms of the chair, white-knuckled, your hips rocking involuntarily as waves of heat crashed over your body.

Every part of you was screaming for more.

And this was just the beginning.

You tried to breathe through it.

That was the first thing your body attempted — to steady itself. To find control. But how could you breathe when Yu Jimin was under your desk, eating you out like it was her full-time job, and you were expected to keep your hands on a keyboard like nothing was happening?

Her tongue moved slow at first — long, languid strokes that teased more than they satisfied. She worked you over like she had no intention of letting you finish quickly. She wanted to ruin you inch by inch.

And she was doing a damn good job of it.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured into your folds, her lips brushing over your clit with every word. “All this pressure… Let me help you relax, baby.”

You keened, biting down on your knuckle as she sucked gently — maddeningly — on that swollen, aching bundle of nerves. Her hands, those slender fingers you knew too well, gripped your thighs and kept them spread. Firm. Commanding. Your legs twitched once, instinctively trying to close, and she chuckled — laughed — like this was all a game to her.

And maybe it was.

Maybe the game was seeing how long it took before you completely fell apart.

Your head lolled back slightly, and you muttered a broken string of words that might’ve been her name, might’ve been a prayer. You weren’t sure. All you could feel was her tongue tracing dizzying circles around your clit, and then flattening against it with just enough pressure to make your thighs clench involuntarily.

“Jimin—fuck—” you hissed, hands leaving the keyboard now, fingers gripping the edge of the desk like it might anchor you. “You’re not playing fair.”

“You’re not paying attention to me,” she purred, mouth trailing downward for a moment to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your slit. “So now I’m making sure I’m the only thing you can think about.”

You were thinking of her. Only her.

The project? Forgotten.

The deadline? Who cares.

Your whole world had narrowed to the woman kneeling between your legs, her tongue deep inside you, fingers digging into your thighs like she owned you.

And in that moment… she did.

She flicked her tongue against your clit in a sharper, more pointed rhythm now — fast enough to make your breath stutter. Your hips rocked forward before you could stop them, grinding gently against her mouth, and she moaned softly in response — the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat straight through your core.

“You’re dripping,” she said, pulling back just enough to press a kiss just above your clit. “God, baby. I could do this all night.”

Then — as if to drive the point home — you felt her fingers slide up, one hand cupping your mound while the other slipped two fingers into your soaked pussy in one smooth, practiced motion.

You cried out — a raw, unfiltered sound that you barely managed to muffle behind your hand. You twisted in the chair, one hand slamming down to lower the volume on your laptop in a panic, heart thundering in your chest.

“Shhh…” she cooed, pumping her fingers gently. “What if someone hears you? You said you were on a call earlier…”

“I’m not—anymore,” you gasped, hips jerking. “Jesus—fuck, Jimin—”

She twisted her wrist slightly and curved her fingers in just the right way — and that was it. Your eyes rolled back, mouth dropping open in a silent moan, your body arching off the chair as white-hot pleasure surged through your core.

But it didn’t stop.

She didn’t let you come.

She pulled back.

You whined — an absolutely pathetic, need-soaked noise that made her grin wickedly from below.

“What?” she teased. “Did you think I was gonna let you come that fast?”

“Jimin,” you growled, your voice cracking, “I need it.”

“Yeah? Then beg.”

You looked down at her, lips parted, eyes wide. She was licking her fingers now — tasting you, slow and indulgent — her cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. She looked ravishing.

And she wanted to make you work for it.

“Please,” you whispered.

She tilted her head.

“Say it properly.”

Your hands clenched in your lap. You were soaked, trembling, on edge in a way that made your brain feel fuzzy. You didn’t want to play anymore. You wanted to be fucked — hard. You wanted her mouth back.

“Please, Jimin,” you said, louder this time. “Please make me come. I—I’ll do anything, just—fuck, please, I need it.”

That got her.

Her eyes flared with lust, and she leaned in without another word. Her mouth latched onto your clit again, fingers plunging back into your cunt, faster this time — fucking you with deliberate, punishing thrusts while her tongue circled and sucked with unrelenting pressure.

You were gone.

Everything blurred into sensation.

The slick sound of her fingers working you. The obscene wet noises echoing in the quiet room. Your moans, your gasps, her low groans as she devoured you like you were her favorite thing in the world — which, honestly, you might’ve been.

Her pace was merciless. Your orgasm built like a freight train with no brakes. You felt it in your spine, your legs, the tips of your fingers.

You tried to say her name again, but it came out strangled — more of a sob.

And then it hit.

You came hard — thighs shaking, hands scrabbling for purchase, your entire body convulsing with the force of it. Jimin didn’t stop. She kept going, tongue dragging across your clit in tight circles as your climax crashed over you like a wave, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your shuddering form.

“F-fuck—too much—Jimin—”

You tried to close your legs, but she held them apart with one hand and didn’t let up. Your hips jerked, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the overstimulation.

She pulled back only slightly, lips slick with your release, breath hot against your skin.

“One more,” she whispered. “Come for me again.”

“I can’t,” you moaned — but your body said otherwise. She slid her fingers back in, curling deep. Her mouth returned to your clit.

You screamed — this time barely muffled — as your body was dragged toward a second climax, raw and hypersensitive.

She gave you no reprieve. No pause. Only heat and pressure and control.

You came again — harder than before, body spasming, tears sliding down your cheeks now from how good it was, how much. You were trembling, your voice a hoarse, breathless mess as her fingers finally slowed, easing you down.

She kissed the inside of your thigh, soft and reverent, and gently pulled your underwear back into place like she hadn’t just destroyed your ability to think, let alone type.

When she finally crawled out from under the desk, you were slumped back in your chair, boneless. Your skin was flushed, your chest heaving. You looked up at her with watery eyes and the barest shake of your head.

