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phantasm-ae · 1 month ago

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cw: fluff, afab reader x price, baker wife, grumpy x sunshine, domestic fluff, domestic chaos

HEADCANON: Price likes to keep his life separate. You — his sweet little baker wife, all honey and syrupy sweet vs his violent and bitter work as an elite operative. But what happens when the lines suddenly are crossed when your cafe gets robbed?

PAIRING: John Price x reader

You and your husband John owned a small cozy cafe somewhere in a quaint little town secluded in a warmy and sleepy valley. Nothing too exciting of course ever seemed to happen here. Quiet. Homey. Cloistered and remote.

Just the kind of place Price thought would be perfect to better draw the boundary between his life and yours. Where you -- his darling sweet and syrupy love of his life -- and your world remained all scones and sugar packets. While his was smoke and steel.

John didn't mind of course. He liked it perfectly that way. Loved it, even.

You didn’t ask questions when he disappeared for days at a time -- you just packed him a thermos and kissed his cheek like you always did. You didn’t need the details, he reserved. You just know that he was in the military and that was all, too dull and recluse to truly fathom that what he did could turn stomachs inside out.

You only asked him once though -- early on, when you’d burned a batch of cinnamon rolls waiting for him to come home from a mission that went a day too long.

“Did you win?” you asked, hands sticky with sugar, eyes soft and searching.

And he’d stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah, love. We won.”

That was enough.

After that, you never asked again. Instead, you made his favorite blend of tea whenever he came back, warm and steady like a lighthouse in the storm. You mended his uniforms without asking about the holes. Humming softly as you patch through what you thought were just snags from bad fences or brambles, never suspecting the bullets that tore through and almost tore his jugular in half.

You never really knew what that odd smell was buried in the seams on some of his cargos or vests, only scrubbed a little harder, added a touch of lavender to the rinse water, and folded everything just the way he liked. Tight, precise, like the way he made his bed.

You didn’t see the bloodstains or the torn flesh. Nor the daunting threat of death and decay at his fists. No, heavens no.

You saw the man who kissed your knuckles when you handed him warm muffins. The one who grumbled every morning about how you made the café smell like vanilla instead of "real breakfast food" -- and then ate three scones before the door sign flipped to open.

The one you let rest his head in your lap and carded gentle fingers through his hair as if you could soothe away every awful thing he’s done with just a little more tenderness.

That was John. Your John.

The one who would quietly fix the loose leg on your favorite chair before you even noticed it wobbled. The one who grunted and shifted in his sleep, sometimes mumbling things under his breath that didn’t sound like English. The one whose eyes got distant in the quiet hours between closing and bedtime.

But always -- always -- came back to you.

He was a different man in this town, in your arms. Here, he wasn’t Captain Price, commander of elite soldiers, a ghost on the battlefield with blood on his hands. Here, he was John. Just John.

Your John Price. Husband to honeyed and gentle Mrs. Price from the bakery.

He loved the routine of it -- the slow pace, the scent of baked goods in the morning, the sound of your soft voice humming along with the radio as you wiped down the counters. Loved when you wore those little frilly lemon-print aprons and silly heart-shaped earrings. When you brought lunch to the old postman every Tuesday and insisted on naming the stray cat that wandered by the café (“Muffin,” of course).

No one in town ever suspected what John was capable of. Why would they? He looked like a grumpy husband with joint pain and a nicotine habit. Wore thick puffy jumpers that you'd always knitted in the winter and helped carry the elderly ladies’ groceries. Didn’t speak much. Smoked out back and occasionally grunted at tourists.

The townspeople adored you. But they... well they pitied him.

“He’s lucky, that one,” they’d whisper over tea. “Poor dear looks half-dead most days. But she’s so sweet to him.”

John heard it. He didn’t mind.

If anything, it made him smile.

And then came the Tuesday that shattered the routine.

It started like any other: sunrise over the sleepy valley, kettle whistling, you carefully arranging pastries in the display case. John out back somewhere in the kitchen. Grizzling and grumbling about as you voiced out how the espresso machine just wasn't working properly at all since yesterday. Finding the usual muttering and clattering of steel and plastic a soothing backdrop as you kneaded dough and dusted some floury residue off the counters.

Until the door opened.

Too hard. Too fast.

Three men. Military posture .... Wrong energy? Probably just grumpy and hungry you concluded in your sweet little head.

You blinked. Smile not faltering one bit. “Good morning! Table for—?”

They didn’t answer. One reached under his coat. One locked the door behind him.

“Cash. Now.”

“Oh, dear,” you said, wiping your hands on your apron. “Can it wait until I get the biscotti out of the oven?”

“No.” He slammed his hand down. “Now, lady.”

And then, without warning, John was there.

Still clad from the lacy smock you insisted he wore as uniform with you. Adorned with the added crocheted flowers and bunnies in the straps and pockets. Looking like a hulking and fuming bear. impatient and unreserved like someone woke him up too early from hibernation. You didn’t even hear him come out. But there he was, behind the counter, face calm, eyes unreadable.

“Step away from my wife.”

The man turned, laughing. “You’re the barista?”

John didn’t answer. He moved fast -- too fast for someone with a bad back. He seized the soup ladle from the stovetop, swung it like a club, and cracked it across the man’s wrist with a sickening crunch. The gun clattered to the floor. Chaos erupted.

Two down before you could even blink. One tried to run -- John slammed him into the dessert case, shattering glass and scattering éclairs everywhere. The other wry and grimy one -- standing up after being knocked down silly -- ended up with a cookie tin embedded in his skull. You ducked behind the counter, mostly to protect the good china before a tooth came loose and broke your precious porcelain collection.

When it was over, John stood among the wreckage, a shallow cut on his temple bleeding down one side of his face. Panting and slightly disheveled, he surveyed the mess. The three robbers were still stunned, two of them knocked unconscious and crumpled on the floor, the third stumbling towards the door, muttering incoherent apologies, desperate to escape.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, inadvertently smearing the blood deeper into his skin, but didn't seem overly concerned about it. His eyes flickered to the scattered debris -- one of your favorite DIY cookie jars had cracked underfoot, and a few of your pristine biscotti had been knocked into the floor.

John didn’t say anything at first. He surveyed the chaos with a sigh, his hand still on the soup ladle, the faintest traces of a grim look tugging at his lips despite the blood trickling down his temple.

This was always the moment when he felt the weight of the violence seeped in -- when his world collided so violently with yours. He’d wanted to keep it all away from you, protect you from seeing him in this light. All clawed, gnawing, and evil.

But now, here he was.

Standing in the wreckage of your cozy café, a handful of broken china and smashed éclairs scattered around like confetti at a funeral.

You, however, weren’t looking at him with concern or shock. Neither surprise or fear even. No! Your eyes locked onto the mess -- the broken glass, the ruined biscotti, your smashed up DIY cookie jars!

He heard the soft thud of your footsteps as you walked over, a stern frown settling over your face. His chest tightened, and a knot formed in his stomach. This was it. The moment he had been dreading. The moment you’d look at him not as your husband, not as John darling or the John dear who fixed the leaky sink and ate too many blueberry muffins --

But as someone dangerous. Chaos. Bloody. Resolute and messy. Cutting. Squeezing. Strangling all the good until their eyes white and their necks blue. Dealing with devils and killers close to the bone.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to spill over into your world, not like this. He didn’t want you seeing him like this -- fighting in his element. But before he could even speak, you were already swinging --

-- A sticky and wet dish rag smacking him square in the chest.

"Johnathan Price" you snapped, brandishing a broom like a sword next. “What in God’s green earth do you think you’re doing breaking my good plates?! That was the Easter jar! The one with the bunnies!”

He blinked, stunned. “Darling I—”

“You promised no more soup ladle beatdowns inside the café!”

“They had a gun—”

“And I had biscotti in the oven!”

John, a man who’d led covert strikes in warzones with a cigarette in his mouth and a knife in his boot, found himself retreating from a five-foot-two woman armed with a broom and righteous fury. He tried to sidestep your next swat, but the broom caught him on the hip anyway.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the spot. “You hit harder than Laswell on her third cup of coffee.”

You grabbed a dustpan at that. “Don’t sass me, mister. You just demolished the dessert case and scared off the Tuesday brunch crowd. They’re pensioners, John!”

He gave a sheepish shrug, eyes glancing toward the unconscious men still groaning on the floor. “They’ll come back. You make good scones.”

You huffed, storming toward the shattered biscotti like you were mourning lost children. “Next time you feel like unleashing your inner Rambo, do it outside, away from my marble countertops!”

He crouched beside you, picking up shards of cookie and porcelain, one bloodied knuckle throbbing. “I was gonna apologize, you know.”

“For what? Using my cookie tin as a blunt weapon or bleeding on the tile?”

He gave you a guilty look. “For... letting you see that side of me.”

You paused then, glancing at the trail of éclairs and unconscious criminals in his wake, then at your husband -- your grumpy, violent, cinnamon-roll-consuming husband in a floral apron, bleeding but earnest. A beat passed. And in that beat, something settled deep in your chest -- a quiet, undeniable truth.

Something had truly shifted. Maybe in him. Maybe in you. The boundaries crossed and broken. Something anew was invited when your John decided to wield a knife instead of a whisk today. When he hardly flinched when blood lingered near his teeth. Toying and grunting more pleased than disgusted by the iron taste around his fingertips and palms.

You watched him, framed in morning light and bakery ruin, chest heaving and temple bleeding, the frock of the bunnies in his apron fluttering slightly with every breath -- and in that moment, you saw not a stranger, not a monster, but something... more. Something that had always been there, just tucked behind tea cozies and his grumbling, quiet love.

And maybe you should’ve felt fear. Maybe you should’ve run. But instead --

-- you bonked him again on the head with the broom.

“John, I swear to God, if you’ve broken my grandmother’s pudding dish -- ”

He winced, actually winced, as if your wrath started to sting more than the bullet that probably grazed his arm one time back in Mexico.

“Ow! Ow! I was gonna apologize, woman,” he muttered, ducking the next swing. “Didn’t mean for you to see that side of me.”

“You think I care about that?!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at the mess. “You think I’m afraid of a man in bunny-print pockets? No! I’m mad because you smashed my entire tea set! The limited-edition one with the painted violets!”

John, still bleeding slightly, looked at the floor, sheepish. “They came in with weapons, love.”

“They came in with dirty boots!” you shot back. “And you just let them stomp all over my floor like heathens!”

One of the robbers groaned softly in the corner. Without breaking eye contact, you picked up a scone and hurled it with perfect aim. It thudded against his forehead. He slumped back down.

John stared at you.

“…You terrify me sometimes,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. “Good.”

And that -- well, that was the real violence in John's life now.

Not wars or battles or bloodshed. No. It was John Price getting scolded within an inch of his life while holding a rag to his face, trying not to bleed on your embroidered doilies.

-- not the fists, not the firefights. Not the burning of scanting flesh and loose wounds and gunpowder --

But the fury of you. His tiny sweet little flour-dusted wife with a broom in one hand and a lecture in the other.

And John. Your John

Wouldn't have it any other way.

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Nine

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Guys…. I was watching young!Oscar edits before writing this chapter and it’s made me so emotional omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It was colder than it looked.

The wind off the track cut straight through Harper's jumper, even with Mark's spare team jacket draped over her shoulders. It smelled faintly like petrol and stale coffee, but it was warm, and she wasn't about to complain.

Oscar was somewhere past the pit lane, already strapped into the car. The livery was nice — mostly black, matte, with just a splash of deep blue on the sides. The team was new, too. Small. Scrappy. Privately funded and all nerves and duct tape. But Oscar looked right in the car.

He looked like he belonged there.

Harper shifted on the folding chair outside the tent, hands tucked under her thighs to keep them warm. Five and a half months pregnant meant back pain and always being hungry — and maternity tights that itched like hell.

A few mechanics from other teams kept sneaking glances her way.

