#Looking for Full stack Developers

[fancyyoutharcade]

full stack web development training in chandigarh

[dreamswillbeyourwintermeat]

People at my new job keep trying to talk to me about databases and I wish they would stop. I am a frontend girlie first and foremost and as far as I'm concerned data comes from a magical black box called Database Land and the details are simply not my concern.

[reiding-writing]

Heyy!! i was wondering if you could perchance do a drabble with dad!spencer and mom!bau!reader where they've gotten into the rhythm of calling each other mommy and daddy in front of the kids and one of them accidentally slips up and does it work without realising. And then the team is like "hold on 🤨" (probably morgan) and they have to defend themselves. Just something i've been thinking about and i don't have the artistic ability to right it myself but you do! Thank youuuu! xxx

SLIP UP. /spencer reid/

your at-home naming habits find their way into the office.

bau!mom!reader 1.1k fluff masterlist.

a/n | this is so funny i love it.

The bullpen hums with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, conversations weaving through the space.

It’s late, and exhaustion weighs on everyone like a heavy fog. Cases have been stacking up, the paperwork never-ending, and you’re all running on caffeine and whatever sugar-laden snack Garcia has left in the breakroom.

You and Spencer, despite being used to sleepless nights—courtesy of two small children at home—are still feeling the burn.

Parenting while profiling is a delicate balance, and some days, it feels like you barely hold it together. But you've found ways to cope, to slip into a rhythm that works.

Spencer leans over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scans a report. His hair is slightly disheveled—likely from running his hands through it—and his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly how you feel, drained.

You, seated across from him, are going through another file when you sigh and reach for the next document. “Pass Mommy the file, please,”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the bullpen stills. For a brief second, no one reacts. Not even Spencer, who doesn’t hesitate to slide the file over to you, his tired brain not even registering what just happened.

But then—

“Hold on, what?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Across the table, Morgan is staring at you with wide eyes, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. JJ’s eyebrows are raised nearly to her hairline, and even Rossi has paused his paperwork, looking mildly amused.

Hotch looks like he’s trying very hard not to react.

You glance at Spencer, who is blinking rapidly, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh my God.” Your stomach drops. Heat rushes to your face. “I didn’t mean—”

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table, his smirk growing. “Did you just refer to yourself as Mommy?”

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “It’s— It’s not—”

“Because I swear I just heard that,” Morgan continues, clearly enjoying himself.

JJ covers her mouth, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not what you think,”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Morgan chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Reid, you calling her Mommy at home?”

Spencer makes another choked noise, shaking his head furiously. “No! I mean— yes, but not like that!”

JJ snorts, and even Hotch finally cracks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

You lift your head, groaning again. “We have two kids under four. There’s a lot of third-person referencing, okay?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, amused.

Spencer, still red-faced, starts rambling. “It’s a psychological phenomenon, actually. When individuals—particularly parents—are frequently addressed in a particular way, their brains develop an associative response, reinforcing the use of the terms even in situations outside the expected context. It’s entirely innocent. Just an unconscious linguistic habit.”

Morgan whistles low. “Damn, Pretty Boy. You really just tried to profile your way out of calling your wife ‘Mommy’ in front of us,”

Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands.

Your face feels impossibly warm. “We’re tired, Morgan. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in—” You glance at Spencer. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, three months, and sixteen days,” he answers automatically.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn,”

Emily places a hand over her heart. “That’s actually kind of adorable,”

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hear more,”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” Spencer says, shaking his head quickly. “It’s just a habit. Strictly innocent,”

“Oh, we believe you,” Rossi says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let it go,”

“Not a chance,” Morgan agrees.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is never going away, is it?”

“Nope,” JJ says cheerfully.

Spencer sighs, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

And just like that, the teasing begins.

For the rest of the day—and likely for weeks to come—you hear variations of:

“Daddy, can you pass me that report?” from Emily.

“I don’t know, Mommy, what do you think?” from Morgan.

Garcia, of course, takes it the farthest, occasionally referring to you both as “Mommy and Daddy dearest,” complete with exaggerated winks.

By the time you make it home that evening, you collapse onto the couch with a groan, Spencer falling beside you.

“I’m never going to live this down,” you mumble.

“At least they think it’s funny,” Spencer says, leaning his head back against the cushions.

You sigh. “This is your fault,”

He turns his head to look at you, eyebrows raised. “My fault?”

“You didn’t even hesitate when I said it. You just handed me the file like it was totally normal,”

His lips twitch. “To be fair, it is normal,”

You nudge him with your foot. “Not at work, it isn’t,”

He chuckles, then tilts his head, considering. “Maybe if we just… pretend it never happened, they’ll drop it,”

You snort. “You really think that’s going to work?”

“…No,”

“Exactly.” You groan again, rubbing your hands over your face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Spencer smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “At least we’re in it together, Mommy,”

You open your eyes just to glare at him. “You better not start doing that on purpose,”

He presses his lips together, trying to suppress a grin.

“Spencer,” you warn.

His grin widens. “Yes, Mommy?”