“You’re evil,” you breathed.

She leaned over, kissed your cheek, then your lips — soft and slow, tasting yourself on her mouth.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But at least now you’re relaxed.”

_____

You didn’t move for a full minute.

The room was warm, but your body buzzed with that cold, post-climax shiver — nerves fried, thighs trembling, skin prickled with oversensitivity. The back of your head rested against the chair, lips parted, eyes blinking slowly at the soft blur of your laptop screen. You barely even registered that your document was still open.

You couldn’t remember a single thing you had been writing.

All you could feel was the wetness between your legs, the soreness setting in from her fingers, and the lingering ghost of her mouth on you.

And then — warm hands.

Jimin’s fingers slid under your thighs, strong and steady, and she leaned over with a low grunt, coaxing you gently out of your seat. You didn’t resist. You were pliant — a mess of warm, limp limbs, floating through the haze of come-drunk bliss. She maneuvered you with ease, turning around and sinking into your chair before guiding you onto her lap.

Your legs draped across hers.

Your face pressed into the crook of her neck, chest to chest, breath syncing up with hers in soft, uneven rhythms.

“There you are,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around your waist, rocking you slowly. “Hi, baby.”

You hummed, still somewhere between bliss and sleep. “Mmm… Hi.”

“You okay?”

A small nod. You pressed a lazy kiss against her collarbone. “I think I forgot my name for a minute.”

She laughed softly — that low, husky laugh that always made you feel like the sun was rising inside you.

“Yeah? You looked kind of possessed,” she teased, lips brushing your temple. “I was a little proud.”

“You should be arrested,” you muttered into her shirt. “That was cruel and illegal.”

“Oh?” She tilted your chin up, eyes twinkling. “Then why were you begging?”

You groaned and hid your face again, heart fluttering like it always did when she got that cocky look — the one that said she knew exactly what she’d done to you.

“I hate you,” you said, barely convincing.

“Liar.” She kissed your forehead. “You love me.”

You didn’t argue.

Her fingers gently rubbed small circles into your lower back as you slowly came back to yourself. Your limbs were still jelly, but her presence grounded you. You could smell the faint scent of her skin — warm, clean, with that hint of her body lotion — and your chest rose and fell against hers in perfect rhythm.

You didn’t need to speak. She knew.

She always knew.

“Want some water?” she asked, voice soft. “Or a snack?”

You shook your head. “Just wanna sit here.”

“Yeah?” She shifted you slightly, tucking your legs more comfortably around her hips. “You can stay here as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat passed. Your gaze slowly drifted toward the screen, still glowing with your unfinished project. Your mouth tilted into a small frown.

She followed your gaze.

“Still not done?” she asked gently.

You sighed. “I got, like, a third of it left. I need to finish it before bed.”

Jimin’s hands slid up your spine, fingers threading through your hair.

“I’ll help you.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t have to. You talk out loud when you write. I’ll type for you. You just dictate.” Her lips pressed to your jaw. “Let me do something useful.”

You smiled, heart aching with that quiet, aching kind of love. “You already did something useful.”

She smirked. “I mean something less fun.”

You rolled your eyes, and she took the chance to spin the chair gently back toward the desk. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room, casting a soft light over both your faces. Jimin leaned forward slightly, adjusting you in her lap so your back rested against her chest, your body cradled in her arms like you belonged there.

Which you did.

She reached around you, hands light on the keyboard.

“Ready?” she asked.

You nestled your head into the curve of her neck and nodded. “Okay. Start a new paragraph. Type, ‘In the context of emerging digital spaces—’”

Her fingers moved with practiced ease. Click, click, click.

You whispered each sentence into the space between her shoulder and jaw, and she transcribed it without hesitation. Every few lines, she pressed a kiss to your temple. Her breath was warm against your cheek, her hold never wavering. One hand typed. The other held you.

You paused once, frowning. “Wait, go back. I don’t like how that sounded.”

She deleted without asking.

You fixed the sentence, and she murmured, “Better.”

You smiled.

Minutes passed. Paragraphs came together. Your mind settled again — not in a stressful, overwhelming way this time, but with a calm focus, a soft rhythm. Her presence kept you steady. The feel of her heartbeat behind your back, the low hum of her voice whenever she read something out loud for clarity — all of it wrapped around you like a blanket.

Eventually, you reached the last page.

You whispered the final sentence, and she typed it in silence.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Then she exhaled. “Done.”

You sagged against her, utterly spent. “Thank God.”

She leaned back, dragging the cursor to the “Save” icon and clicking it twice for good measure. Then she pushed the laptop lid closed with a satisfying little snap.

“Deadline defeated,” she declared, arms wrapping fully around your waist again. “By us.”

“By you,” you murmured, turning your head to look at her. “You saved me.”

She shrugged modestly. “Just being a supportive girlfriend.”

You reached up and cupped her face, pulling her into a soft kiss — slow, deep, full of everything words couldn’t say. She kissed you back like she was home, her thumb brushing over the fabric of your sleep shirt, heart pounding just below her ribs.

When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against hers.

“You really are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you whispered.

“Damn right I am,” she teased, but her voice cracked just slightly — full of emotion, too much to hide behind a grin. “You make it too easy to love you.”

You stayed like that for a long moment — quiet, safe, held.

The project was done.

Your body was sated.

And Yu Jimin had you on her lap, wrapped in the glow of soft affection, like the most natural thing in the world.

_____

The laptop was shut, the room was still, and your body felt like it had melted into hers.

You were barely awake.

Warm limbs, heavy with exhaustion, curled on her lap. Your head rested beneath her jaw as her fingers carded slowly through your hair, over and over again — rhythmically, lovingly. Each stroke felt like it pulled you deeper into some blissful liminal space between sleep and contentment.