She couldn't hear them whispering, but she could imagine what they were saying.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Christ, they're only fifteen."

"Looks like she's gonna pop any minute..."

Mark handed her a paper cup of tea and sat down beside her without a word. He didn't look at the men. Didn't say anything about the whispers either. He just passed her a packet of Jaffa Cakes and kicked his feet up on the crate beside them like they were sitting at a beach instead of a professional racetrack.

"You alright, kid?" He asked eventually, his voice low and gruff in that Aussie way that sounded more like gravel than concern.

She nodded. "Just a bit tired. And uncomfortable."

He let out a soft grunt of sympathy. "Yeah. I bet."

Harper blinked. "You really never wanted kids?"

"Nah. Not yet. Still got time."

Harper sipped her tea. "Is it mad I'm more nervous than Oscar about today?"

Mark shook his head. "Not mad. Just means you give a shit. Which is nice."

From the garage, the radio crackled to life. Oscar's voice, tinny but steady. "Copy. Track feels good. Brake balance is stable."

Harper let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

One of the press photographers drifted too close, camera already raised. Mark turned his head just slightly, and that was enough. A look — one part ex-racer, one part protector — and the guy scuttled off like he'd nearly stepped on a landmine.

"Thanks," Harper murmured.

"You're with me," Mark said simply, like that explained everything. "They don't get to treat you like a bloody spectacle."

Across the paddock, Oscar's car wheeled into view, engine snarling, tyres twitching with that jumpy, pre-race tension. The pit crew moved in a flurry. Helmet on. Visor down. And then he was gone — off into the formation lap with that twitchy, fast grace he always had when he wasn't thinking too hard.

Harper watched the car disappear around the corner. Her hands curled around her bump.

"I hate this part," she whispered.

"The waiting?" Mark asked.

"The knowing he might crash," she admitted.

Mark nodded like he knew that fear well. "He's good," he said. "Bloody talented. But more than that, he's got the head for it. That's rare."

Harper blinked down at her belly. "Yeah," she said. "He'll be a good dad too."

Mark looked at her — not with pity, not with surprise — but with something older. Like respect.

"I think you're braver than he is," he said after a pause.

"Doubt it," she said quickly.

"Don't," he said. "You're a bloody teenager. But you're here. And you're not hiding."

She didn't answer, but she didn't look away either.

Then a shout went up from the track. The lights went out. The race had begun.

Harper's breath caught.

Oscar's car — P6 on the grid — slotted into the pack like it belonged there. And it wasn't even two laps before he was chasing the front runners, tyres biting, throttle feathered like a pro.

Mark leaned back, arms crossed.

"Told you," he said.

And Harper, despite the murmurs, despite the cold, despite the weight of everything pressing down on her chest — smiled.

Because yeah.

Oscar was flying.

—

The paddock was still buzzing — cars being wheeled off, radios crackling, tyres cooling, mechanics shouting over each other with the wild relief of a clean finish. Somewhere in the distance, someone was setting off an airhorn. Mark was yelling into a phone about tyres.

Oscar ducked under the awning, helmet tucked under his arm, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His race suit was half-unzipped, tied around his waist, black fireproof undershirt soaked through at the collar.

Harper was already there, perched on a crate by the spare front wing. Her hands were clenched in her lap, face flushed. When she saw him, she stood too fast, steadied herself, and exhaled.

"You finished fifth," she said breathlessly. "Fifth, Osc. Your single seater debut and you finished fifth!"

"I know." He was grinning so hard it barely fit on his face. "I overtook on Copse. Did you see it?"

"Did I—" She gave a strangled laugh. "Yes, I saw it! You nearly gave me a fucking aneurysm."

Oscar dropped his helmet and practically launched himself at her. His arms went around her, careful but tight, like he couldn't decide whether to hold her or just collapse.

Harper melted into the hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

"You smell awful," she muttered.

"Victory sweat," he said into her hair. "Don't disrespect it."

She made a noise halfway between a snort and a sob. Her hands clung to the back of his fireproofs, fingers knotting the fabric.

"People were staring," she said quietly. "It'll be all over the forums, soon. Twitter. Instagram. The fifteen year old F4 driver with a pregnant girlfriend."

"I know."

"I don't want us to have a negative impact on your career."

Oscar's face softened. He glanced around — there were still people watching. Journalists, team members, other drivers. Some looking curiously. Some not bothering to hide their judgment.

He ducked his head, touched his forehead gently to hers. "Let them stare," he murmured. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't get to decide anything."

She blinked fast. "I cried during the final lap."

"Mark probably cried too. He's emotionally repressed — that man leaks feelings through his jaw tension."

Harper giggled in spite of herself. "I'm really proud of you, Osc."

Oscar smiled — not the flashy, race-day grin, but the soft, private one he only really gave to her. "Thanks for being here," he said.

"Thanks for not crashing." She whispered.

Oscar looked at her belly. Rested a hand there, carefully, then glanced around awkwardly to make sure nobody was around.

"She kicked right after you overtook that kid in the green car," Harper said softly.

His head turned back to her and his eyes widened. "Wait, really?"

"Swear to God. She's already got road rage."

Oscar laughed.

Then Mark shouted across the garage, "Oi, golden boy — debrief in ten, and put on a bloody shirt before someone files a harassment complaint!"

Oscar winced. "Sorry." He muttered.

Harper shook her head. "Go on. Go be told how amazing and fast and talented you are."

"You staying?"

"Obviously." She said. "I'm going to get a 99 from the ice cream van. Then I'll come back here and wait for you."

Oscar kissed her cheek and jogged off, still bouncing on adrenaline, slipping slightly on a rogue bit of tyre rubber.

Harper sat back down on the crate. Someone was still staring. She stared right back.

Because yeah — she was pregnant. And fifteen.

But her boyfriend had just placed fifth in his first-ever F4 race.

And that was worth staring at.

—

The TV was on but muted — something about rugby. Oscar was lying on his stomach on the hotel bed in a pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone. Harper sat against the headboard in one of his hoodies, her knees pulled up to her chest, laptop open, trying not to cry over a piece of geometry homework.

She wasn't looking at her maths anymore.

She was looking at Twitter.

And Twitter was, as always, a shitshow.

Great drive but this kid's clearly distracted. Pregnant girlfriend in the paddock at 15? Insane.

Piastri could be a serious talent. Shame he's going to have a kid to think about soon.

Imagine choosing fatherhood over your chance to get into Formula 1. Bet he'll be gone in two years.

She swallowed. Her stomach felt hollow.

Oscar hadn't noticed yet. He was watching some replay clips. Laughing occasionally.

She didn't want to ruin it. But her hand was gripping her laptop so hard her knuckles had gone white.

"...Harp?"

She didn't answer. Just tilted the screen so he could see.

His expression changed in slow motion. First confused, then wary, then flat.

He sat up. Took the laptop. Scrolled. Frowned. Clicked on a few replies.

"...Wow," he said finally. "Bit harsh."

Harper laughed — but it was brittle, bitter. "They think you've ruined your life."

"They're all middle-ages arseholes."

"They think I've ruined your life." She said again.

Oscar shut the laptop.

"Alright. First of all," he said, voice tight but trying for calm, "no more Twitter for you. Second, you have not, and will not, ruin anything."

As if summoned, Mark knocked on the adjoining door, then walked in without waiting for a response. He had a protein bar in one hand and a face like thunder.

"Piastri," he said, tossing his phone on the bed. "You seen this?"

"Yeah," Oscar said. "We were just looking."

Mark ran a hand through his hair. "Some knobhead ex-club driver started a whole thread about you being 'a warning to others'. Like you're a fucking cautionary tale."

Harper blinked. "Jesus."

"I know," Mark snapped. "I did ten years in F1. You want scandal? That sport invented it. Teen pregnancy is far from the craziest thing this sport has seen."

Oscar shrugged. "They'll forget in a week."

"They won't," Mark said bluntly. "They'll keep watching. Keep waiting for you to mess it up. But you're not going to."

Harper stayed quiet. Her throat felt tight.

Mark glanced at her, then back at Oscar.

"You know what they hate more than a scandal?" he said. "A happy ending."

Oscar looked confused. Harper blinked.

"They want the downfall," Mark said. "They want tears, breakups, chaos. Give them stability? A kid who knows what matters and still wins races?" He smiled grimly. "Boring as hell. That's when they'll move on."

Oscar leaned back against Harper. "Should be easy enough."

"Damn right," Mark muttered. "Now. Shut the laptop. Eat something. And get some sleep. We've got a long drive back to Haileybury in the morning."

Harper smiled weakly. Oscar reached over and twined their fingers together.

—

The media room was too warm. That annoying kind of hotel conference room warmth — recirculated air and instant coffee and the stink of fresh lanyards. Oscar sat in a folding chair between two cheap potted plants, fingers locked under his thigh to stop himself fidgeting.

The interviewer's name was Cal. Maybe Calum. He had a half-rolled sleeve and expensive trainers and a voice that sounded like it practiced banter in a mirror.

Oscar already hated him.

"So!" Cal beamed. "Oscar Piastri. Big weekend. Huge season ahead for you. People are saying you're the next big thing in motorsport."

Oscar blinked. "Okay."

Cal laughed. "Modest, huh? That an Aussie thing? You're a bit of an enigma to people. Quiet on socials. Not much media before now. First proper post-karts season. And now—" He leaned forward. "You've got a baby on the way?"

Oscar's jaw twitched. "Yep."

"That's... big, man. Most lads your age are just getting their first girlfriends, and you're going to be a dad. How does that feel?"

Oscar stared at him for a beat too long.

"I dunno," he said finally. "Feels like what it is. A big deal. Exciting."

"Right. And is that affecting how you train? I mean, balancing a championship with—"

"No."

Cal's eyebrows lifted.

"Right, right," he said. "But I mean — come on, be honest. There's gotta be some pressure. You've got the fans, the sponsors, and now you're about to start your own family. That's not a normal situation for a fifteen-year-old. Does it ever feel like... too much?"

Oscar shrugged. "I don't really think about it like that."

"Do you feel like people judge you for it?"

Oscar gave a small, unpleasant smile. "They judge me for everything. Winning. Not winning. What I wear. How I speak."

There was a brief silence. Cal glanced down at his notes, then back up again, brightening.

"And Harper — your girlfriend — is she here with you today?"

Oscar blinked once. "No. She's got an exam today."

"Ah. Fair enough. Does she follow your racing, though? Come to most of your events?"

"Yeah," Oscar said shortly. "When she can. She enjoys it."

"Was she with you after your debut this weekend?"

Oscar's voice was flat now. "Don't think that's your business, mate."

Cal laughed again — nervous this time. "Fair, fair. Just trying to paint the picture, y'know? Let fans in. They love a story. You two are young, expecting a baby — kind of a motorsport fairytale."

Oscar shifted in his seat. "It's not a fairytale."

"Okay. What is it, then?"

Oscar looked him dead in the eye. "It's just our life," he said.

Cal nodded. "Right. Okay, moving on—"

Mark was waiting outside the interview room with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

Oscar walked straight past him. "Didn't say anything stupid," he muttered.

Mark raised a brow. "No, but you scared the life out of that guy. He looked like he was about to piss himself."

Oscar shrugged. "He was trying to get a headline out of me. Didn't want to let that happen."

Mark gave a short, approving nod. "Good lad."

⸻

It went live that night.

Harper sat cross-legged on Jane's bed, flicking through it with a familiar sinking feeling in her chest.

Prodigy Piastri — How The Karting Star Made It To F4 at Fifteen

He might be young, but he's not here for the headlines. In an exclusive with Race Circuit Magazine, the 15-year-old rising star gave his first ever interview since being promoted — and made it clear that while his driving's for the public, his private life stays off-track.

"It's not a fairytale," Piastri said when asked about his highly publicised relationship with girlfriend Harper Whiatt and their pregnancy. "It's just our life."