You grab a throw pillow and smack him with it, and his laughter fills the room, warm and familiar.

Exhausted as you both are, you wouldn’t trade this—your life, your family, the teasing from your team—for anything in the world.

[religh]

This blog discusses the benefits and drawbacks of employing a freelance web developer vs a web development firm, as well as hiring challenges.

Website:- https://www.relightechnologies.com/blogs/tug-of-war-freelance-web-developer-v-s-web-development-company/

[bookshelf-dust]

promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?” 

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks. 

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore. 

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you. 

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think? 

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day. 

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up. 

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win. 

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen. 

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work. 

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do. 

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter. 

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up. 

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world. 

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that. 

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh. 

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—” 

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you. 

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh. 

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted. 

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen. 

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.” 

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt. 

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him. 

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory. 

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is. 

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe. 

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought. 

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble. 

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles. 

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you. 

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph. 

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands. 

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling. 

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got. 

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body. 

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break. 

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him. 

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there. 

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep. 

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement. 

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

[acmeangel]

♡ Levi hires you to work at his tea shop, and the two of you become close.

♡ SFW fluff! ♡ Postwar!Levi x Fem!Reader ♡ One shot, soft Levi, friends to lovers vibes ♡ Word count: 2416 ♡ Summary: Levi hired you years ago to work at his tea shop, back when it was brand new. Over the years, you became close friends, and recently developed into more. You're both a bit rough around the edges, but get each other in a way no one else can. You're like two black cats in love.

It was years ago that you'd walked by Levi's tea shop in Marley and noticed the piece of paper pinned to the door that simply said "Hiring." in bold, slightly messy, handwriting.

Your eyebrows raised despite yourself, slightly amused by the straightforwardness of the sign -- no frills, no details, no niceties.

Marley had only just started to get on its feet again after a full year of scraping by while rebuilding, trying to shake off the lingering fears and treat the deepest wounds. Everyone was on the precipice of healing, and you figured it was as good a time as any to bring back some normalcy into your life. Working at a tea shop seemed like a decent enough way to do that; quiet, peaceful, easy enough. You were never much of a people person, but you could handle basic customer interactions.

When you'd entered the tea shop, you were met with Levi, who was behind the counter, a focused -- but not harsh -- look on his face as he neatly stacked boxes of tea into an orderly pyramid, a small display of the tea flavors. The bell above the door jingled as you entered, and he looked up at you, his gaze narrowing slightly, his hands pausing their precise movements. You got a clear look at his face -- the cloudy white eye, the healing scars tracing patterns into his skin.

"Hiring?" You asked, simply, nodding toward the sign on the window.

His eyes darted toward the sign, as if he'd forgotten that he put it there, and then fell back onto you.

"Guess so," he answered, his voice lacking any sort of feeling about the matter. "You want to work here?"

Before answering, your gaze scanned along the interior of the tea shop -- it was small and sparsely decorated, but not in a cold way. It was simple, comforting. Small wooden tables dotted the perimeter, intricately painted ceramic tea cups were stacked behind the counter, a few plants sat in the windowsills, drinking in the hazy sunlight.

"Yeah." Your gaze found his again, and you nodded. "I do."

"'Kay." His focus returned to the pyramid of tea boxes, his hands continuing to organize the stack. "What makes you qualified?"

"It's making tea," you retorted, dryly, without thinking. "Not mechanical engineering." You regretted it the instant you said it, realizing you'd likely butchered your chances of getting hired and that you should've made something up about having a passion for serving the community.

Without moving his head, his eyes drifted toward you, and you could see the faintest look of amusement tugging on his lips.

"Fine." This was all he had said, and you waited for him to ask more questions to evaluate you further, but they never came.

You stood there, somewhat awkwardly, watching as he continued working on his little display of boxes. Once he was finished, he tossed an apron over the counter toward you, which you caught, the fabric balled up into your hands. You were hired.

Surprisingly, it didn't take long for you to get accustomed to working alongside Levi. Neither of you were particularly talkative, preferring to keep to yourselves as you did your individual tasks; but, even separately, you worked in perfect harmony together, a seamless fit.

Over the years, it became less that you worked for Levi, and more that you worked with him, the tea shop turning into something that belonged to the both of you. It was never something that was discussed, it was just understood.

You'd started adding your touches to the shop -- art hung on the walls, pillows on the chairs, little knickknacks here and there. The shop was undeniably warmer and more inviting, and even though Levi would narrow his gaze each time you added something new, he never stopped you.

One day, he'd even shown up and placed a small ceramic cat on the counter, adjusting its position just so, though he wouldn't tell you where he got it. You'd teased him, somewhat relentlessly, about it, to which he blushed despite himself and muttered that it was never going to happen again, that you were a horrible nuisance in his life; you called him "such a baby", but made him a cup of black tea and all was forgiven. He brought a new plant into the shop the following week.

You'd share knowing glances with each other whenever a customer was particularly talkative or bothersome, and after they'd leave, you'd gripe to each other about it.