But then she shifted beneath you.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered against your temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You mumbled something unintelligible and clung to her tighter, like a sleepy cat refusing to be moved. “Don’t wanna…”

“I know,” she cooed, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “But you’ll feel better after. And you’re a mess.”

You huffed out a laugh against her skin. “You made me a mess.”

“Exactly,” she said, already rising with you in her arms. “So I’m responsible. I’ll clean up my masterpiece.”

You didn’t even complain as she carried you bridal style out of the room. You just curled into her chest, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt — the same one you’d nearly torn off earlier. Your legs dangled loosely, and your fingers hooked gently into the collar of her shirt like a security blanket.

The bathroom light clicked on. It was warm, soft, golden. Not too bright.

You blinked your eyes open as she leaned over to turn on the faucet, twisting the knobs until steam curled into the air. The gentle sound of water rushing into the tub echoed off the tiles.

She set you down on the closed toilet seat for a moment, crouching between your knees to help you out of your clothes. She moved slowly — reverent, tender — like she wasn’t undressing you, but undoing you with care.

First your shirt.

Then your underwear, already clinging to your skin, wet and warm.

Then a kiss to your knee.

Then both palms sliding up your thighs to warm you.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmured, brushing her thumb along the crease of your hip. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You tried to respond, but your throat felt too thick — too full of the kind of affection that left you aching.

When the tub was full, she helped you in, one hand behind your back, the other steadying your arm. The water enveloped you instantly — warm, silky, perfect — and you sank into it with a sigh so deep it felt like it came from your soul.

“Better?” she asked.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Heaven.”

She joined you a moment later, slipping in behind you, her legs bracketing yours. Her arms circled your waist underwater, and your back met the soft press of her chest. She cradled you there — your body enveloped in warmth and your mind encased in hers.

Neither of you spoke for a while. She just held you, hands gliding slowly up and down your arms, dipping underwater to stroke your thighs. Her chin rested on your shoulder.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, voice quiet in the echo of the room.

“You deserve it,” she replied simply, like it was obvious. “All of it.”

She took a soft sponge and gently ran it over your chest, down your stomach, between your legs — not with arousal, but with care. Like she was wiping away every ounce of tension, of pressure, of being overworked. Every touch soothed a different part of you.

Eventually, you slumped against her completely.

Your head lolled to the side. Your lashes fluttered. Sleep tugged at the edges of your vision like the tide pulling out.

“All clean,” she whispered. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

She helped you out, wrapping a thick towel around your body and kissing your forehead as she dried you. You giggled softly when she wrapped your hair in another towel, twisting it into a silly shape.

“Cutie,” she said, grinning at your reflection in the mirror.

You tried to stick your tongue out, but it turned into a yawn halfway through.

“Okay, okay,” she laughed, “let’s not push it.”

Back in the bedroom, she laid you down gently, pulling a soft cotton nightshirt over your head. Then she crawled in beside you, dragging the blankets up over both of you in a single sweep. You turned into her instinctively — face buried in her chest, hand curling around the fabric of her shirt.

Her arms wrapped around you fully, pressing you close.

The world disappeared.

“You okay?” she asked, voice already laced with sleep.

“Mmm,” you hummed. “More than okay.”

She brushed her lips over your hairline, barely a whisper of contact. “I like taking care of you.”

You smiled against her collarbone. “I like being yours.”

She didn’t answer that one right away — just held you tighter, breath slow and steady. And then, just before your mind slipped fully into sleep, you felt her whisper into your hair:

“You are mine. Always.”

You drifted off wrapped in warmth, in arms that knew how to hold you, in love that asked for nothing but to exist with you — fully, softly, forever.

[lil-quinnie]

Last Resort

+18

This is my first time writing a vampire fic, so bear with the author and be nice.

Slow Burn, strangers to lovers, Eddie is a vampire

Minors, I will hex you if you read my work. Eventual smut.

You’d barely been in Hawkins a week, and the house already felt like it was watching you.

Inherited from a great-aunt you barely remembered, it stood at the edge of town like a forgotten relic. Tall, thin, and silent, with ivy curling around its bones and windows that seemed older than the trees.

It creaked constantly. Groaned at night. The pipes spat air when they weren’t gurgling like something alive. And the lights flickered. Went out. Came back. Went out again.

You’d stopped trying to fix it after the third blackout. What could you do? You were a writer, not an electrician. You just needed somewhere quiet and rent-free to work on your deadline, and this place, haunted or not, had answered.

When your last candle burned out, you grabbed your keys and drove into town. The streets were mostly empty, long rows of houses swallowed in fog. Eventually, you spotted the only place still open , a large supermarket. Locals had mentioned it used to be part of a shopping center, before the big fire.

That’s when you saw him.

He stood by the fridges, bathed in the pale glow of flickering fluorescent light, like something that didn’t belong in this world. Leather jacket over a hoodie, hands in his pockets, long hair half-tied and falling loose around a jawline too sharp to be casual. He looked up. His eyes were already fixed on you.

Not in passing. Not like curiosity. It felt like he recognized you. Or was trying to.

You stopped walking.

He smiled. Crooked. Lazy. A little dangerous.

"You’re not from here." His voice was gravel and velvet, smooth and low, like the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It didn’t sound like something you were supposed to hear in a grocery store.

"No. Is it that obvious?" You smiled back, like he’d caught you doing something.

"You smell like the city." He took a few slow steps toward you.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smirked.

"Sorry, sweetheart. That wasn’t meant to sound creepy. I meant your perfume. You smell clean. Sweet. Everything around here smells like wet leaves and old paper."

He moved in closer.

There was something off about him. Not wrong. Just… strange. His posture was too elegant. His scent was too rich, layered with warmth and something dark beneath it, like smoke and rosewood.