Harper exhaled. Somewhere between proud and rattled and hungry (always hungry).

Jane peeked over her shoulder. "He's a bit scary, isn't he? In interviews."

"Yeah," Harper said softly. "He just — he doesn't like the drama of it all. He just wants to drive fast and win races."

Jane snorted. "Well. He's definitely not a media darling."

"No," Harper murmured. "He's not. But he's mine."

—

The email came through just after prep. She hadn't even opened it straight away — just stared at the subject line, stomach knotting.

GCSE Maths Mock Results - Personal Performance Review Requested

She knew.

Didn't need to read the rest.

Now she was sitting at the end of Oscar's bed with her knees pulled up and her hands under her thighs like she was holding herself together. Her phone lay face-down on the blanket beside her. The others were filtering in slowly, already clocking the atmosphere.

"Harper?" Oscar asked, closing the door behind him, gently.

She didn't look up.

"Failed it," she said, voice flat. "The maths mock."

Sam paused halfway through opening a bag of Frazzles. Jane, already cross-legged on the rug, stopped fiddling with her pens. Matt and Alfie came to a sort of unspoken halt in the doorway like they'd stepped into bad weather.

Oscar moved to sit beside her, quiet. "By how much?"

"Twenty-three percent." She gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't even make it past halfway. Even with the extra time."

No one said anything.

She hated the silence. Hated what she imagined they were all thinking — that it had been obvious, that it was coming, that she wasn't cut out for this. For school. For exams. For any of it.

"I'm just —" She rubbed her eyes hard. "I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

Oscar didn't say anything. He just leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"We know you are," he said quietly.

Jane dragged her bag over and pulled out a Tesco meal deal she'd been saving. Wordlessly handed Harper the chocolate bar.

"I don't want pity snacks," Harper muttered.

"Tough. It's not pity. It's a twirl."

Sam flopped onto his bed with a dramatic groan. "Do you seriously think any of us are going to actually pass that exam? I sat next to a guy who drew a dick on his calculator and still scored higher than me."

Alfie shrugged. "I once wrote the word 'MATHS' in block capitals and then panicked and cried into the desk for fifteen minutes. Still got a D."

Matt snorted. "I actually studied and still failed. So clearly, revision's a scam."

Harper huffed a little through her nose. "You're all idiots."

"Exactly," Jane said. "And we still believe in you more than we believe in ourselves, so."

Oscar nudged her leg. "We'll keep revising. There's still two months until the real thing."

She knew. Couldn't forget it, could she? Not when her due-date was two weeks after the last scheduled exam.

"I know," she said quietly.

For a moment, they just sat like that. Six teenagers in one too-small room, surrounded by piles of clothes and textbooks and that weird leftover smell of the chicken super noodles that Sam had brought back from the common room.

It was stuffy and crowded and stupidly warm from the broken radiator that now refused to ever stop emitting heat, but no one moved.

No one told her it was all going to be okay. No one made big promises. No one tried to fix it.

They just sat with her. Like a net beneath a tightrope.

Harper curled slightly into Oscar's side. Let herself breathe.

"Just a shit day," she murmured.

"Yeah," Sam said, mouth full of Frazzles. "We have those a lot. That's why we have each other."

—

Harper sat on the crinkly white paper lining the little bed, legs swinging nervously. The room was too bright. Oscar sat beside her in one of the plastic chairs, biting at the skin on his thumb.

"You alright?" She asked, glancing at him.

"I'm not the one about to get poked and prodded," he muttered.

She frowned at him. "Osc. You look more nervous than me."

"Not nervous. Just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wish I could do something useful."

She snorted. "You brought me a Lucozade and remembered the stupid NHS letter."

Before he could reply, the door opened and the midwife breezed in — smiling, clipboard in hand, no-nonsense blonde bob.

"Hi, Harper. Hi, Oscar. Lovely to see you both again."

Oscar nodded awkwardly. Harper gave a small smile. "Hi, Rebecca."

"Alright then," Rebecca said, snapping on gloves. "We're just doing a very basic check-up today — nothing too scary. You're about twenty-three weeks, yeah?"

"Twenty-three and a half," Harper said, proud of how quickly it came out. "We had the anomaly scan — everything was good."

"Brilliant." Rebecca beamed. "Are you two finding out the sex, or keeping it a surprise?"

Oscar immediately busied himself with the bottle of hand sanitiser. Harper smirked. "We found out. It's a girl. Oscar told everyone."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Ooh, exciting. Have you picked a name yet?"

"We're in committee with our friends," Harper said dryly. "It's not going well."

Oscar snorted. "Someone suggested 'Peach'."

Harper elbowed him.

"Alright," Rebecca laughed. "Well, let's have a little listen to baby's heartbeat today, yeah? Lie back for me."

Harper lay down carefully, tugging up her top and folding it beneath her chest. Her belly button had started to flatten out, which she hated. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes trained on her stomach.

Rebecca warmed the Doppler gel in her hands, then pressed the wand to Harper's skin.

Static. Then a swoosh. Then— there. A rapid, rhythmic gallop.

"I like this part," Oscar said. Quietly. "Hearing her."

Harper smiled without looking at him. "Me too."

Rebecca nodded. "Strong as anything. Around 145 bpm — that's a very happy, very wiggly baby."

Oscar was still smiling. "She's always moving."

"That's a very good sign," Rebecca said, wiping off the gel. "You two are doing just fine."

Harper tugged her shirt back down over the little swell of her belly, the cool jelly from the Doppler still tacky on her skin. She wiped her hand on a tissue and glanced at Oscar, who was perched rigidly on the chair next to the midwife's desk, like he was afraid to breathe wrong in case he broke something.

"She has a personality already," Harper said, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

Rebecca, the midwife, raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah?"

Harper nodded, smoothing her hand down her stomach like she was trying to pat the baby through layers of uniform and nerves. "She's quiet in the mornings. Proper grumpy. But always awake at night. Fidgety. She kicks the second I lie down. And she loves watching Oscar race," Harper added, casting him a look. "Goes absolutely bonkers every time the engines start."

Oscar smiled faintly. "My girl."

"And she was obsessed with blackcurrant squash for two straight weeks," Harper continued. "But now she turns her nose up at it. Hates orange squash. Like... violently. I had some last week and she full-on elbowed my kidney."

Rebecca chuckled, tapping notes into the screen. "Sounds like she's already a bit of a drama queen."

Oscar grinned. "She's also a big fan of chocolate-flavoured anything — mousse, milkshake, pudding — but actual chocolate gives Harper brutal heartburn. So that's fun."

"I had a KitKat and had to lie down for an hour," Harper muttered. "It's really annoying, honestly."

Rebecca smiled warmly, clearly used to this particular kind of hormonal chaos. "She's certainly making herself known."

She clicked through a few tabs on the computer, then stood and crossed to the counter. "Alright, let's do a quick blood draw, Harper. Just to check your vitamin levels and keep an eye on blood pressure and iron. And we'll check your markers for pre-eclampsia."

Oscar immediately went still, eyes flicking up from Harper's belly to Rebecca.

"Wait — what's that?" he asked, voice a little too loud. "That sounds scary."

Harper gave him a look like please chill, but he ignored it, leaning forward in his chair.

Rebecca turned back with a gentle calm only midwives seemed to have. "It's a condition where blood pressure can spike during pregnancy. It can be serious, yes, but that's why we monitor for it so closely. Headaches, blurred vision, swelling — if anything feels off, you just tell us, okay?"

Harper nodded, but Oscar still looked vaguely stricken.

"She's fine," Harper said under her breath, nudging him. "We're just checking. It's just a check-up. That's what they do. Check things."

Oscar cleared his throat and nodded quickly, slumping back into the chair like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Rebecca offered a reassuring smile. "You're being a really good, supportive partner, Oscar. It's good that you ask. And it's normal to worry."

That shut him up completely. His ears went red.

Harper tried not to giggle as Rebecca swabbed her arm and slid the needle in. Oscar looked like he wanted to throw himself between her and the needle but was too polite to actually move.

"It's just blood," Harper said.

"It's still your blood," Oscar muttered. "Which is, like... my second-favourite part of you."

She blinked. "What's your first-favourite part of me?"

He hesitated. Then, after a beat, said, "All the parts that grows small humans."

Rebecca laughed.

—

The engines were thunder.

Harper stood just behind the pit wall, oversized headset clamped over her ears, Mark Webber on one side of her and a row of engineers yelling data into radios on the other. The wind off the circuit was brutal — whipping her hair into her eyes, tugging at her coat. But she barely felt it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

It was the final lap. Final corner. And Oscar was in second position.

She could see the shape of him — black-and-white race suit, helmet tucked low, the car twitching under pressure as he took the inside line — sharp, aggressive, clean.

And then he passed him.

"Oh my God," she sucked in a breath, gripping Mark's arm without thinking.

The car in front — the RedSpeed junior — went wide. Oscar ducked under, tyres screeching, engine screaming as he pulled into the lead like it belonged to him.

And then it was the straight.

The chequered flag waved and entire pit lane exploded — Mark swearing gleefully, the engineers howling into radios, one of the mechanics pounding his hands together.

Oscar had won.

He'd actually bloody won.

Harper was grinning like an idiot before she could even process it. Adrenaline and pride and disbelief hit her in a wave so huge she had to step back from the wall, laughing in that dazed, stunned way people only do when something brilliant happens and they have no idea how to react to it.

Mark turned to her, his voice muffled through both their headsets. "He just fucking did that."

"I know!" she shouted back, heart pounding.

"Christ, he's a machine. That move at the hairpin—" He clapped her shoulder like they were both drunk on the win. "Your bloke's got ice in his veins."

The camera crews were already swarming toward the parc fermé, where Oscar was climbing out of the car, helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, blinking like he'd just woken up from a long nap. He barely cracked a smile — just nodded once to the engineers, quiet, controlled. He always did this. Too stunned to celebrate properly. It was just how he was.

But when he saw her, standing behind the barrier, he smiled.

Not a grin. Not the shy little twitch of his mouth he gave to the cameras.

A real one. Like everything in him relaxed for just a second.

And then Harper did the very uncool thing of waving. Mark snorted beside her.

Oscar didn't wave back — too many people, too many eyes — but he dipped his head a fraction. Just enough.

She understood what it meant.

He'd won. And she'd been there to see it.

Someone near the press pen muttered, loud in ppl enough for her to hear. "Isn't that the girl? The pregnant one?"

Another voice. "Can you believe it? Fifteen."

But then the cameras and the attention turned again, as Oscar climbed up onto the podium, head down, hands behind his back, cheeks flushed with cold and quiet pride.

He didn't look at the cameras. Didn't wave. Didn't even really smile.

But when the national anthem started — just before the champagne — he looked across the track, through the fence, right at her.

And she'd never forget that smile.

NEXT CHAPTER

552 notes · View notes

sowerpatch · 1 month ago

Text

terms of play [chapter 2 - game interrupted]

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: Azzi juggles her brother's corporate fallout and the secret launch of a WNBA team. With the draft looming and pressure mounting, she's confronted by a moment she wasn't ready for. One that makes her feel alive for the first time in months.

Warning: Mentions of substance or drug usage

Word count: 4,309

Chicago Midway International Airport, Chicago. July 2024.

The Chicago air clung to her skin like sweat under a lie. Heavy. Sweet with jet fuel, salt, and something metallic underneath—old money gone stale. It wrapped itself around her the moment she stepped off the tarmac, heels striking the concrete with a sound too crisp for this heat.

Azzi didn’t blink.

The Gulfstream’s door folded back behind her with a pneumatic sigh. She walked like time owed her something. Measured. Controlled. Every step sharpening the blade of her silhouette. Her white blazer was tailored within a quarter inch of menace, sleeves creased so clean they looked like they’d never known compromise.