During breaks or lulls in the day, you'd both hover over the same book on the counter, reading simultaneously, your shoulders brushed together just barely. You wouldn't say anything, or even share your thoughts or opinions -- you'd just read, together, settled into the quiet of the tea shop.

As the time passed on, you'd begun to care for Levi, in a way you hadn't expected, hadn't experienced before. When he'd occasionally burn his hand on the stove, you'd hold the ice to his hand. When he had a cold (which he'd never admit to), you'd bring him soup from the cafe down the street. When you could tell he hadn't been sleeping well, you'd tell him to go home early and you'd handle cleaning up and closing the shop.

He'd always frown slightly and say something about how you shouldn't go through the trouble, that he can take care of himself, but you could tell that he appreciated it, that he might have even begun to count on it. You'd usually just tell him to shut up. He'd laugh, barely.

You knew, somehow, that you were the only person he let treat him this way -- gentle, caring.

You two had developed a quiet sort of friendship. You didn't talk all that much, you never saw each other outside of the shop, and you were both a bit rough around the edges. But, you fit together. Understood each other. It was as simple as that.

That was how it had been for years, which is why it took you by surprise when, on one particularly cold winter night, Levi insisted on going with you as you walked home after closing. You'd hesitated for a moment to answer, recalling all of the rainy, snowy, cold late nights that you'd walked home alone before, but the expression on his face told you that any protesting would be pointless. So, you let him.

Once you'd arrived at your front door, the two of you lingered silently on your porch, the only sound the soft creaking of the wood below and the brisk wind shuffling through the trees.

"Thanks for taking me home, Levi," you'd said, pulling your key out of your coat pocket and beginning to reach for the door. "Goodni-"

His hand clasped around your wrist, halting your movement. Your eyes snapped to his face, his gaze secured onto his grip on your wrist. A stretched moment of quiet passed between you two, as you waited for him to say something, but he didn't.

"Okay," you said, drawing the word out, raising an eyebrow slightly as you look at him. "Are you holding me hostage because you think it'd be funny to see me freeze to death out here, or...?"

The tension in his expression dissipated slightly, your dry, teasing tone eased his frayed nerves with a comforting familiarity. He'd gotten used to you, to the way you spoke; it became one of the few, small things he'd ever allowed himself to rely on.

"Y/N," he said, his tone taking on a softness, a somewhat pleading vulnerability that you'd never heard before, as his eyes finally drifted up to meet your gaze. The cloudy grayness in his eye faded into a pale, ethereal blue under the moonlight, the features of his face illuminated, exposed.

He didn't have to say another word. You knew exactly what he meant. That was just the way you two worked.

"Yeah," you'd whispered, knowingly, the word pillowing into the cold air.

His hand slid down your wrist to your hand, his rough, calloused fingers gripping around yours with a sense of uncertainty and newness, like he was learning a new language. He tugged gently, drawing you in, close enough that when both of you breathed, the visible clouds mixed together.

His free hand rose to your face, slowly grasping around your jaw. His teeth clenched slightly, a hint of self-consciousness in his gaze as he looked at the gap his missing fingers left on your cheek; feeling unable to hold you completely.

"Don't," you whispered, somewhat sternly, urging the self-doubt out of his gaze. Your hand flew up to cover his, holding it against your face, the missing fingers not even a thought in your mind.

"You always do that." The words came out as a rough, tumbling statement.

Your lips curled into a faint smile, your head tilted into his palm. "Do what?"

"Protect me," he whispered, his eyes searching yours, "from myself, mostly."

"Can't help it," you whispered back, the words softening his gaze even further.

Before he could think about it more, before he could stop himself, he pulled you in closer, only a sliver of cold air between your lips. He paused for a beat, drawing in a shallow breath, before closing the space. His lips trembled against yours for a fleeting second, before melting against yours. A perfect fit.

His grip on your cheek tightened slightly, his lips moved against yours with a quiet desperation, as if communicating all the words he'd been wanting to say.

He broke the kiss just as suddenly as it started, his lips remaining parted, soft and glistening.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispered, before leaning in to press a kiss on your cheek by your ear, his thumb brushing against your jaw one last time. He took one last look at you, his expression somewhat unreadable, before turning and leaving you at your doorstep.

That night was not too long ago, only a few weeks had passed since. Your relationship was like a delicate melody -- starting slow and gentle, then blooming into a perfectly synchronized symphony.

He'd started bringing you home every night, and he'd come inside for a while, sitting on your couch with you, talking more than he ever had (which still wasn't much, by most people's standards). You'd make dinner for the two of you, drape a blanket on his lap on the couch, gently tend to the scars on his face when they'd occasionally get irritated.

You'd lean your head on his shoulder, intertwine your fingers with his. Sometimes, he'd lean into your touch, slinging an arm around you and letting his head settle into the curve of your neck. Your fingers would stroke his hair softly or trace patterns up and down his back.

He'd always thank you at the end of the night and kiss you as if you were about to disappear into thin air. While he never specified what he was thanking you for, you knew he was thanking you for taking care of him.