He didn’t smell like sweat or metal. He didn’t look like someone who did repairs. He looked like someone who could ruin you just because he felt like it.

Then he handed you a card.

E. Munson Repairs. Night calls only.

"You’re staying at the Creel place, right? That weird old one with the stained glass windows?"

"Yeah… how do you…"

"I notice things. That house needs work. You’ll go insane before Halloween if you try to handle it alone."

You stared at the card, then at him.

"Night calls only?" You raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

"I keep odd hours." He gave you that same smile, but deeper now.

"That’s one way to put it."

He chuckled. The sound slid down your spine. You opened your mouth to say something, but he was already walking away, slow and deliberate, like he wanted you to keep watching him.

That night, the house plunged into darkness again.

No wind. No storm. Just silence. The power was gone.

You lit one candle. Then another. Then another. But it wasn’t the shadows that unsettled you. It was the way the air felt like it was waiting. As if something just outside your vision was holding still.

Your fingers hovered over the card. You almost didn’t call. But you did.

"Eddie." He answered after a single ring.

"Hi. It’s the girl from the market. The house is…"

"Let me guess. Lights out again?"

"Yeah."

"Give me twenty minutes."

You left the door unlocked.

A quiet part of you questioned that. A louder one didn’t want to be alone.

The house felt colder in the dark. Not from temperature, exactly, but from memory. And you weren’t sure whose.

He didn’t knock.

You heard the slow creak of the front door opening. Then the low thud of heavy boots on old wood.

He walked in like he’d done it before.

When you turned the corner, he was standing in the hallway. Candlelight glowed against the lines of his coat, outlining sharp cheekbones and that jaw that looked carved out of marble.

His hair was down, slightly damp. Like he’d walked through fog and barely noticed.

"Told you not to wait too long," he said. "Houses like this… they don’t like being ignored."

He smiled, same as earlier. You couldn’t tell if he was joking.

You gestured toward the hall. "The panel’s this way."

"I know where it is."

You froze. He brushed past you slowly, shoulder grazing yours. Not an accident.

His scent lingered behind him. Too warm for someone who spent nights crawling through wires. Cinnamon bark, leather, something older underneath. Like dried roses trapped in pages.

He crouched by the breaker and pulled out a flashlight. No gloves this time. His fingers were long, pale, knuckles rough just enough to seem real.

No tool bag. No equipment. Just him.

He studied the panel like it had told him secrets. Touched wires like they needed calming.

You leaned against the opposite wall.

"You always work this late?"

He didn’t look up. "I like the dark. Fewer distractions."

"That’s why you only take night jobs?"

"Among other reasons, yeah."

He stood, fluid and silent. Too fast, but not jerky. He moved like he didn’t carry weight.

He was close now. The flashlight tilted, casting gold across his face.

"You don’t trust easily, do you?"

"Should I?"

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

"No." He smiled again, slower this time. "But you let me in anyway."

You were about to reply. Maybe something sarcastic.

Then your shoulder grazed the frame. You hissed and pulled your hand back. A thin line of red bloomed on your fingertip.

"Shit."

He saw it. And he still went. Entirely still.

"Let me see." His voice dropped. Barely a whisper.

You hesitated. Then held out your hand.

He took it gently, palm upward. The cut was shallow. A thin stripe of blood across your skin.

He didn’t look at the wound. He looked at the pulse behind it.

His thumb grazed just beside the cut. Not to clean. Not to help. Just to feel.

His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Something wild passed between you. Wordless. Deep. You felt it low in your stomach. In your throat. In places that had nothing to do with fear.

Then he blinked. Whatever it was, he buried it.

"You should be more careful, sweetheart." His voice returned to silk. He let go of your hand. "This house has edges."

He turned back toward the panel. Flashlight sweeping calmly again. You stayed there longer than you meant to. Still feeling the warmth of his touch. Still wondering why his hands had been so warm in a house that felt like winter.

A few moments later, the lights came back on with a pop.

"There. That’ll hold for tonight." He stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I’ll need to grab a few supplies to fix this for good. But at this hour? Nowhere’s open."

He walked to the door, rolling his sleeves down.

"See you tomorrow? Same time?"

You only managed a nod.

"Good night, sweetheart," he said softly, disappearing into the dark that swallowed your backyard.

You fell asleep with the taste of candle smoke in your mouth and your fingertip still throbbing.

The wind groaned against the windows. The house creaked. Something, maybe in the walls, maybe in you, refused to settle.

You dreamt you were still inside the house. But older. Different.

The ceilings stretched too high. The furniture wasn’t yours. Everything glowed with an amber light, like fire coming from nowhere.

You walked barefoot down the hall. The air was thick, too warm, like someone had lived there with the windows sealed for years. Wallpaper peeled in places you didn’t recognize.

Your shadow dragged behind you, longer than your body.

Then you saw him.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, like he belonged there.

No coat. Just a dark shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair messier. Jaw sharper. The shadows adored his face.

He looked at you like he’d been waiting.

"You let me in," he said.

His voice was soft, but it filled the house. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. You couldn’t move. Not out of fear. But because the way he stared at you made your knees feel hollow.

"You don’t even know what this place is, do you?"

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

"This house remembers."

He stood and crossed the room like the air didn’t touch him.

He reached out. His fingers grazed the cut on your hand. You hadn’t realized it was still bleeding.

He leaned close, not touching your face, just near. His breath was warm on your lips, your pulse crashed in your ears.

Then he whispered,

 "Don’t wake up yet."

But you did.

Your heart pounded. Your throat was dry.

The candles were all burned down. The air had gone cold again.

And at the foot of your bed, there was a single footprint. Damp. Heavy.