A man in a Fudd Corp lanyard jogged toward her, already out of breath. His dress shirt bleeding through with sweat. Tie askew, mouth moving before his feet even stopped.

“Ms. Fudd. Sorry for the short notice. Mr. Fudd said you’d be briefed on the flight, but, uh,” he stammered, fumbling with a leather binder. “We compiled a new packet. The numbers shifted again this morning. Sunrise Energy demands to withdraw. It’s bad.”

He pushed the folder toward her with both hands, fingers trembling just enough to notice.

She took the binder, flipping it open one-handed. The pages rustled like leaves before a storm. Her thumb found Clause 7 in seconds, gaze flicking over the language with the kind of detachment people usually reserved for post-mortems.

“Has Legal redlined the new language in Clause 7?” she asked, still reading.

The man paused. “I… don’t think so. Not yet.”

She looked up for the first time. Not at him. Through him.

“Have it marked and in my suite before eight,” she said. “The escrow language misfire gets corrected before the call. If that ambiguity's still in the term sheet, we lose this deal.”

Her voice was quiet. Flat. The kind of quiet that ended conversations.

She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She never did.

The SUV door opened as she reached it, the driver stepping out without meeting her eyes. Smart. He held the door just long enough for her to glide in. Once inside, she pulled the binder onto her lap and leaned back into cool leather, shutting out the sun behind a sheet of bulletproof glass.

The AC hummed low, the smell of citrus and gun oil in the vents.

Azzi closed her eyes briefly, not to rest, but to replay the folder’s language in her mind. Numbers. Names. The bones of power.

Presidential Suite at the Waldorf Astoria Chicago, Chicago. July 2024.

The suite smelled like stale espresso and lemon-scented furniture polish. Papers were stacked across the dining table in uneven piles, some marked with neon tabs, others curling at the edges. Azzi stood at the window, phone pressed to her ear, gaze locked on the blur of highway outside.

“Have you heard from him?” her father asked, voice low but clear.

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “No. Last update I got, he left the client dinner early. Canceled his flight. Radio silent since Monday.”

There was a pause.

“He’s using again.”

Azzi didn’t speak.

“His apartment’s trashed. There’s a lock on the office suite. I had the building manager send me photos.” Her father exhaled heavily.

She leaned into the wall, resting her forehead against the cool glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this isn’t your responsibility.”

“It never is until it is.”

“Azzi—”

“I’ve cleaned up after him before. I’ll do it again.” Her voice stayed even, if detached. “I pushed the Folsom audit forward. I’m rewriting the German solar contract myself, and I looped in a Florida consultant for the zoning mess he left behind. His entire division is running through my office now.”

“I know.”

“Dad,” she said, finally turning away from the window, “this isn’t sustainable.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

“I know you have your own company. Your own world. And the basketball thing... you don’t talk about it much, but I know what it means to you.”

“I’m not walking away from the Valkyries.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said gently. “I’m just saying thank you. I see what you’re doing. Even if Trey doesn’t.”

Azzi sat down, her eyes landing on a copy of the Valkyries initial branding deck still half-wrapped in printer rubber bands. “The league’s been calling,” she said after a beat. “Nika keeps covering for me, but they want a face. A name. They're demanding ownership needs to go public by next quarter.”

“I'll handle your brother. Do you think you’ll be done with everything before next year’s draft?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It's doable.”

He didn’t argue. Just said, “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Azzi hung up.

The silence that followed stretched, thick and familiar.

Then, her phone buzzed again.

Incoming Call: Nika Muhl

Azzi answered. “Hey.”

“You alive?” Nika asked, sharp.

“Define alive.”

“I swear to God, if you give me another non-answer—”

“I’m breathing, I’m reading contracts, and I’m doing damage control. That good enough?”

“You’re a ghost.”

Azzi let out a breath and leaned back. “I talked to my dad. Trey relapsed.”

There was a pause on the other end.

Nika’s tone softened just slightly. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“I’m cleaning up his contracts, smoothing over his investors, rewriting his deals on four hours of sleep. The Valkyries haven’t stalled, but I can’t exactly front a startup when I’m too busy bailing out my brother’s name.”

“Well, while you’re playing cleanup, the league’s getting nervous,” Nika said. “They’ve called three times this week, and I’ve run out of excuses.”

“I told you, I’ll handle it.”

“And I told them you would,” Nika shot back. “But media’s circling now. There’s already a Reddit thread with guesses. One of them thinks it’s Beyoncé. Another says it’s a hedge fund.”

Azzi winced. “That’s absurd.”

“So is hiding your name this close to the draft.”

She rubbed her temple. “I’m not ready to be the headline.”

“It’s not about headlines anymore. The team exists, Azzi. It has a schedule. It has salary caps. It has interns. You can’t be invisible and in charge.”

There was a beat.

“I’m not dropping this. You know what you built. But the league wants a sit-down before the mock draft next quarter. PR has patched together a stall, but it’s unraveling.”

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“I already had Ines book the slot. Thursday, 10 a.m.”

Azzi blinked. “You didn’t clear that with me?”

“I stopped clearing things when you started ghosting me.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

“Take a shower. Drink something with electrolytes,” Nika said. “You’re starting to sound like Trey.”

The line went dead.

Azzi sat there, staring at the mockups of Valkyries merch strewn under legal contracts and court filings. The black and purple jerseys peeked out from beneath a stack of tax compliance reports. Silver trim catching soft hotel light.

Storrs, Connecticut. September 2024.

The gym was winding down, but the heat still lingered in the air. Practice was over, jerseys clinging to skin, hair tied up and out of the way. UConn didn’t do chill. Even cool-downs felt competitive.

KK sprawled out near the sideline, legs splayed, breathing steady. Ice Brady sat up against the bleachers, sipping on a water bottle she’d barely touched. Paige Bueckers was flat on her back at half court, arms folded behind her head, smirking up at the ceiling like it told jokes.

KK stretched, groaned, then turned to the others. “Yo, I was deep in the Reddit trenches last night. Valkyries thread been going stupid.”

Ice looked over. “That the new team?”

“Yeah. People wild guessing who owns it. First theory was Beyoncé. This month is Elon Musk.”

Paige made a face. “Man, if Musk touches women’s hoops, I’m transferring to Europe.”

KK laughed. “You think I’m playin’? Someone said the jerseys gon’ charge Teslas.”

Ice shook her head. “I think it’s somebody boring. Rich, quiet, doesn’t post. One of them art collector types with three last names.”

“Nah,” Paige cut in, still on the floor. “Gotta be someone with cash and chaos. Like, ‘I bought a WNBA team because Daddy says I can’t buy Mars’ type energy.”

“You volunteering?”

“Bet.” Paige grinned. “Let me win this natty first, then I’ll buy the whole league.”

KK shot her a look.

Paige sat up and wiped sweat from her neck. “I swear, if I get drafted by some old creepy hedge fund dude named Chris, I’m demandin’ a trade before I land.”

Ice leaned in, amused. “Focus on the threepeat, Superstar. Let the billionaires sort themselves out.”

“I am focused. I’m locked in.” Paige smirked. “Just sayin’, I ain't tryna hoop for some old man who thinks WNBA stands for Where’s My Bartender At.”

That got Ice laughing.

“Speaking of rich people,” KK said, getting serious again, “did y’all hear the latest on Azzi Fudd?”

Both heads turned. That name still hit a certain way.

“She been runnin’ her family's company while her brother’s MIA. Rumors say he checked into rehab again. But instead of lettin’ it fold, she picked up the slack. Closed some wild client deals.”

“Wait, doesn't she have her own company too?” Ice asked. “Fudd Holdings or something.”

“Yeah. And she’s still helping run that foundation for girls in STEM. On top of all that, she’s been cleaning up Fudd Corp since her brother dipped. Press barely touches it, but people online know.”

Paige let out a low whistle. “Shorty out here runnin’ corporations and savin’ the youth. Wild.”

KK nodded. “Reddit thread sayin’ she’s a damn role model. Never makes it about her, either. Just handles it.”

“Real CEO energy,” Ice said. “I like that.”

“Same,” Paige muttered. “Can’t lie—she's hot.”

KK raised an eyebrow. “Since when you into corporate chicks?”

Paige smirked. “Y’all seen that press photo from last week’s gala? All sharp jaw and mean eyes. She looks like she’ll ruin your life and invoice you after.”

Ice laughed. “You tryna get humbled.”

“I’m tryna get claimed,” Paige said, licking her lips like she meant it. “She tells me to sit, I’m askin’ how low.”

KK groaned, covering her face. “You need Jesus.”

Paige leaned back on her elbows, that smug grin still stretched across her face. “Nah, I need her LinkedIn. And a prenup. I’ll sign whatever. NDA, PTA, whatever she needs.”

“She would wreck you,” Ice said.

“And I’d say thank you,” Paige fired back without hesitation.

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. October 2024.

The conference room smelled like fresh carpet and untouched ambition. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the midday sun hitting the purple and gold banners hung along the far wall. Early designs of the Valkyries branding gleamed like promise.

Azzi stepped in quietly. Her tailored black suit cut a sharp line against the clean symmetry of the room. Every head turned. Conversations dropped into silence.

“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “I know I’m overdue.”

A few chuckles followed. Nervous, but warm.

Azzi looked around the table. Operations, legal, media, logistics, scouting. All women. All hers.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” she continued. “You’ve been moving this thing forward without me these past few months. I’ve read every update. Every memo. You’ve been building something real. And I see it. I appreciate it.”

She took a breath.

“I know I haven’t been here. That changes today. I’m back. We’ve got a draft in six months. Let’s lock it in.”

Ines gave her a quiet nod, then tapped the tablet. The screen behind her came to life with the Valkyries staff directory, now updated to include the final coaching hire.

“We’ve confirmed our head coach,” Kaitlyn said. “Final interviews wrapped last week. They signed yesterday. Coaching staff is officially complete.”

Applause scattered across the table. Azzi gave a small smile. Brief, but real.

“That just leaves one thing,” Kaitlyn added. “Players.”

Azzi turned toward her. “Which brings me to you.”

Kaitlyn Chen stepped forward, the Valkyries’ newly appointed scouting manager, sharp-eyed and unshakably calm even in a room full of department heads.

“I want a finalized short list by next month,” Azzi said. “Free agents. Trades. Off-contract talent. Priority targets only.”

“Already in motion,” Kaitlyn replied. “And there’s one more thing.”

Kaitlyn nodded to Ines to switch to the next screen. A clean slide appeared. 2025 Mock Draft. ESPN and HerHoopStats.

Paige Bueckers' face centered at the top of the board. The headline read: Still No. 1.

“She’s still the projected top pick,” Nika spoke from the opposite end of the table, flipping to a breakdown slide. “No shifts since March.”

Azzi studied the screen. The photo was recent. Paige in navy and white, chin lifted, a UConn sweatband crooked across her wrist. Confident. Unbothered. Dangerous.

“And if Paige goes first?” Azzi asked. “Who’s next?”

“We’re ranking backups. Strong forwards. Wings. A few post players in case trades shake up our board.” Kaitlyn motioned for Ines to continue to the next couple of slides.

“Good,” Azzi said. “Book your trip to the Finals. Scout both teams and anyone in attendance. Bench rotations, rookie minutes, late-game sets. Do your network there and get me a full report.”

“On it.” Kaitlyn lingered a second longer, then added, “You should come too. Just to watch. No scouting clipboard required.”

Azzi glanced up.

Kaitlyn offered a light smile. “Could be good for you to see it all up close.”

The air shifted slightly. A pause moved through the room, subtle but expectant.

Azzi folded her arms. “I haven’t made my position public yet. I show up now, it becomes a thing.”

“We frame it as philanthropy,” Nika said from the end of the table. “You’ve already donated to multiple women’s sports programs. No one’s connecting dots.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched slightly.

“You wouldn’t even be with me,” Kaitlyn added. “We’d set you up in one of the private skyboxes. No cameras. No press.”