That's all you really wanted to do -- care for him. You knew that his scars ran deeper than the visible ones, and the more he shared bits of his past with you, you could tell that he never had it easy. His life, until now, was one of fighting, survival, and loss. All you wanted was to alleviate some of the pain, some of the weight that had built up within him for so long.

So, you did these little things to dote on him, to show him what true affection felt like, in hopes that someday, he'd realize how deserving he is of it. That over time, the little things would grow into bigger things, that affection wouldn't be so foreign and unsettling to him. You were willing to wait.

He was by your front door now, slinging his jacket onto his shoulders, preparing to head home after another night spent together. You'd sat on the couch, his head on your shoulder, and he'd just finished telling you a simple story about Furlan and Isabel, who you'd learned about recently.

"Levi," you begin, your eyes shifting toward the window, at the powdery snow flurrying through the air. "It's freezing outside, you need more than a jacket."

His gaze follows yours out the window, his expression remaining unfazed. "It's just snow, Y/N."

You ignore him, and grab a knit, brightly colored scarf from the coat rack and hand it to him, your expression stern, but gentle. "Wear this."

"What? You can't be serious. I'll look ridiculous," he looks at you and the scarf dubiously, his brows pressed together with distaste. "I'll be fine."

"Would you just shut up and take it?" You roll your eyes, but you smile, affectionately. Before he can object further, you wrap the scarf around him, earning a groan from the back of his throat.

His nose scrunches slightly in disapproval, and the corners of his lips curve downward, but he lets you finish placing the scarf around his neck.

"Thanks, Y/N," he mumbles, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the touch soft and fleeting.

Mhm, you hum softly, satisfied with your little victory. You think he's about to turn and leave, but he doesn't -- he’s there, still, looking at you for a long moment.

"What, hoping to get a matching beanie?" You tease, warmly, a laugh escaping your lips.

He shakes his head.

"I told you a while ago that I never felt like I had a home before. Not a real one, anyway. But..." he says, his voice taking on a softened introspection, a gentleness to his face that you've discovered he reserves only for you. "I think this is it."

"Marley? Yeah, it's not so bad. Told you you'd get used to it," you say, a gentle, affectionate teasing in your voice, your fingers adjusting the scarf around his neck.

"No, Y/N. Not Marley," he corrects, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze remaining intently fixated on yours. "You. You're my home."

Your expression melts, a faint pink blush rising to your cheeks. Your hand drifts up from the scarf to cradle his cheek, your thumb tracing his cheekbone.

He turns his head, his eyes remaining on you, and he presses a soft kiss into your palm. The kiss feels like he's making a promise to always be yours, and for you to always be his.

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN!

Requested by @beautiful-is-boring

[amourquinn]

( short fic ) everything

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1.2k

genre : extreme fluff no warnings

summary : you and quinn spend christmas eve together and it ends with a beautiful surprise

the apartment smelled like sugar and cinnamon, warm and inviting. the faint hum of a christmas playlist played in the background, filling the air with soft jingles and cheerful tunes. it was december 24, and your favorite tradition with quinn hughes was in full swing: decorating cookies.

you sat cross-legged at the kitchen island, armed with piping bags filled with brightly colored icing, sprinkles scattered across the counter. quinn stood across from you, wearing an apron he’d claimed he didn’t need—though his flour-dusted hands and icing-streaked cheek suggested otherwise.

“alright, quinn-casso,” you teased, pointing at the lopsided tree he’d just decorated. the green icing was uneven, and the star looked more like a blob.

he held it up, feigning offense. “what? this is art. you just don’t get it.”

you laughed, snapping a picture with your polaroid camera. the flash caught him mid-eye-roll, flour still smudged on his cheek.

“add it to the collection,” you said, shaking the photo and setting it on the counter to develop.

the collection was an assortment of candid photos you’d been taking all month—quinn tangled in christmas lights, the two of you picking out a tree, him wearing the santa hat you’d forced on him. the pictures were scattered on the fridge, a chaotic but charming timeline of your holiday season together.

“fine,” quinn said, grabbing another cookie. “but if you’re going to document this, i’m going to make the best-looking snowman you’ve ever seen.”

you leaned on your elbow, watching him carefully pipe white icing onto the cookie. his tongue poked out slightly in concentration, a detail that made your heart swell.

“not bad,” you admitted as he added tiny sprinkle buttons.

“‘not bad’? that’s perfection,” he said, placing it on the tray with a satisfied grin.

you shook your head, laughing softly. “i guess i’ll give you that one.”

the two of you worked through the tray of cookies, decorating everything from candy canes to reindeer. you captured moments on your polaroid as you went: quinn sticking sprinkles on his nose to make you laugh, you holding up a cookie shaped like a heart, and the tray of finished cookies, a chaotic mix of skill and whimsy.

when the cookies were done, you both collapsed onto the couch with mugs of hot chocolate. the christmas tree twinkled softly in the corner, the ornaments catching the glow of the lights.

“i think we outdid ourselves this year,” quinn said, holding up a cookie shaped like a stocking.