Right where he had been.

____________________________________________________________

Let me know if you like it, please.

[lilmissnatcat24]

today is the day!!! here's everything ive wanted to say about my minibang fic but havent been able to!!! (yap session incoming)

honestly, this is one of my favorite things ive written, so not talking about it has been really tough for me. i started writing this in january (not knowing the minbang will even be a thing), and then i gave myself my own deadline of april to finish because i didnt want to deal with writing something while i was in japan. and i probably didnt touch a single other one of my fics while i was writing this, it consumed my mind, body, and soul. i would be hunched over at work on my phone writing this, i stayed up way too late, i woke up early so i could write it before work. like i was actually obsessed with this idea. (and of course it burnt me out for like 2 months afterwards where i wasnt able to write anything because i couldnt replicated that high, whoops).

i had like 20 different titles the whole time (for the longest time it was called time after time which..... i like that song but i do not like that as a fic title) but i finally came on composed of nows, which comes from an emily dickinson poem, forever is composed of nows

Let Months dissolve in further Months – And Years – exhale in Years –

the inspo from the fic came mostly from a song i love called johnny dear by kassi vallaza, about a cowboy that returns to a ranch ran by a woman he loved long ago. something i always do with longfics is make my last chapter some sort of song lyric, so that one is from the chorus. a couple of books really inspired me as well, the unmaking of june farrow by adrienne young (about a woman who can travel in time but her timelines got screwed up so she does not remember her husband or her daughter), and the vampires of el norte by isabel camus (about a young couple torn apart when one of them becomes a vampire and their relationship afterwards-- actually a dnf, not because i didn't like it, but because my library loan expired and i havent been able to get it back)

initially, i wanted it to be longer, but i ran out of time, and by the time it was finished i really liked the pacing of it. it was different for me because i tried to get pretty technical with it-- everything from the riptides to the birkefield i mention in this, how they get around the fall of mass effect relays-- is all inspired by the great lakes (shockers, i know). i know riptides aren't exclusive to the great lakes, but growing up on them, ive seen them in the water, i know how dangerous they are, and that idea inspired me but in space, like if you get sucked up the only way to get out of it is it ride it out. and the birkefield that the ships installed has something to do with measuring earthquakes (again, the great lakes aren't necessarily known for earthquakes verses an area like san fransisco or japan, but because of their nature on old glaciers, they still experience tectonic movements, i think the biggest earthquake ive ever felt when i lived in cleveland ended up on around like a 4.5 on the richter scale. i barely felt it, but then the news freaks out like OH!! EARTHQUAKE!!)

anyway, this is my favorite little snippet from chapter 3 (aka chapter 2 if i was able to not make the prologue the official chapter 1 on ao3, but alas), please enjoy:

Slowly, he brought his hands up to her hood. He expected her to swat him away, to push him backwards, to knock him on his ass like she did all those years ago. The only thing she did was squirm her head backwards, some futile attempt for them to live in this suspended reality just a little bit longer. But even that was half hearted.  Garrus knew that Shepard never did anything half hearted.  She looked exactly the same. He supposed that the energy from the Crucible that was keeping her alive all those years would have put a pause on her aging, but he wasn’t expecting that she would look exactly, to the T , how she did on the night she left him. Hair so red it almost hurt to look at for too long, pulled back in the most haphazard updo he’d ever seen. Her skin was milky white, except for the thousands and thousands of freckles that dotted her face, concentrated around her nose with that little bump that he would let his fingers trace up and down, up and down. And her eyes-- Garrus had never seen eyes so big on a human before. He remembered when they first met, he thought they were almost yellow. But as he grew to know her, and as he grew to love her, he could see the lightness of warm browns and greens and ambers flecked in her pupils, her eyelashes almost comically large. They reminded him of grass, but the type of grass his mother used to yell at him for playing in as a child because the deeply embedded stains were so hard to get out of his clothes. Her eyes were more home than anything else-- a simpler time, a time where Garrus could just be a boy.  “ Claire? ” he said so quietly, he wondered if he imagined it. He doubted that she could hear it from his mouth, almost like it was a prayer. But she stiffened up, mouth turned downwards, nose crinkled, as if she were disgusted. Garrus didn’t blame her-- he’d be disgusted with himself, too.  “ Sir ,” Lonia’s voice finally cut through the fog that had battered his mind, voice shrill and sharp. “Do you know her?”  How could Garrus respond to a question like that? Turians didn’t do nuance, everything was black and white. But with Shepard, he could see the shades of gray that were invisible to him before. Yes, he knew her. And yes, at a time in his life, she was everything to him. She never stopped being that to him, but the hold on his heart lessened and lessened the longer she was away. Does he still know her? He had no idea. Nineteen years was a long time, long enough for someone to completely forget. She’s changed-- even though she looked exactly the same. She’s different-- even though he was certain he could reach out and trace the curves of her face from memory alone.  He forced himself to take a step back. He actually felt the neurons in his legs listening to the command from his brain, like perfect little soldiers. That’s what he was, after all.  “Never seen her before in my life,” Garrus managed to say. He turned on his toes and retreated, ignoring the pestering questions for orders and requests and demands and everything a good leader was supposed to do. He closed the door behind him-- and found the tiniest bit in solace in the fact that this time, he did it first. 

anyway if you're still here thank you for listening to my yap session and maaaaybe check the fic out idk if you're free or into that if it's not too much of a hassle..........