“It’s a soft entry,” Nika said. “Get used to the arenas now. You’ll be in them a lot once the season starts.”

The room stayed still, waiting.

Azzi looked down at the table. Her reflection met her in the polished wood. Tired eyes, unreadable mouth. A crown she hadn’t asked for waiting just behind her shoulders.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Kaitlyn gave a quiet nod. “Of course.”

Azzi straightened, and the air in the room seemed to move again.

Storrs, Connecticut. October 2024.

Paige leaned back against her headboard, phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder as she scrolled through her notes app on her iPad with one hand and tossed a mini basketball up toward the ceiling with the other.

Her dorm room was its usual mess of sneakers, hoodies, and unopened protein bars. The walls lined with championship posters and a single Polaroid stuck to the corner of her mirror—her and KK, grinning after a buzzer beater.

“You’re free Saturday,” her agent said through the speaker. “No game. No appearances. I confirmed with Geno’s office.”

“Bet,” Paige said, catching the ball one-handed. “What’s up? You trying to take me out or something?”

“I’m trying to make sure you get drafted higher than God,” her agent deadpanned. “The WNBA Finals. Liberty versus Lynx. Opening night. Barclays. You should be there.”

Paige arched an eyebrow. “You tryna fly me out for vibes?”

“For optics,” her agent corrected. “You’re already in the conversation. You showing up in public, at the biggest game of the year? That’s a headline. Especially with the draft coming.”

Paige sat up and dropped the ball to the floor. “That’s what this is about. Exposure.”

“It’s about staying visible. Staying wanted. You sit courtside, people remember why your name’s been in every mock draft since sophomore year.”

Paige smirked. “I gotta wear heels?”

“Wear whatever doesn’t look like you slept in it. And bring KK and Ice if you want. You’ll look grounded, loyal. Human.”

Paige laughed. “Aight, that’s a big assumption.”

“Oh, and I heard Valkyries’ scouting staff might be there.”

Paige paused mid-stretch. “For real?”

“Very real. Eyes will be on that arena from every angle. It’s a good time to be seen.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll go. Send me the details.”

“You got it.”

She ended the call and rolled off the bed, tossing on a hoodie before slipping into her slides. The dorm was quiet except for the low rumble of explosions and trash talk echoing from the living area.

She followed the noise, stepping into the living room to find KK and Ice parked in front of the TV, locked in a heated Fortnite match. KK sat cross-legged with a headset on, shouting into her mic. Ice leaned forward on the edge of the couch, controller clutched tight, eyes narrowed.

“You two good?” Paige asked, grinning as she flopped into the couch beside them.

“Top five right now,” KK muttered without looking. “Do not jinx me.”

Ice tilted her head. “You need something or you just here to steal our snacks again?”

“Y’all busy Saturday?” Paige leaned back, ignoring their comments.

KK groaned. “Don’t tell me we got film.”

“Nah. Finals game. Barclays Center. Liberty versus Lynx.”

Ice glanced over. “WNBA Finals?”

“Mmhmm,” Paige nodded. “My agent says it’s good for my image. Big lights. VIP seats. Scouting eyes.”

KK tore off her headset. “We goin’?”

Paige smirked. “If y’all can dress like actual adults and not middle schoolers in gym class, yeah.”

KK pointed at the screen. “If I win this round, I’m wearin’ Crocs courtside.”

“You do that,” Paige said, standing up with a laugh. “And I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

The game exploded in gunfire. KK screamed.

“YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME—ICE, YOU LET HIM FLANK ME?”

“I was reloading!”

Paige walked off chuckling, already texting her agent back with two extra names for the guest list.

Barclays Center, Brooklyn. October 2024.

The arena buzzed with anticipation, a low hum rising steadily with each passing minute. Seats filled in waves, fans donning team colors, foam fingers, and freshly printed playoff merch. Spotlights flickered overhead while the court below gleamed under perfect polish.

Azzi stood stiffly behind the glass panel of the private suite, arms folded loosely across her chest. The suite itself was sleek, designed for discretion. A polished buffet stretched along one side, silver trays steaming with lobster rolls, sliders, and truffle mac and cheese. A suited waiter stood silently near the entrance, ready to refresh her drink at the flick of a hand.

Nika leaned against the velvet couch behind her, sipping ginger ale with a lemon wedge.

“You’re wound up,” she said lightly. “It’s just basketball.”

Azzi didn’t look back. “It’s not the basketball I’m worried about.”

“It’s fine. Media’s got zero confirmation you’re here. PR team’s ready to spin it as a charitable visit to support the league, if it comes to that.” Nika came up beside her.

Azzi’s jaw flexed, but she nodded once.

Behind them, Ines lingered near the dessert cart, quietly surveying the options like a scout assessing value picks. Two cookies already claimed, she sipped her second espresso with the casual detachment of someone used to pressure in other people's lives.

Then the sound hit.

It wasn’t gradual. It cracked through the air like a thunderclap. The crowd erupted all at once, a tidal wave of noise that made Azzi’s head lift sharply, heart knocking once against her ribs. For a second, she thought the teams were being introduced early.

But when the spotlight drifted across the tunnel, it wasn’t the players emerging.

Paige Bueckers strode into the arena like she owned the air around her.

She strolled into view, decked in a sleeveless denim vest and matching long shorts that brushed against her knees. Beneath it, a cropped red tank hugged her frame, casual but bold. Her hair was pulled back in a slick bun, gold hoops catching the light. White Jordan 3s laced to perfection capped off the look, the red and cement-gray accents matching the pop of her top.

People around her lost it. Phones out, flashes sparking. Someone screamed her name. Paige grinned, lifted two fingers in a lazy wave, then sank into a courtside seat like it was second nature.

Azzi’s breath stilled.

She didn’t move—couldn’t. Her gaze latched onto Paige’s profile, cataloging everything like muscle memory. The curve of her smirk. The way she leaned forward to dap up a young fan. The casual cockiness of someone who knew exactly who she was, and didn’t have to prove it to anybody.

Nika tilted her head.

“Oh,” she said, a slow grin curving across her lips. “Is this why you’ve been acting like someone stuck a branding iron between your shoulder blades?”

Azzi blinked.

“What?”

“You’re staring like she walked out of your favorite playlist.”

Azzi didn’t respond.

Nika turned slightly, watching the girl courtside. “Did you know she’s going to be here too?”

“No.” Azzi said, a little defensive.

Nika raised a brow.

Azzi ignored her, she was still staring to where Paige was sitting.

Then the crowd buzzed louder as the players entered the arena.

But Azzi's eyes still remained at Paige.

KK leaned in close, whispering behind the rim of her soda cup. “Yo, you got any intel on the Valkyrie scout? You know who it is?”

Paige didn’t look away from the court. “Nah,” she muttered, chin resting on her knuckles. “Could be anybody. They’ve been ghostin’ the media.”

Ice chuckled. “Bet it’s just some old white guy in khakis.”

“Or a washed assistant GM from a team that folded,” KK added.

Paige just smirked, eyes still tracking the ball. “Watch it be someone wild like—Oprah.”

Her phone buzzed on the armrest just as when the buzzer sounded for half time and the lights shifted into showtime mode.

She glanced at the screen, then blinked.

Message from her agent:

Suite 12C. Upstairs, one of the private rooms. Couple Nike execs wanna say hi. They're here for Sabrina but asked about you. Play nice.

She sighed. “Gimme a sec. Gotta shake some hands with Nike.”

“Tell ‘em you wear J’s in your sleep,” Ice teased.

Paige just made a face and stood.

She slipped past fans filing to concessions, then climbed a side stairwell marked for restricted access. Her Jordans tapped quietly on the concrete steps, the noise fading as she reached the suite level.

The hallway above was still. Dimly lit, hushed like the air held its breath. Private suites lined either side. Paige slowed her walk, checking door numbers. 8C… 9C… 10C.

Then—

A voice.

Low, smooth, edged with a kind of unshakable grace. The voice carried through the quiet corridor with calm certainty, the sort that made people instinctively slow down and listen. Paige hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the sound of it slipped beneath her skin, unmistakable and electric.

She moved around the corner, steps light against the carpeted floor. The hallway was long and dimly lit, hushed with that kind of upscale stillness.

Up ahead, Azzi was pacing just outside her private suite, her steps slow and controlled as she spoke into her phone. There was a quiet tension in her movements, like she was carefully measuring each stride. Her expression stayed composed, though her eyes flicked downward now and then in thought. One hand held the phone close, the other swinging loosely at her side.

Then Azzi turned.

Still mid-sentence, her phone still to her ear, the sentence falling off as her eyes met Paige’s across the threshold.

Silence crashed into them both.

Paige stopped breathing.

Azzi stood frozen, lips parted, dark eyes wide. Her voice caught somewhere in her throat, that sharp precision dulled by sheer disbelief.

Paige could feel it instantly—heat curling low in her belly, blood pounding in her ears. The hallway didn’t exist anymore. The crowd noise downstairs became a distant hum. All she could see was Azzi.

Light blue sleeveless button-up top paired with high-waisted cream pants. Hair styled in natural curls pulled back with some curls framing her face. She looked untouched by the chaos of the world.

And she was staring back at Paige like she’d conjured her out of thin air.

Neither of them moved.

Azzi ended the call without much of a Goodbye and lowered her phone slowly, lips curling just enough to speak but not yet.

Paige swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Damn,” she murmured, almost to herself. “You real?”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. Her gaze dragged across Paige’s frame in that outfit, the flash of skin at her abdomen, her sneakers bold white against the carpet. That soft little breath she took said everything.

Longing settled in the silence between them. Like time had rewound just to let them feel it.

Finally, Azzi’s voice, softer than before. “What are you doing up here?”

Paige's grin crept in slow, crooked and flirty. “Guess I took the right turn.”

Azzi tilted her head, but she hadn’t smiled yet. There was something else in her eyes—calculation. Recognition. Maybe even regret.

But Paige wasn’t moving.

Neither was she.

The stillness between them stretched tight, brittle, like glass that hadn't shattered yet.

Then the silence broke.

“Sorry I’m late, baby. Traffic was a mess.”

A man’s voice echoed down the hall, light and careless. Paige blinked as he came into view—broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of polished that looked practiced. He wore confidence like a pressed suit.

He walked straight up to Azzi and without hesitation, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in for a quick hug. Paige didn’t have time to register much before his lips brushed Azzi’s cheek, then landed on her mouth in a brief, familiar kiss.

Azzi didn’t pull away. She didn’t look toward Paige either.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

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n2qfd · 1 year ago

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MHEARD:

So much for the demise of packet radio.

#ham radio #packet radio #digital radio

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witherby · 6 months ago

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Please help a starving Anon..... I need more Mother Hen Hal from you...The way you write him and the characters are so good and perfect(idc if anyone disagrees), i am dying../silly/nf

It can have anything you wish to add, maybe a sprinkle of hurt/comfort (let's not forget the queers(BatLantern) too/verysilly)/lh

Yeah, you can absolutely have more mother hen Hal!!! This one is a little early in the relationship, pre-Flittermouse, and Dick-centric.

The Littlest Wayne: Mother Hen (Dick)

"B! Thanks for coming to get —"

Dick stops and tilts his head as the window of the Lambo rolls down. It's not Bruce, here to pick him up from a celebration at Titan's Tower he was just a smidge too drunk to drive himself home from.

It's Hal.

"Hi, kid," he greets. "Bruce was asleep when you texted. I told him to chill out and I'd get you instead."

"Oh, hi," Dick says, a little off-kilter. His grin only wanes a little. "Yeah. Okay."

He walks around the car and climbs into the front passenger seat, brows furrowed. It's the first time they've been alone together since Bruce told the boys that they started seeing each other.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Have you eaten in a while? Might hit a drive-through before we get back. My treat as long as you don't tell Alfred."