“speak for yourself,” you teased, holding up one of your own. “mine are way better.”

he rolled his eyes, nudging your shoulder with his. “you’re lucky i love you.”

you smiled, leaning into him. “i know.”

⋆˙⟡

as the night wore on, the stack of polaroids grew. quinn had taken over the camera at some point, snapping pictures of you mid-laugh or caught off guard. one photo in particular made you laugh—a close-up of your face, icing smeared on your cheek.

“quinn! i wasn’t ready for that one!”

“that’s the point,” he said, smirking.

eventually, it was time for the part of the evening you both looked forward to the most: exchanging gifts.

“okay,” you said, hopping off the couch and grabbing a small, neatly wrapped box from under the tree. “you first.”

quinn set his mug down, his eyes lighting up as he took the box. “you know you didn’t have to get me anything, right?”

“yeah, yeah,” you said, waving him off. “just open it.”

he carefully unwrapped the box, lifting the lid to reveal a vintage hockey puck encased in glass. his jaw dropped.

“is this…”

you nodded, grinning. “it’s from your first-ever college game. i found it online, and the guy who had it was willing to sell. i thought you’d want to have it.”

he stared at it for a moment, his fingers brushing the glass. “this is amazing. thank you.”

his voice was soft, and when he looked up at you, his expression was full of gratitude. he set the puck down and leaned over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering against yours.

“alright,” he said, pulling back. “your turn.”

he stood and grabbed a box from behind the tree. it was big, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a perfectly tied bow.

“wow,” you said, taking it from him. “someone went all out.”

“just open it,” he said, his grin mischievous.

you tore into the paper, lifting the lid to reveal… a polaroid camera. not just any camera, though—it was a custom design, your initials etched into the side, and the strap was embroidered with tiny snowflakes.

“quinn,” you breathed, running your fingers over the details.

“i know how much you love taking pictures,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i thought you’d like something a little more special.”

you set the box aside and threw your arms around him, holding him tightly. “it’s perfect. thank you.”

for a moment, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other. the night felt perfect, like something out of a storybook.

“actually…” quinn pulled back slightly, a nervous edge to his voice.

“what?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

he reached into his pocket, and he took out a neatly wrapped box. it wasn’t the biggest gift, but there was something about the way he held it, his expression a mix of nerves and excitement, that made your heart race.

“quinn…” you started, but he cut you off with a small smile.

“here.”

you unwrapped the box carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver ring. It wasn’t flashy, but it was beautiful, a small diamond set into the band, understated and perfect. your breath caught in your throat.

“it’s not what you think,” quinn said quickly, rubbing his left arm. it’s not… you know, that ring. not yet, anyway.”

you looked up at him, your heart pounding. “so it’s—”

“it’s a promise ring,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “i know we’re not there yet, but i wanted you to know how serious i am about us. that i want this—you—for the long haul. this is my way of saying i’m all in, even if we’re not at the finish line yet.”

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared at him, at the boyish grin on his face and the sincerity in his eyes.

“quinny…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“i love you,” he said, reaching for your hand. “and i just wanted you to know that.”

you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you let him slide the ring onto your finger. “i love you too. so much.”

he let out a breath, relief washing over his face as he pulled you into his arms. for a moment, the world outside disappeared, leaving just the two of you wrapped in each other.

when you finally pulled back, you held up your hand, admiring the ring. “this is perfect. you’re perfect.”

quinn smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “i wouldn’t say perfect. my cookies were… mediocre.”

you laughed, swatting his arm. “hey, don’t ruin the moment.”

the night went on, filled with more moments that you knew you’d treasure forever. and as you sat there, leaning against quinn with the soft glow of the tree around you, you couldn’t help but think that this christmas was everything you’d ever wanted—and more.

© amourquinn

[therosebookshop]

An Unhealthy Obsession

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession… had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

[connectinfo1999]

Here's a breakdown of the key responsibilities and areas of expertise that Full Stack Developers typically cover

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 interior redesign: Introduction

The Normandy is a sexy sexy spaceship, but the interior we see is defined by game play: corridors are extremely wide so Shepard doesn't get stuck on the scenery, the crew is sparse because animating crew members takes resources and NPCs are also obstacles Shepard could get stuck on, you need larger spaces for camera angles, etc.

I wanted to see if I could redesign the space to fit a crew of 70–90... ...and I got carried away.

This post covers the rules I set myself and the basic process. Each deck will get a separate post (check back for links):

Intro

Loft

Command deck

Crew deck

Engineering deck

Hangar deck

Design rules

Keep major elements in basically the same places. This is the Normandy as she exists in my fic Sunset & Evening Star, and readers shouldn't have to study a floorplan!

Use only space that's 'available' in the game. If we can access it as the player, it's fair game. If it's a mysterious void in-game, I assume it's full of Important Spaceship Parts and the only access is for ship maintenance.

The elevator shaft is vertical. No Willy Wonka/ST turbo lift shit.

*There are inertial dampeners; if there weren't none of this would work. But as an author I like to imagine that any system can be overloaded.