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66930793/chapters/172762642

[stellargh0ul]

Perpetua kneading and purring like a cat while cuddling with haze

this is a sweet idea <3

-

Haze knows her Papa is not entirely human, of course— she’s known it from the moment she was first summoned, her sharp nose catching the hint of something ‘other’ hiding in his scent. and Perpetua’s not the best at hiding it either, limbs a little too gangly, movement a little too unnatural to be human.

it’s not something she minds: he’s still her summoner, still her wonderful partner, still the light of her life. his eccentricities are what make him himself. his uniquely wonderful, adorable self.

but sometimes Haze can’t help but laugh a little when they come out in more force than they usually do. she looks down at him as he rests against her chest, eyes closed in contented comfort, and stifles a laugh at the motions she can see his hands doing. his palms close into fists and then open again as he snuggles against her, gently kneading at the blanket beneath them.

it’s so catlike, and so very him. Perpetua must feel her silent laughter because he shifts against her, cracking one eye open to glance up at her with suspicion.

“are you laughing at me?” he slurs, almost sounding like he’d been half-asleep before the motion of her chest woke him.

“not quite, love,” Haze murmurs back to him, bringing one hand up to gently card through the soft curls that flutter around his head. he looks so sweet like this, out of his mask and paint, the responsibilities of his role fallen away in the bedroom that they share together.

here, he isn’t Papa Perpetua V, the leader of the Ministry and the head of an organization with members all over the world: he is her Valentino, the sweet man who summoned her all those years ago by accident and who’s been her faithful partner ever since.

“what is it then?”

“you’re… you’re kneading. like a cat does.”

Perpetua looks perplexed for a moment before he tilts his head to look down at where his hands are bunched in the blanket, staring at them almost as though as they’d betrayed him.

“…I hadn’t realized,” he says, pouting slightly, and Haze leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. it was one of their rare days off, the ones that they were actually able to spend together, and the fact that he’d been relaxed enough to begin kneading at the blanket made her happy.

he deserved more time to rest, more time to enjoy the fruits of everything he’d worked to build. she wished that every day could be like this, one spent intertwined together in their bedroom without the pressure of responsibilities or deadlines or other people coming to steal her lover away for just one more task that needed to be done.

but Haze knew Perpetua wouldn’t be happy like that. he enjoyed the work, enjoyed performing and leading the Ministry. and as long as he was happy, she’d stand right beside him to keep supporting her darling Papa.

[merry-ange]

Title: “Did You Know?”

Carmen x Reader | Slow Burn | Unknown Food Allergy | Protective Carmy | Different Professions | Exes + Emotional Vulnerability | Long + Soft + Tense

You worked in publishing.

Not food media, not restaurant PR — actual publishing. Manuscripts, agents, deadlines, endless coffee and fluorescent lighting. The kind of job that came with messy drafts, galley proofs, and all-day meetings about whether a comma should go here or here.

Carmen didn’t always understand it, but he respected it. Mostly because you never tried to explain it away or ask him to. And he, in turn, never expected you to understand the ecosystem of chaos that was The Bear.

You had your world. He had his.

But somehow, you were building a little one in between.

It was the first time you’d been invited to family dinner.

Not a Berzatto family dinner you weren’t quite ready for Donna and her hurricane of emotions. But Carmy’s chosen family. Tina. Ebra. Marcus. Sugar. Richie’s daughter.

There were even a few unfamiliar faces friends from culinary school, a few vendors, an ex-line cook or two.

You didn’t notice anything at first.

You were caught in a conversation about nonfiction books with Sugar, laughing quietly, sipping a cocktail Marcus had proudly crafted. Everything was warm, cozy. Easy.

Until you took a bite of the crostini Carmen had brought over himself “try this,” he’d said, hand at the small of your back, it hit.

The burn.

The tingle in your throat.

You paused. Chewed. Swallowed, carefully.

Then it came again — faster this time. Your lips prickled. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat started to rise.

“Carmy,” you said, under your breath, setting the half-eaten crostini down, “what was in that?”

He looked up, mid-pour of a glass of wine.

“Uh—burrata, fig jam, crushed walnuts, little lemon—why?”

Your face paled.

“Walnuts?”

His brows knit instantly.

“Yeah—wait, are you—?”

You nodded quickly, a hand coming up to your collarbone. “I—I think I’m allergic. I didn’t know. I haven’t had them since I was a kid.”

Time slowed.

Carmen was already by your side.

“Okay. Okay, we’re fine. Do you feel your throat closing?”

You nodded again, lips swelling, eyes watery.

“Fuck. Alright. Richie!” he called, sharp and immediate. “Get her bag—she might have Benadryl in there.

The room moved around you in blurs people shuffling, voices rising but Carmen stayed with you, both hands now cupping your face as he kneeled in front of your chair.

“Hey. You’re okay. I got you. Look at me. Stay with me.”

You were trying.

God, you were trying.

“Carmy, I didn’t know—”

“Shhh. Don’t apologize. You’re not gonna apologize, alright? I gave it to you. It’s my fault.”

His voice cracked slightly, and that scared you more than anything.

You took the Benadryl. Laid down in the back room. Sugar stayed with you while Carmen paced the hallway like a storm on a leash.

You woke up twenty minutes later, a little shaky, but breathing better.

He was sitting beside you now. Elbows on his knees. Face buried in his hands.

You touched his arm gently.

“Hey.”

He looked up. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m okay now.”

“You could’ve—” he shook his head, biting back the thought. “I fed you something that hurt you.”

“I didn’t know. How would you have?”

“I should’ve asked. I ask my fucking line cooks what they’re allergic to and I didn’t think to ask you—”

“Because we were just… doing life. Not filling out a form.”

That silenced him.

“I’m okay,” you repeated, touching his hand now. “I really am.”

“You said you had walnuts before?”

You nodded. “As a kid. Just didn’t like them. Never had a reaction then. Maybe it changed. Or maybe that bite was enough to trigger something.”

He exhaled, shaky.

“Well. You’re never touching a walnut again.”

You smiled softly. “A little dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Didn’t realize you were such a softie under all that Michelin stress.”