Dick nods slowly, staring at Hal like he can't quite figure everything out. Hal just shoots him an easy smile, then focuses his attention on the road.

They're quiet for a while, the radio playing some top 10 hit softly through the speakers neither one of them recognizes. When Hal pulls up to order them some food (and how curious that he knows Dick's usual) then waves away Dick's effort to pay, the man can't help but say something.

"You don't... have to do that."

"It's like thirty bucks, champ. I've got it," Hal chuckles.

"I don't mean the food."

Hal looks at Dick curiously. It's probably the fact that he's still pretty sloshed, but he feels especially vulnerable in the car with him, and can't quite keep his thoughts to himself.

"You don't have to pretend to care about Bruce's kids just because you're dating Bruce." Even as he says it, he knows it was mean and dismissive. Dick chews on the inside of his cheek and can't figure out how to take that back, so he stops talking.

Hal doesn't respond. Dick can't make himself look at Hal's face, so he fiddles with the Nightwing charm dangling off his cellphone.

"Here's your meal, sir. Enjoy," says a fast food employee. Hal thanks her quickly, then pulls into a parking lot and kills the engine. Dick listens to him rustle through the bag and sort out what belongs to whom for a minute, then gently takes his portion from him when it's offered.

"Hey," says Hal. Dick pretends he's too preoccupied with opening the sauce packet for his chicken nuggets to look up. "Okay. I'd probably be a little skittish after dropping a bomb like that, too. So, just listen for a sec, okay?"

"Kay," he mumbles through a mouthful of fries, trying very hard not to feel like he's eight years old and sitting in Commissioner Gordon's office, waiting to find out if Bruce will assume guardianship and take him home, waiting to see if he'd be accepted or rejected.

"I think Bruce is it for me."

Hmm. Okay, not the words he expected to hear, but Dick is listening.

"You've probably heard that from his exes before. Something about Bruce is just...captivating. He's got his own gravitational pull, and I'm not interested in getting knocked outta orbit."

Hal pops a couple fries in his mouth. Dick sees his shoulders shrug in his periphery.

"I'm in love with him, is the point. Have been for a few years now, but I didn't think it was reciprocal until that battle in Coast City. But Bruce isn't just Bruce, is he?"

Hal reaches across the center console to gently squeeze Dick's knee.

"He's Bruce, and Dick, and Jason, and Tim, and Damian. He's got a whole gaggle of wonderful sons I'd love to get to know."

"We've worked together tons of times before," Dick says. He's barely picking at his food, too busy trying to figure out Hal's point.

"Sure. I've worked with Nightwing a lot. But that's not all you are. I don't really know anything about Dick Grayson, and I'd really like to."

Hal pulls his hand away and picks up his burger to take a bite.

"All this to say...I know you guys are mostly grown. You're used to having one parent and don't really need another one, and, damn, I don't know the first thing about any of that. But I'm in this for the long haul, and you can rely on me. I don't want any of you believing you're just an afterthought to me. Okay?"

Oh. Oh.

In lieu of an answer, and also because his throat feels too tight to speak, Dick just nods and goes back to eating. They finish their food in silence and Hal gets out to dispose of the trash, then turns the engine again to take him the rest of the way home. As he parks and they leave the garage, Dick throws his arms around Hal. He pretends the stinging in his eyes is some weird effect from the alcohol when Hal hugs him back just as tight.

"Goodnight, kid," he murmurs. "Go take a glass of water and some ibuprofen to bed with you for that hangover in the morning."

"Yes, mom," Dick snorts, teasing, but he detours to the kitchen with a shy little grin anyway.

#littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #dick grayson #hal jordan #that feeling when your dad's new partner actually factors you into the relationship :0 #batlantern

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eriwithpetalsandletters · 6 days ago

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The Mik-Mik Inchident

Mercedes fan Y/N nearly dies inhaling powdered milk, calls Oscar "hot Aussie man" mid-choke, tries to re-snort Mik-Mik, triggers panic in Max, Oscar, and Toto Wolff—who threatens her with a child leash to avoid slipper-based discipline from her mother.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story created purely for entertainment and imaginative purposes.

It was a warm, deceptively peaceful afternoon at the Mercedes hospitality zone. The hum of race-day buzz filled the air: tires rolling, radios crackling, team personnel buzzing about with lattes and spreadsheets like caffeinated ants.

Y/N, a devout Mercedes fan, was chilling in her usual post by the hospitality area with her best friend Sam. Her feet kicked up like she owned the team.

She rocked her favorite oversized Mercedes shirt (slightly wrinkled), black shorts, and crisp white sneakers she had sworn to keep dirt-free despite walking through gravel zones like a rebel, she held the true star of the scene: a packet of Mik-Mik, the powdered milk candy that had ruined childhood lungs.

Sam glanced at her. “Are you gonna sip like a normal person or go full drama queen?”

Y/N looked Sam dead in the eyes and whispered, “Powder or death.”

She swirled the packet like a potion master, peeled back the top with the elegance of a Formula 1 engineer prepping for liftoff, and inserted the blur straw with surgical precision. She sucked through the tiny blue straw — too hard, too fast.

BAD CALL.

The powder hit the back of her throat like a slap from destiny. Her body convulsed. Eyes wide. She coughed violently, sounding like someone who just tried to snort a sandstorm.

“I’M DYING!” she croaked, throat burning. “I NEED WATER!”

Sam was already doubled over, hysterical. There was no water. Only chaos.

Nearby, Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri had been chatting about tire wear and whether espresso should be legally considered pre-race fuel when Max elbowed Oscar.

“Is that girl choking on dust?”

Oscar squinted. “Is that… powdered milk?”

Then they both saw her — clutching her throat, face red, voice hoarse like she’d sung the entire Bohemian Rhapsody backwards.

Max and Oscar sprinted over.

“Do you need a medic?” Max asked.

“She needs holy water,” Sam wheezed.

Oscar pulled out his water bottle like a knight offering his sword. “Here, drink this!”

Y/N grabbed it like it was the last drop of salvation. She chugged as if she had crossed a desert in stilettos. When she finally surfaced, gasping like a fish reborn, she handed Oscar his bottle and blinked up at him.

“Thank you… hot Aussie man.”

Oscar blinked. “I… You’re welcome?”

Max raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Sam was fully crying from laughter.

Y/N turned back to her friend dramatically, hair slightly windswept from near-death. “I saw the light of the lord.”

Then, in an act that defied all reason, logic, and powdered snack protocol, she reached—slowly, ominously, gloriously—for the battered Mik-Mik packet that had caused the apocalypse.

Her hand hovered.

The straw gleamed like a forbidden artifact.

She looked her destiny in the face and whispered:

“Let me try again... for redemption.”

Three men panicked instantly.

Max took a step forward. “No—don’t.”

Oscar lunged. “No, please.”

Even Sam tried to stop her, wheezing mid-giggle as he waved his arms like he was directing a traffic jam on race day.

But Y/N? She had the look of someone who knew she was born for this moment. And that blur straw was calling her name.

Sam wheezed, “Why is this a recurring theme?”

Y/N grinned with powdered vengeance. “Let me take another sip.”

She raised the straw like a weapon.

Enter: Toto Wolff, appearing like a force of divine intervention, hands in pockets, sunglasses on, looking like the final boss in a chaos RPG.

“Of course it’s you,” he sighed. “I smelled panic and powdered dairy from the Mercedes motorhome.”

Y/N froze. “Uncle Toto.”

Toto pointed at her. “You’re causing chaos again. I’ve had enough. I’m giving you a backpack with a leash.”

Max snorted. “Wait — uncle?”

“Godfather,” Toto confirmed, utterly exhausted. “And personal damage-control officer.”

Y/N blinked innocently. “This is just a Filipino snack. It's cultural enrichment.”

Toto nodded slowly. “And yet I’ve seen you nearly choke, threaten to re-snort it, and flirt with Oscar mid-suffocation.”

“She’s efficient,” Sam wheezed.

Toto turned back to Y/N and pointed at the Mik-Mik. “One more sip, and I’m calling your mom.”

Toto turned to Oscar. “If you get attached, I warned you now. Her mother owns slippers. They fly.”

Oscar looked like he’d just glimpsed his destiny and a potential concussion. “Understood.”

She paused.

Smirked.

Pocketed the packet.

“I live to fight another day.”

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fluff #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you

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hhaechansmoless · 2 months ago

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as the world caves in

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

genre: apocalypse au, angst, happy ending

description: we creep up on extinction, i pull your arms right in

warnings: mentions of injuries, zombies (written as the dead)

w/c: 4k

a/n: i once promised tiya @gyubakeries that the first mingyu fic I write would be for her.(also promised to make sure it would be heartbreaking but today is her birthday and I'd rather not do that so) happy happy birthday tiya!!! I love you very much thank you for listening to me yap abt anything and everything and I hope you have an awesome day and year ahead 💙💙💙 and ofc happy 10th anniversary to svt 🤧🥹!!!!

DAY 256, 20:03 PM

“Hey. It’s just me, checking in. Hope everything is still okay on your end.”

“I’m making stew again tonight. Seokmin and I went out to town to see if there were any stores that had stocked stuff still. Found a heap of heatable food which was surprising, but we’re good for the next week or so… I think. Unless the expiry dates are sooner.”

You hear him shuffle around, hear the rustling of plastic and the distant murmur of the friend he’s made. You can almost see Mingyu, his broad shoulders hunched over the packet, lips pursed in concentration as he figures out what more to do with it.

“There’s not much to report today actually. Our new camp is fairly away from the dead yonder, so please don’t worry. There are nice people here… They were really welcoming—after the first few checks obviously—and are trying to convince us to stay. “

His voice is muffled by the static on the radio for a few seconds.

“—but we’ve told them that we’re both on the way to somewhere else. Seokmin says he has a brother waiting for him near Lindera, and well, I have you.”

“How are things at Fort Worden? Isn’t it getting warmer there? Be careful. They flock to warm places. I heard a message on the radio today—from the camp in Lindera. Seokmin says that Worden is close too. So we leave tomorrow morning.”

You don’t know if he pauses, or if what he says next is swallowed by the satellites and the nature of his worn out HT ham radio that you two have been using.

“Anyway, just wanted to let you know. Please send a message as soon as you can. I love you, I’ll be there soon.”

You sigh quietly before flipping your recording switch on.

DAY 256, 22:47 PM

“Hey Gyu. I’m glad you guys found some food. And people. It’s safer that way.”

You’re a bit surprised at how your voice sounds unused, rough and cracking at the edges.

“I fixed the fence with Vernon today—or well, tried to. One of the posts snapped clean through and I don’t think there’s enough planks left to patch it properly. But it's okay. There are more people on guard duty tonight. We’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

“We had three people join us today. All three came separately, which was funny because we’ve never had so many people who aren’t together. One of them is so young, Mingyu…” You trail off, eyes flitting to your door. “She’s fourteen. Her parents turned yesterday, I think. She’s really on edge and afraid, so I think she’ll be sleeping in my room tonight.”

You grunt softly as you get up to open a window. The air outside isn't as refreshing as you'd want it to be, but it's a relief from the humidity and stickiness that has been hanging over the city recently.

“And you're right—it is getting warmer here. Unbearably, almost. We’ve had more strays from the dead yonder than ever, but thankfully we're all stocked up on ammunition and other equipment. It's nice to be around so many people, Gyu. You'd love it.”

You can't help the guilt that slips into your voice, cutting cleanly into your skin like a sharp, smooth knife.

“Please come back soon, Gyu. Stay safe. I'm sorry, and I love you too.”

You flip the recording switch off, throwing the radio one last glance before you leave your room. Outside, the corridors are bathed in dim orange lights that do nothing to make this place feel like home. Home is not a word you can recognize until Mingyu comes back.

Jeonghan stands outside your door, waiting respectfully with the camp's logbook in hand. He might have heard you, but you've come to realize that no one cares and that everyone understands.