Step one: Align & scale the deck maps

I aligned the deck maps around the elevator, the only element that shows up on every one. Each is shown at a different scale, so I eyeballed their relationship based on furniture, which is the only thing required to have a relatively consistent size. This is a big assumption; game designers resize whatever they need to! Shepard's bed, for instance, has pillows about a meter square. Presumably they needed room to made the pixel dolls have sex. Shepard's bed can therefore not be trusted, and to a lesser extent neither can anything else.

(There are also floor panels that look a lot like standard 4'x8' construction sheet stock, but A) developers can re-size those as needed without the player noticing, and B) If we're still using imperial units to construct spaceships in 2184 I hope the reapers eat us.**)

**...that said, I used a scale of 1px:2ft to draw this. I'm so sorry. I'm American and I've done construction, it's easy for me to visualize. (The scale was two inches to the pixel, if you're curious.)

Step two: Redesign over the existing space

This is where I saw how much I could fit in the space the game design allowed (given my guesses on scale). Y'know, the fun bit that I thought I'd be spending most of my time doing!

(I was so wrong).

Redesign goals

The Alliance refitted the Normandy for an Admiral. Admirals don't captain their own ships, so I needed to account for an Admiral and their staff as well as the captain and crew.

Align bunks fore-aft, so that the most common major inertial vectors* will hit sleeping crew in the least dangerous direction.

Plumbing should be stacked when possible. (I don't know spaceships but I know about plumbing columns. Glamorous!)

Step three: Adjust to the hull

One modeler figured the ship had to be ~370 meters long to fit the decks as-is, which would leave them using only ~20% of the length. One dev is quoted as saying she's 170m. Fan estimates comparing it with other ships suggest somewhere from 210–230 meters.

The hangar deck is the one*** place the interior aligns with the exterior for certain. The hangar needs to fit two kodiaks in the space between the bay door and the elevator, and each kodiak needs to fit 12 people plus the pilot. Additionally, as the lowest deck the hanger is limited in width by the inward curve of the hull (and that limit changes based on how low you go, which is why the drawing above includes a front elevation).

***Yes, we also see Joker piloting right up in the nose. This is impossible to achieve and also stupid, so I've elected to ignore it.

Sizing it to the smallest reasonable hangar — and after drawing a rather stubbier kodiak — I managed a 194 meter hull; ~217 if you include thrusters. At this size the liveable area takes up just over a third of the hull length. It's still an awful lot of nose, but that nose means 136 meters for the main gun, which for my purposes is still a rail gun (so size matters). Sadly it can't be a hull-length gun; it would run into first the elevator, and then the eezo core.

I did NOT pretend to figure out where the Make Spaceship Go parts are, or the Keep People Alive parts. There's a LOT of 'wasted' space; assume it's all in use and accessible through engineering access-ways, though how comfortable or safe they are is questionable.

———

Thanks to @swaps55 for the amazing high-res screenshots of the game maps, and to @faejilly and @sheepishwolfy for the long-ago talks about crew size that started all this!

[p0orbaby]

We No Speak Italiano

summary: you’ll never miss a day of Duolingo again

warnings: are language barriers and miscommunication warnings?

a/n: based on this request ! also thank you to @onsomenewsht for inflating my ego and helping navigate italian !

word count: 2.1k

-

Alexia looks at you like you’ve just dropped the biggest bombshell in the history of bombshells. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and she’s got that look, like she’s trying to figure out how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws missing.

“Estoy embarazada,” you say again, because you’re pretty sure that’s the right way to tell her you’re mortified after spilling your entire glass of wine on her brand-new sofa.

Your high school Spanish teacher would be so proud.

But instead of the expected response, maybe a nervous laugh or string of expletives, Alexia gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth like she’s just heard the Virgin Mary is back for round two. Her eyes flick down to your stomach and back up to your face. The calculation going on behind her eyes is something like 2 + 2 = 5, but you have no idea why.

“I… Oh my God,” she says, her voice all wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t… I mean, this is… Are you okay?” She’s speaking in slow, deliberate Spanish now, like you’re suddenly a toddler and not a grown-ass woman who just spilled wine.

You blink at her. “Sí?”

“Madre mía”

-

It starts with a breakfast that makes no sense.

You wake up to the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, which is odd because Alexia barely knows how to operate a toaster without supervision. You stumble out of bed, groggy, and follow the scent of food.

What you find in the kitchen is nothing short of alarming: Alexia, apron-clad and concentrating so hard that she’s actually sticking her tongue out a little, is stirring something in a pot while a blender whirs ominously next to her.

“Buenos días,” she sings out when she notices you standing in the doorway. She’s all smiles, too bright for this early in the morning, and you immediately get suspicious.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyes narrowing as you take in the sight of an overfull fruit bowl, a plate stacked with multigrain toast, and what appears to be an entire carton of eggs scrambled and ready to be eaten.

“Sit, sit,” she insists, pulling out a chair for you like you’ve suddenly developed a bad back and need assistance. “I made breakfast”

“You… made breakfast,” you repeat, eyeing the smoothie she pours into a glass and slides over to you. It’s an unsettling green color, like pond scum, and you’re not sure it’s fit for human consumption.