“Shut up.”

But his hand covered yours anyway. Tight. Solid. Anchored.

Later that night, as he made you tea and sat beside you on the couch under an old flannel blanket, he asked:

“Can we… go over everything? What you’re allergic to. What you hate. What textures are weird. I wanna know it all.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

“Because I wanna feed you for a long time,” he said simply. “And I don’t ever want to be that scared by you again.”

Writers Note: I have a part 2… I won’t ask and make you all wait I get it I really liked how this one turned out. Now I know this probably isn’t how anaphylactic shock would work. Fun fact I’m allergic to bees stings so I assume an epi pen would have worked way better than Benadryl but by the time I wrote part two I was moving on to the next. Let’s all just imagine this is how it would work in a different universe. As always like share and comment..

Ciao🫶🏽 and part two should go up soon

[keelt9]

Devil In Disguise (2-5)

Masterlist

“Well, it could be worse.” Violent say with an apologetic face. 

Y/N arrives at Monaco, deep inside she refuses to believe she will actually be flying around the world stuck at Max's side like she will be a part of his team.

Fool of her.

Two days, she just barely stays at home. Two days before a flight ticket arrives at the office with the details that they will be expecting her in Monaco, just in time the summer break ends.

“Worse? I can't complain…at all.” Y/N exclaimed, seeing the wonderful view of the sea.

Max sticks to all he said; she hasn't put even a single penny, after taking a detailed description of the place where she likes to work, the only thing that Tim could do is assure her all her work will cover the time she will be out.

“Hey I'm sorry but I have to go or I'll be late for work.” Violent sees Y/N as she takes her keys. Y/N makes a video call before losing her mind.

“Yeah, sorry I just…Have a good day.” Violent smiles as she waves her hand.

“Everything will be alright, ok? Squeeze the guy with the information you need and then drop him.” Y/N laughs as she says goodbye to Violet.

Y/N walks to her writing room where she makes a calendar; green dots familiar things, red dots work appointments she couldn't miss, yellow dots her days off and blue dots interviews with the devil, that means Max’s interview.

Y/N tosses her hair seeing almost all her days in blue. “This guy went crazy.”

Her yellow days are fading away by tomorrow Max must be in Milton Keynes, that means she must be in Milton Keynes.

Y/N won't deny it, running on the beach along the sea is an experience she didn't know she needed, it helps to clear her mind with clean and fresh air.

It's 5 am, Max's team will be waiting for her at 7 am for flying together to Milton Keynes. She stops her clocks, it's been 1 hour of running; she has time to take a quick shower and prepare all she will need for whatever the will be expecting her.

In the plane Y/N reviewing the last adjustments to the full structure of the interviews, getting all the information she needs in a short period of time, the style and the spark around Max's book she will take with the time they spend together.

“4 months?” A girl with green eyes asks her, perking in the notebook.  

Y/N raises her gaze, closing the notebook. “Sorry I don't mean to spy. I'm Alice.”

“Y/N, and don't worry, I'm just setting deadlines, keeping in control a couple of things.” Y/N extends her hand. 

“Believe our life has a constant deadline.” Alice jokes sitting in front of her. 

“Do you have some tips so I don't die in the attempt?” 

Milton Keynes is the RB fortress, and Max hall of fame; he's literally in every corner, a photo, his logo and iconic lines of him.

Y/N standing in front of a photo of him in his second championship, finger raise in sign of the second championship, helmet on with what she bets is a wide open smile, makes her nose scrunch.

Y/N mumbles. “You, driver guy…” 

“The one and only.” Max appears behind her. RB shirt, RB cap and jeans, his classic outfit. “We have around an hour and half before I have to do driver's things, which is enough time, right?”

“Sure.”

Surely it's useless. Max is refusing to give her more than facts to the media already know, challenging smiles as he keeps teasing her in every question.

Between excuses, like, it was too direct, he couldn't speak about that, he didn't like who she formulated the question or simply he doesn't have a clue of why asking that.

Y/N frustrated because her clock announced, they only had 20 minutes, she put her head over the crystal table. Max smirks enjoying the view, she's defeated, and with any time left, who's unable to keep in control now?

Y/N rolls her head over the cold crystal, she remembers how her father normally takes out whatever is in her head.

“Ok, let's call it all for today.” Y/N stands taking her pen and notebook. “Do you mind if I take a walk around the place?”

Max shakes his head, as she walks outside of the room. “Wait, I'll make sure someone goes with you.”

Y/N doesn't listen to him as she walks confidently. Max tries to downplay but it's a massive facility, yeah properly signed, still it's a track with cars driving insanely fast, literally in the backyard.

Max looks at his watch, 18 minutes. “Fucking hell.” 

He lost her of his view for two minutes and the ground apparently shallows her. 

Max intercepts an engineer coming inside from the track.

“Hey have you seen a girl, she…” Max feels like an idiot, he didn't even know what she's wearing. “With a notebook in her hand.”

The man bluffs, it's basically every girl around this place.

“Max.” GP appears walking outside to the garage. “The car is ready.”

“Shit.” Max hasn't even changed. “She's not wearing RB things in case you see her. Can you tell her please wait for me? I'll give her something worthy.”

The man nods curiously, scanning Max running to change his clothes still looking side to side trying to find her mysterious girl.

“Thank you so much.” Y/N said as she left the room, notebook full with notes and satisfied that her days didn't go to hell.

Yeah, she tried to use the technique, taking Max to a small walk around hoping as they speak he says a little bit more but she gives up when in front of her she reads a curious sing, video room.

In a twist of events, she found out in that room they had a lot, a lot of videos, records ,etc of Max since his first years in karting to the last race two months ago.