“I've logged in today's activities around the Fort and the newcomers but Soonyoung’s pissed Seungcheol off and I do not want to go to his room to keep this.” He thrusts the hardcover, leather-bound book into your hands. “So you keep it with yourself and I'll take it tomorrow morning and slip it onto his desk. Or you can do it yourself, if you'd like.”

You nod once. “I'll keep it. Aren't you going down for dinner?”

“God, no. I may be hungry, but there's a stack of twinkies on the table and if I see one more, I'm going to throw up. Are you?”

Shaking your head, your mutter, “Nah. Not feeling it.”

Jeonghan hums, eyeing you. “I think your boyfriend wouldn't like that.”

“My boyfriend won't know, because I won't tell him and neither will you.” You scoff, pushing Jeonghan away. He sees the small, upward curve of your lips and backs off as you shut your room door on his face.

You remember to yell out. only when you hear his footsteps disappearing down the corridor. “Send the girl up to my room when she's done eating!”

If he hears you, he doesn't respond.

There's not much to think about, or maybe there's too many things to think about. Either way, you ignore it and plop down onto your bed. It creaks—a familiar sound that still makes you cringe every time you hear it. The thin mattress does nothing to muffle the sound. You flip the book open, turning to the page with the bookmark in it.

FORT WORDEN LOGBOOK

July 7th, 2028.

3 Survivors found. Minor injuries sustained. No infection

Newcomer Info:

Man in 30s, had two guns on him. Woman in her 20s, says she's a medic. 14 y/o girl.

Attacks on camp:

Around 5-6 from the Dead Yonder, near the western gates.

You remember the day you came to Fort Worden all too well. Your log page probably looked like this: Woman in her 20s, cries once every hour, clutches her HT and necklace like someone’s going to snatch it away.

You doubt you can ever forget the day Mingyu left you here, begging you to get out of the car and towards safety. You can feel the ghost of the seat belt cutting into your palms as you hold on tight, trying to convince Mingyu to take you along with him. But Mingyu had always been better than you, better than anyone you know—too good not to do the right thing even when it cost him. He had people waiting for him somewhere out there, promises he couldn’t turn his back on. In retrospect, you’re sure he regrets it too—especially when there was no one to save when he finally got there.

You close the book with a soft thud and set it on the nightstand, letting your head tip back against the wall. It’s still too hot. Sweat clings to the inside of your shirt and you rub a palm over your face, feeling the salty, stickiness that hangs over this place. You should shower, and then sleep. You have to sleep. Morning comes faster than it should around here.

You hear a timid knock on the door.

You’re up before you realize it, dragging the handle open.

The girl stands there, shoulders bunched like she’s trying to disappear inside herself. She’s tiny in a way that makes your heart hurt, all sharp knees and elbows and a second-hand hoodie drowning her. Her fingers fidget with the hem of it, tugging, twisting. She looks like she might bolt if you so much as breathe wrong.

You step aside, keeping your hands loose and visible. “C’mon in,” you say, voice gentler than it was before. You wish it could sound stronger.

She hesitates, then creeps in, hovering awkwardly just inside the door. You shut it behind her, locking it out of habit.

“You can have the bed,” you tell her, nodding toward it. “I’ll take the chair.”

The girl blinks at you. “Thank you.”

You find a blanket in the closet—thin, but clean enough—and toss it over the chair before sinking into it. The springs squeal again and you grimace, curling your legs up, watching her settle onto the edge of the mattress like she’s expecting it to vanish beneath her.

You watch the window instead of her after that. The moon is high, the sky cloudless and uncaring. Somewhere out past the gates, you know the dead are wandering, always moving, always searching.

You let your eyes fall shut, but you don’t let yourself drift until the girl’s breathing evens out. Until the world feels like it’s not caving in for a few more minutes.You’ll send a message to Mingyu again tomorrow.

Maybe he’ll be closer by then.

DAY 262, 11:30 AM

“Baby, I think I told you that I lost the map I had, right? Good news. Seokmin and I found a car with the keys still in it and a state routes map in the glovebox. It’s a real mess, but hey, we’ve got a ride again, and that’s better than what we had yesterday. The engine’s a little rough and the fuel’s kinda low, but it’ll get us where we need to go for now. Guess the next task is to find a fuel station.

We were talking about when this whole thing is over. Seokmin says I should make a list of things

I want to do when we’re back to something close to normal. It sounds impossible, but I’ll play along. I’ve got a few things in mind already. First on the list: take you out for a meal. No canned stuff, no heat-and-serve, just something real. Something we used to do. I miss that.

Anyway, I know it’s not much to go on, but I wanted you to hear from me. Keep yourself safe. I’ll be there before you know it.”

You picture him grinning when he says it — the kind of grin he used to give you across diner tables, late at night after long shifts, the two of you splitting a plate of greasy fries. You picture him teasing you about picking the restaurant, saying he didn’t care as long as you were there.

You picture a hundred small memories that feel more like dreams now — his arm slung around your shoulder in a crowded movie theater, his hand finding yours automatically in the dark.

And then the static swallows him up again.

The camp around you hums with the low noise of survival. Somewhere behind you, Chan is arguing good-naturedly with Jihoon about ration counts. He’s been trying to grow plants in a small patch that he keeps building around. Lee Chan, you’ve found out, was a soil science or agronomy—you don’t remember the details—major before the infection hit.

The days have stretched on in the same pattern of routine: checking the perimeter, organizing supplies, scanning the horizon, and checking in on everyone.

Each morning, you check the radio. Each night, you wonder if this will be the last day you hear him.

You tuck the memory of his voice close to your chest and tell yourself you'll save a seat across from you at whatever restaurant you can find, someday. You tell yourself he’ll make it back to you.

At night, you go to sleep with prayers hoping that he is closer.

DAY 265, 17:45 PM

Word travels fast in situations like this.

Someone caught a signal today. A voice on a different channel, not one of your usual checkpoints. They say they’re from a camp in Leavenworth and give a warning. The camp in Lindera got overrun. No survivors confirmed. The dead move faster in the heat, they say, desperate and decaying faster too.

You’re in the storage room, sorting through ration packs when Jeonghan finds you. His face is grave. His fingers tap the frame of the door, once, twice.

“You heard?” he asks.

You nod without looking at him. Your hands are steady as you snap a box shut, but inside, something is shivering loose. You wonder, absently, if Mingyu was close enough to hear about it too. You wonder if he’s already running again. You haven’t had a message in three days.

Jeonghan steps in closer. “You should rest tonight,” he says. “We’ll take your shift.”

DAY 266, 02:11 AM

You can't sleep. You crack the window open, just enough to let the night air in. It’s sticky, thick, and sour with the scent of bodies and earth.

You turn the radio on, tuning into Mingyu’s frequency. Static crackles, long and sharp. No voice. No message. You press your forehead against the cold metal frame.

You imagine him somewhere out there—driving down broken highways, headlights flickering, Seokmin in the passenger seat clutching another wrinkled map.

You imagine him listening too, waiting for your voice to break through the noise.

So you speak into the radio. You tell him about the small, temperature controlled patch in the garden that Chan has made. You’ve seen the first sprouts of maize today. The entire camp had rejoiced. You tell him about the girl—Suki, about how she smiled today for the first time when Soonyoung made a stupid joke about his ex.

You tell him you miss him, but not that the space he left behind feels like it’s getting bigger every day.

You tell him you’re scared, but not that it’s because you fear he won’t come back.

You tell him you love him, but not that it’s because every time feels like the last.

DAY 267, 6:37 AM

The air feels different today, thicker somehow. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but you can already feel the weight of the day pressing down on you. You lie awake for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, listening to the soft shuffle of feet outside your door and the distant hum of camp activity.

There’s a thud against the wall from next door—Jeonghan, probably already awake, too. You can almost hear the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards, his quiet way of moving, like he’s trying not to disturb anyone.

You reach for the radio, the familiar crackle of static filling the room as you twist the dial, the tension in your chest mounting with every click.

The silence on the other end feels like it’s going to swallow you up, like the seconds drag on forever, unrelenting. Your fingers twitch as you grip the radio, waiting for something—anything.

It takes a few minutes of pure radio static for you to even hear the semblance of a message. You shoot up from your bed, holding the radio closer to your ear.

“...hearing... this... back soon.”

“Mingyu?” you speak into it, your voice groggy and rough. “Mingyu, is that you?”

The static grows louder, a sharp hiss that cuts through the air like a warning. You grip the radio harder, pressing it closer, straining to hear over the noise.

Then, the radio clicks, a low hum filling the void. It’s gone again.

DAY 268, 15:14 PM

Suki approaches you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something off in the way she looks at you. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

“There are new people at the gates,” she says, voice low. “They’re in bad shape. Looks like they’ve been through hell.”

You shrug, not overly concerned. It’s not the first time you’ve seen beaten-up strangers. “I’ll check it out. Are they safe?”

“One of them just says he’s looking for someone who’s here. They haven’t checked for bites yet, I think.”

“I’ll go see what’s going on.” It’s routine, really.

You walk toward the gates, hands loosely at your sides. Your mind drifts, not expecting anything unusual. That is, until the HT radio clipped to your belt suddenly crackles to life.

“Hey… baby, are you there?” Mingyu’s voice, low but urgent, cuts through the quiet.

You stop mid-step, your heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice.

“Mingyu?” you whisper under your breath, barely daring to believe it.

There’s a long pause, just enough to make you second-guess what you heard, before his voice returns, more frantic this time. “It’s me. I’m outside, but they won’t let us in.”

Your stomach lurches. You’re still a few paces from the gates, but the realization hits like a thunderclap.

It is Mingyu.

He’s here.

You barely have a moment to process the relief that floods through you before moving faster, jogging towards the gates.

“I don’t care what’s going on. Open the gate,” you demand as you approach, already pushing through the guards with authority you didn’t even know you had.

The gates groan open slower than they should.

You barely notice the hands that move to stop you, the murmurs of protocol, of safety checks and bite inspections. Someone says something about waiting. Someone else mentions Jeonghan’s name like he might talk some sense into you.

None of it matters.

Because there he is.

Mingyu.

He's thinner than you remember. His clothes hang off him, streaked with dirt and blood and the kind of exhaustion you can’t wash off. There’s a small gash on his forehead, a ripped sleeve, a small limp in his step—but he’s upright. He’s breathing. He’s real.

Seokmin’s beside him, leaning against the wall There are dark shadows under his eyes. He nods at you once, slow and grateful, like he’s holding a breath he's been carrying for days.

But all you can see is Mingyu.

He sees you too.

For a second, neither of you moves. The world slows down to the beat of your heart, beating painfully inside your ribs. And then you’re moving. Not running, exactly—but walking faster than your legs can carry, your chest splitting open with something that doesn’t know if it’s joy or agony. Maybe both.

He meets you halfway.

The collision is silent. No words, no dramatic gasps. Just arms around each other, too tight to be careful. His hands find the back of your neck, your shoulder blades, like he’s checking you’re still real. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard.

Mingyu smells like sweat and gasoline and the end of the world. But under all of that, he smells like home.

“You made it,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat.

His voice is wrecked when he answers. “I told you I would.”

You don't cry. The tears stay lodged somewhere behind your eyes, hot and heavy, waiting for a quieter moment.

Someone clears their throat nearby. You don’t look. Let them wait. Let the whole camp wait.

—

It’s late when he comes back into your room.

You’re already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. You haven’t changed, haven’t moved much since the sun dipped below the horizon. The camp feels different now—buzzing in a new way, like everyone else can feel it too. That something has shifted. That someone made it back.

Mingyu steps in, clean now. Or cleaner than before. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s traded his torn shirt for one of the spares from storage—plain and soft-looking, a little too tight at the shoulders, but he wears it like it fits. You pat the spot next to you and lift the first-aid kit onto your lap.

“You found the clean clothes stash,” you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you expected.