“Sí. You need to start your day with lots of nutrients.” She’s practically bouncing on her toes, like a Labrador eager to please.

You blink at the smoothie, then back at her. “Since when did you learn how to use the Nutribullet?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just gives you an encouraging smile that feels a little too close to a grimace. “Drink up. It’s good for you”

You take a tentative sip, and it’s like drinking liquid grass mixed with what you can only hope is kale. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No!” She’s almost offended, but there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice that you can’t quite place. “It’s full of vitamins. Good for… energy”

You stare at her, but she just stares back, eyes wide and almost… expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, deciding to let this weirdness slide, for now. Maybe she’s on a trendy new health kick. Or maybe it’s an early birthday surprise gone wrong. Either way, you down the smoothie in a few brave gulps, trying not to think about the fact that it tastes like lawn clippings.

Alexia beams at you when you finish, like you’ve just accomplished something monumental. “Bien, bien. Now, sit tight. I’ll get the rest”

She practically skips back to the stove, where she starts piling eggs and toast onto a plate. You don’t even bother asking why she’s suddenly turned into Martha Stewart; you’re too busy wondering if you’ve somehow walked into a parallel universe.

It’s only later, after you’ve forced down an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, that she starts talking about how “important it is to stay healthy” and how she’s “going to take care of everything from now on,” which sounds sweet but also vaguely threatening.

You brush it off, chalking it up to some kind of weird phase. After all, everyone gets weird sometimes, right?

-

By day two, you’re starting to suspect that something is seriously wrong.

It begins with a confrontation over laundry, specifically, the fact that you’re not allowed to do any. At all.

“I’ve got it,” Alexia says, practically wrestling the basket out of your hands when you attempt to head for the washing machine.

You try to grab it back, but she holds it over her head like some ridiculous game of keep-away. “What is with you?”

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, so earnestly it makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“It’s a basket of clothes,” you argue, “not a sack of bricks. And I lift heavier things at the gym every day”

She shakes her head, not budging. “No. Let me do it. Just relax”

You gape at her, watching as she carries the laundry to the washing machine like it’s a ticking time bomb. She’s being weirdly gentle, placing the clothes in like they might shatter if she drops them too hard.

Then there’s the vitamin situation. You’re sitting on the freshly cleaned sofa, flipping through channels, when Alexia plops down beside you with a clatter of bottles and packages.

“Take these,” she says, handing you an array of supplements that looks like it belongs on the shelf of a pharmacy. There are multivitamins, folic acid, omega-3s, and some other pill you can’t even pronounce.

“What is this?” You hold up the folic acid like it’s a foreign object. “I’m not trying to hatch an egg here”

“Just take them,” she insists, pushing the bottles toward you. “They’re good for you”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing these are good for is draining my will to live,” you mutter, but she gives you that look, the one that’s all big hazel eyes and soft smiles, and you end up taking them just to get her to stop hovering.

When you try to go for a run that afternoon, she practically tackles you at the door.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggests, like she’s trying to steer a toddler away from a busy street. “You know, take it easy for a bit”

“Take it easy?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not 80. And since when do you care about rest days? You’re usually the one dragging me to the gym at 6 AM”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “It’s important to be careful”

“Careful of what, exactly?”

She hesitates, and you catch a flicker of something in her expression, nervousness, maybe? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s weirding you out. “Just… you know, careful”

You’re about to argue, but she gives you a kiss on the forehead, all soft and sweet, and you end up staying in just to avoid making things even more bizarre.

-

By day three, you’re done. Absolutely, 100% done.

It starts with the breakfast smoothies, again. This time, it’s a vibrant pink concoction that tastes like liquid chalk mixed with berries, and you’re pretty sure it’s the same smoothie you saw in a TV ad for pregnancy supplements once.

When Alexia starts lecturing you on the importance of hydration, while handing you a liter of water with electrolytes, you decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

“Alexia,” you say, setting the water down with a definitive thud, “we need to talk”

She glances at you, clearly nervous, and you know you’ve hit the jackpot. “About what?”

“About why you’re acting like I’m a fragile little baby bird that needs to be protected from all the big, scary things in life,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Her face flushes, and she avoids your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I just-, I want to take care of you”

“I appreciate that,” you say, softening just a little, “but you’ve gone full-on helicopter mode. And it’s freaking me out”

She looks at you for a long moment, then sighs like she’s been carrying the weight of the world.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice soft like she’s whispering state secrets. “How long? I mean… when did you find out?”

You stare at her, a mental Rolodex flipping through every interaction you’ve had over the last few days, searching for the moment when you apparently lost your mind. “Find out what?”

“That you’re…” She trails off, wide-eyed, and then whispers, like she’s on a soap opera, “Pregnant”

There’s a beat of silence. And then another one. You feel like someone just turned off the power in your brain. You’re pregnant? No, no, no. Last you checked, you were just really bad at pouring wine.