After convincing the man holding the door, it's all for research purposes, she got lost for 2 hours in that room, finding out more about that cute little boy with a heavy past.

“Is there a way I could go to a cafeteria nearby or something like that?” Y/N ask looking around to the empty place with the distant sound of F1 cars.

“I'll call you a cab.” Y/N smiles at the nice behaviour of the man, she practically attacked as he was closing that door of that room.

“We better fix that, otherwise, if it rains the car will be a boat in the sea.” Max complains observing the car, seeing at the distance his manager. “Can I have five seconds please?”

The team agree gathering together, as Max approaches his manager, if someone knows something about Y/N, must be him.

And he did, and his response it supposed not surprising Max but still it does.

“She what?” Max bluffs, taking his hair back as putting his cap one more time over his head.

Max could expect she leaves and go to the hotel, he could expect her to lie, he could have expected Y/N put him on the bad side, and he will be fine with that.

“She said things didn't go as she planned but has good information that she can work and wants to do it right away.” His manager takes a deep breath. “I thought you would be driving each other insane, but no, that's nice.”

Max is bother, bother and surprised. 

“Don't worry Max, any adjustment we make will have plenty of time to do that, either way, she will be here tomorrow, same time.”

Max clenches his teeth. “Yeah, of course she will.” Barely audible as he touches his jaw.

Y/N's father was right, after a short talk with him, Y/N has decided one thing, she will try and fight to get out of this…but if he refuses to cooperate she will make sure Max gets fed up with her.

“Ok, ok, slow.” Y/N makes her a ponytail. “This must be this low?”

GP laughs seeing the girl sit on the ground, close to the RB20 but not touching it, head choked seeing the minimal distance between the floor of the car and the ground.

When a girl he met only by words appeared in front of the garage with a request, please explain to me how all this works, the team looked at each other before starting to speak with confused and schemer eyes.

“Yeah, other way, we lost speed.” GP answered in the most basic still clear way as she took notes in her notebook putting a circle around those words.

“You're here early.” Y/N recognising Max's voice calls for her attention still she didn't raise her eyes, she just took another gummy of her bag.

“Well, I only know your driving cars, fast, very fast, I need information.” Max smirks. “For someone who is willing to take a conversation of more than 8 word phrases.”

Max rises the corners of his mouth; his ears red is the sign that GP needs to walk away.

“I heard you got good information from those 8 words.” Y/N chuckles preparing for standing.

Suddenly, Max's hands appear in front of her, ready to help her to stand. 

Y/N sighs, taking his hand. “I had to base it with audiovisual things but you can call it like that.”

Max scoffs, seeing the few baby hairs falling on her forehead.

“Can I see?” He points to her notebook.

Y/N shuggers giving him the notebook, actually personal backup will be really useful. Max opens what, now, he knows is a new notebook with some pages written, things underlined, another in circles a few funny faces in the corners but, all that she writes express at plain sight her professionalism and the attention and care she puts to her work.

“Is DRS.” Max takes the pen of her hand, crossing the DVS for the proper word. “Still this is kind of useless.”

“Why?” Y/N gets down her head, fastidious because it's early to start a fight. 

“You need to live to understand.” Max closes the book, not before setting the pen carefully in the last page she wrote.

Y/N giggles. “You know, I like my neck in its place, stuck on my body and I heard…” Y/N takes the notebook pointing to the car. “That thing could break more than a couple of bones without the proper preparation.”

Max smiles, putting his cap backwards. “I can fix that.”

“OH MY GOD!” Y/N screams holding her seat tight as Max turns the car around the 6 corner.

When he mentions a hot lap is innocent, using helmets, for her, seems extreme.

No, it doesn't.

Max takes a quick look at her, she's smiling as her body moves one side to the other.

“Don't look at me, the track, the track!” Y/N complains, as she feels her body goes in one strong movement buried in the seat.

“I have been driving a car since I was 5, well it was a karting but similar.” Max mumbles taking another corner.

“Yeah, well…” She searches for something to hold, finding the seat and Max hands over the gearshift. “You must be a menace!” Y/N closed her eyes hearing the sound of the wheels against the road.

“Actually…”

For whatever the hot lap lasts, Max opens to her, speaking about his first years in karting; the good, the bad, the struggles as the fun and success behind him. By the time he realises he said too much, she was sitting facing him, helmet in her lap, listening and remembering every word he said.

“Sorry…I…I lost myself.” Max apologizes, taking his helmet as she shakes her head.

“No please, thanks for actually speaking to me.” Y/N unblocked the seatbelt. “Now, I better go, I already stole so much time from you.”

Y/N opened the door, satisfied with the 16 minute talk.

“I'll see you in a couple of hours.” Max mentions as she closes the door.

Still she leans over the open window. “It's ok, I have enough for today…I hear I better not mess up with the lion.”

Max scoffs as she laughs walking away, not before winking at him; Max observes the track, as a curious smirk appears in his face.

[aquanutart]

desert flygon

[in-the-airducts]

A little late but happy holidays!

[makingshortstorieslong]

ooooooooooooih I feel like I'm being pulled sixty directions at once and it's mostly my own doing and it's impossible to prioritize and every time I have to make a decision I open this site or Instagram!!!!!!!!!!

[exopelagic]

okay I’m going insane I need to fix my sleep schedule now

[electryone-moon]

~IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE PERFECT~

Of course you’re going to give up if your brain insists on turning every small task into a huge simultaneous equation

To be as clichéd as possible; Just fucking do the thing

[fridayyy-13th]

^ live footage of me rn

[invisiblyvisiblejay]

i got three new math books out of the library so now im like kind of actively trying to learn abstract algebra, real analysis, and complex analysis and reviewing calc ii and calc iii and i have books on stats and probability at home (but not planning to take those classes next semester)