He smiles, tired and crooked. “Seokmin said I smelled like the dead. Figured I should do something about that.”

It’s quiet again after that.

He crosses the room slowly. When he’s close enough, he kneels in front of you, hands resting on his thighs like he’s waiting to be granted something. You look at him—really look—and it guts you. The bags under his eyes. The fading bruise on his jaw, the gash that has been stitched but not bandaged. The way he keeps blinking like he still doesn’t trust what he’s seeing.

“I missed you,” he says, and there’s something cracked open in his voice. “Every day, I thought about turning back. But I kept thinking—if I could just make it a little further, maybe I’d hear you again. Maybe I’d make it back to you.”

You reach out, fingers brushing the side of his face. He leans into it instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut like the warmth of your hand is the first real thing he’s felt in weeks.

“You did,” you whisper. “You made it.”

He closes his eyes, nodding once like the words land somewhere deep. You slide off the bed, kneeling in front of him now. You’re both on the floor, eye to eye, tired bones and pained hearts.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, and this time, your voice cracks.

That’s what finally undoes him.

Mingyu leans in slowly, like he’s asking, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, like a breath caught between two mouths that don’t quite know how to be completely gentle anymore. His hand finds your jaw, tentative and warm.

He kisses you like he’s remembering it as he goes—like the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, was something he’s carried with him in pieces. Your hands find his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer with a desperation that doesn’t need words. Mingyu’s lips taste like soap, like he’s brushed his entire body hard enough to get rid of the past few months. To go back to what it was like with you.

When he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, palm slipping down to intertwine your fingers, you sigh.

Mingyu breaks the silence a few moments later. “Someone named Jeonghan threatened to throw me out if I snore.”

You huff out a laugh, nose brushing his. “He’s next door. He can hear everything.”

“He also told me that you left yesterday’s dishes beside the sink without wetting it.”

Groaning, you let your head fall onto Mingyu’s shoulder. You almost tear up at the way it feels so familiar.

“I panicked! Jihoon was yelling at someone and I just wanted to get out of there.”

You can hear the grin in Mingyu’s voice. “I always told you to soak it.”

“And I always ignored you.”

“True,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Some things never change.”

You sit like that for a bit, your legs going numb, his palm sweeping slow arcs over your back. Outside, someone walks by, humming off-key. Somewhere down the hall, Jeonghan shouts something muffled and vaguely threatening.

But here, it’s still.

“Can you get up so that I can bandage you up and then we can go to sleep?” You mumble, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

He pushes himself up with a grunt, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the stitches along his side. You sit up too, rubbing your face with the heel of your hand before reaching for the first aid kit on your bed.

You didn’t think he’d hurt himself there too, but when he lifts his shirt up, you tend to it wordlessly. You can talk about it later.

When you’re done, you drop the trash into the little bin by the bed, click the kit closed, and set it aside. Then you sit back, legs crossed, watching him pull his shirt down over the fresh bandage.

He climbs in without another word, immediately claiming his old side like it was never up for negotiation. You slide in beside him, and he reaches for you the moment you're under the blanket, his arm winding easily around your waist, his nose nudging the back of your neck.

“I forgot to mention,” You start. “Suki sleeps in my room. She probably won’t come in tonight, but we need to figure something out.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “She was scared. She needed somewhere to feel safe.”

His face softens immediately. “Of course.”

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. She’s been warming up to Jeonghan anyway. Maybe she’ll take the bunk across from him.”

After a few moments, he mumbles, “I’ll sleep wherever you want me to. Just not near Jeonghan.”

“Deal.”

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daydreamgoddess14 · 2 months ago

Text

The Menu Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Coffee

Every good hangover needs coffee ☕

Thunderbolts* / F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader brewing.

Word count: 1.5k

Someone had pushed an icepick into your brain.

It was the only possible explanation for the piercing, stabbing pain behind your eyes.

Your mouth tasted cottony and thick, sweet from too many cocktails and not enough water.

But.

It could have been worse.

You could have also been sick.

So far, so… tolerable. But you had yet to move so the contents of your stomach could still have been considering making an appearance.

You wiggled your fingers and toes experimentally, and then made the monumental attempt to sit upright.

Apart from the headache, things felt remarkably good.

You wandered to the bathroom attached to the spare room. A new toothbrush and a packet of painkillers sat neatly on the sink and it made you feel slightly tingly to think that he’d left them ready for you, knowing you would need them.

You brushed your teeth, washed your face and popped three painkillers.

In the mirror, your eyes looked tired and your hair wild but you felt peaceful.

Ava and Yelena had taken you under their wing, gotten you tipsy and solidified that you’d made the right decision in kicking out your ex. It hadn’t been working for far longer than you cared to admit, but you’d ploughed on with your head down, and kept trying to patch up the cracks in the walls.

By the time you’d caught him with his assistant, you weren’t sure there were any feelings left. It felt more like relief. You don’t have to pretend anymore.

The new job had given you purpose and freedom, stupidly early mornings and later nights meant the only time you were truly alone was when you were sleeping.

You crept out into the empty hallway, the wooden floor cold on your bare feet. You’d had to roll up the shorts Bucky had left out to stop them sliding down, and his t-shirt hung off your shoulders.

You could hear voices in the kitchen, talking quietly with the radio playing in the background and the buzz of the coffee machine.

Bob spotted you first, hovering in the open space.

“Good morning,” he smiled gently. “How’s your head?”

“Sore,” you croaked.

He laughed, “and your voice?” “Gone, apparently,” you smiled shyly. “I think there was a lot of singing involved?”

He pulled out the stool next to him but you waved him off.

“I need to start making you guys breakfast,” you murmured.

“Bucky’s already on it,” Bob assured you.

You stepped further into the kitchen, toes curling against the cold.

He stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, one hand steadying a pan while the other stirred. His hair was still damp from a shower. He turned at the sound of Bob greeting you, and froze.

His eyes dropped from the t-shirt hanging off your shoulder to your bare legs. His mouth opened, then closed again like whatever he’d meant to say got lost somewhere around your legs.

“Hey,” you offered, voice still a little hoarse.

He blinked. “Hey. You, uh… feeling okay?”

You nodded, trying not to think about the way his eyes kept flicking back to your legs. “Nothing fatal.”

“I made eggs.” He turned back to the stove too quickly. “And toast. You want coffee?”

“God, yes.” You moved to the counter, acutely aware of the material of his t-shirt brushing your thighs with every step.

He passed you a mug, the one you always used with the little cat on it. You noticed it already had creamer in it. Just how you liked it.

You glanced up at him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, but the tips of his ears turned pink. “You talk about coffee a lot.”

You smiled over the rim of the mug. “Guilty.”

Before he could say anything more, the smell of burning toast hit you. He brushed past you quickly and yanked the offending pan from under the grill.

“Finally, someone who knows toast should suffer,” Ava groaned. Still wrapped in her comforter, she shuffled in and threw herself in the seat next to Bob.

“You like burnt toast?” He asked with disgust.

“You don't?”

“So Ava gets the burnt toast, I'll put some more on for the non-weirdos,” you grinned. Bucky put the sheet pan down and handed you the oven mitt he hadn't bothered using.

“Pan’s hot,” he said, going back to the eggs.

You took off Ava's charred slices and passed her the plate, then neatly laid rows of fresh bread.

John wandered in, rubbing sleep from his eyes and already chewing on something he’d swiped from the counter.

“Aw, look at this domestic bliss,” he said around a mouthful. “Mom and Dad are cooking again.”

You snorted. “Don’t call me Mom.”

Alexei followed, stretching with a loud groan. “We already decided, I’m the Daddy.”

You raised a hand immediately. “And I already said I'm not calling anyone Daddy in this kitchen.”

Bucky coughed into his elbow, but you caught the twitch of a grin.

“Shame,” he murmured.

Your head snapped toward him, but he was already turning back to the stove, suspiciously focused on the eggs.

John blinked between you. “Wait, what was that?”

Bob sipped his coffee with the air of a man staying well out of it.

Before Bucky could make up something unconvincing, Yelena emerged wearing sunglasses and clutching a bottle of something aggressively green.

“Why are you all awake? It’s barely morning.”

“It’s almost noon,” Bob said cheerfully.

She ignored that. “Who burnt toast?”

“Bucky,” Ava said at once.

“Snitch,” Bucky muttered into the eggs.

Yelena made a beeline for the coffee pot, and poured herself the biggest cup she could find.

“You three looked like you had fun,” John said, taking in Ava's burrito blanket, Yelena’s sunglasses, and the clothes that definitely weren't yours.

“We did,” Yelena grinned. “We drink like widows at funeral and dance like Eurovision superstars.”

“She got hit on,” Ava added, nodding toward you with her mouth full.

Your groan was immediate. “I did not.”

“Please,” Yelena waved her cup. “The guy offered to buy you a restaurant.”

“He was drunk!”

“He was handsome, yes?” Alexei asked. “Strapping, all-American handsome man. Like Bucky!”

Bucky glared at him.

“She told him she was seeing someone,” Yelena shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.

You froze. “I didn’t – I just didn’t want to give him my number -”

“Uh huh,” Yelena said, not looking at you. “Sure.”

Next to you, Bucky didn’t say anything. He just grabbed the pan with a little more force than necessary and flipped the eggs too quickly. One split down the middle, yolk bleeding into the pan.

“Jesus,” John muttered. “This feels weirdly tense for no reason.”

“That’s because you have no emotional intelligence,” Ava yawned.

“Do any of us?”

“Some of you are better than others,” you said wryly, stepping in to take the eggs and plating them up. You put the broken egg on a separate plate, keeping it for yourself, but he took it before you could.

“Hey,” you frowned.

“I broke it,” he said simply.

You rolled your eyes. He took a bite, clearly unbothered by the too-runny yolk.

“You really don’t have to martyr yourself,” you teased, tilting your head. “You know I’m literally paid to feed you, right?”

He shrugged, still chewing. “Doesn’t mean I - we - can’t take care of you too.”

Your stomach flipped, and you weren’t sure it had anything to do with the hangover.

“So we’re taking turns now?” you managed.

Bucky glanced over, slow and deliberate. “Seems fair.”

There was a second of quiet where the air shifted and then he looked away, as if nothing had happened.

Yelena was already peeling herself off the stool. “I need a nap and a gallon of water. Preferably in that order.”

Ava stood too, still wrapped in her blanket. “I'm going back to die in my own bed.”

“Text me when the painkillers kick in,” you called after them.

Bob raised his mug in parting. “Try not to burn anything else.”

And then it was just you and Bucky.

Again.

You ate mostly in silence, the only sounds were the scrape of forks and the low murmur of the radio still playing somewhere near the fridge.

When your plate was empty, you nudged it aside and sighed.

“I should probably head home. Get a shower and change.”

Bucky glanced at you, then down at the t-shirt you were still wearing. His t-shirt.

“Right,” he said. “Before lunch.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

You didn’t mean to think about him in the shower. Truly. But your brain offered it up anyway - warm steam, water running down the strong lines of his back.

You blinked hard and reached a little shakily for your mug.

His eyes were already on you.

If he’d heard the change in your breathing, or your heart rate, he didn’t mention it. But the speed his eyes had flicked to you suggested he absolutely had.

You cursed internally. Hell, he probably knew before you did what your body was saying.

“Thanks for the painkillers,” you said, picking at the sleeve of the t-shirt and changing the subject.

Bucky shrugged. “Figured you’d need ‘em.”

Another pause. You swallowed. “I, uh… slept really well.”

That earned you another look.

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Your shirt’s very soft.”

He turned fully now, eyes on you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Keep it.”

“What if I don’t give it back?”

Bucky’s smile was small. Crooked. Dangerous. “Guess I’ll have to come take it back then, doll.”

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Tagging on request: @doilooklikeagiveafrack @althea-tavalas @tellybearryyyy @delfitaylorsversiom131989 @maryevm

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