“Wait,” you finally say, holding up a hand to stop her from offering you yet another pillow or maybe a foot rub. “Pregnant?”

Alexia’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “You said you’re embarazada”

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

“Alexia,” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re the one explaining the IKEA instructions now. “I said I’m embarrassed. Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated because I thought I ruined your sofa with a ten-euro bottle of red”

She looks like she’s buffering, trying to load what you just said. “Embarazada… means pregnant, in Spanish”

Ah, the joys of faux amis, false friends, words that sound like they should mean the same thing but are actually waiting to sabotage you like linguistic landmines. Your high school Spanish teacher can take a hike.

You wipe away a tear, trying to catch your breath. “Alexia… I told you I was embarrassed. Imbarazzato doesn’t mean pregnant in Italian, it means mortified. Humiliated. Just how I felt when I spilled that wine and thought I ruined your furniture”

“Wait,” Alexia says, her brow furrowing in that cute, confused way you’d normally find adorable if she weren’t in the middle of thinking you’re harbouring a tiny human in your uterus. “So you’re not…?”

“No!” You laugh, a little hysterically because, seriously, how did you get here? “I’m not pregnant. We’re both women. How would that even work? I mean, unless there’s something about human biology I missed in school, I’m pretty sure that’s not in the cards for us”

Her eyes widen as the realisation hits, and then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Dios mío, I’m such an idiot”

You’re still laughing, but you manage to pat her knee reassuringly. “An adorable idiot, but yeah, kind of”

“Well, you did say ‘embarazada,’” she points out. “How was I supposed to know you just meant you were embarrassed?”

You shrug. “Maybe when I didn’t start eating pickles and ice cream? Or asking for your jersey for when the baby arrives?”

“Touché.” She’s still grinning, that big, beautiful smile that makes you forgive her for thinking you were about to drop a baby bomb on her. “So, you’re just embarrassed”

“Yes. Very. And I’m also very much not pregnant. I’m sorry for confusing you”

She sighs, exaggerated like she’s relieved, and you both start laughing again, the awkward tension from the past few days melting away. But there’s still a mischievous glint in her eye, one that makes you a little wary.

“What?” you ask, knowing full well you’re about to regret it.

“Well, since you’re not pregnant,” she says slowly, leaning closer with that flirty smirk you love and hate in equal measure, “how about we do something about that embarrassment?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and you roll your eyes. “Oh, so now that I’m not a fragile incubator, you’re all over me?”

“Exactamente,” she says, pulling you into her lap with surprising ease, even for someone who regularly benches more than your body weight. “Besides, I have to make sure you’re really not pregnant”

“Alexia,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when she starts nuzzling your neck, “that’s not how this works, remember?”

She grins against your skin, pressing a teasing kiss to your collarbone. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You push her back just enough to meet her eyes, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want to keep treating me like a queen, I’m not going to complain”

“Deal,” she says, her voice softening, her hand resting on your cheek. “But next time you’re embarrassed, can you please just say it in Italian, or English?”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Sure, but only if you promise not to freak out the next time I spill something”

“No promises,” she murmurs, pulling you closer, “but I’ll try”

[jessthebaker]

With Sticks and String

a/n: This fic started as the response to the #writingthroughtheseasons challenge by the wonderful @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality. It developed a life of its own and, uh, grew beyond the original prompt. There will be two definite chapters, and possibly a third?

I did as much research as I could to be mindful of the details of NA, substance addiction, and milestone ceremonies but there will be errors. Please be kind.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Challenge prompt: Dieter in Autumn. “Are we a moment, or a lifetime?” Trust me. You’ll see.

Dieter Bravo x reader

word count: 1.7k-ish

A church basement. A large circle of uncomfortable metal folding chairs. A table at the side with hot water urns, a stack of paper cups, a basket of tea bags and instant coffee sachets. A disused pulpit at one end of the circle for someone to stand and speak.

Dieter stands in the doorway and feels the familiar deja vu. He’s been going in circles for more than a year now, the endless loop of losing control, using, rehab, enforced sobriety, falling into using again. His agent is fed up with his bullshit and finally gave him the “I may be your employee but I’m the only friend you have left, go to rehab and make it work this time or we’re done” speech.

That was two months ago, and he’s done his mandated time at the rehab facility. Now he has to find a NA meeting to attend. He’s been to every NA meeting group in the city over the last few years and never lasted long at any of them. This group is the final one left on the list of available options that gelled with his location and schedule. Not like his schedule was that full anyway.

He notices you at his first meeting and as cliché as it was, there is something different about you. You seem to have the same dark sense of humour as him, the same cheekiness in danger of being stamped out in the name of sobriety. The same marks of near-silent desperation that you can hide from everyone but other addicts. However, the strand of fuzzy yarn running up your legs to connect the pile of fabric on your lap to your bag on the floor is new to him.

After that first meeting, he keeps stealing glances at you from across the circle of chairs. He notices you always have a project in your lap during meetings, your needles clicking softly as a backdrop to the sound of other attendees telling their stories. Sometimes it’s your crochet hook flashing in the light, as your wrist twirls it effortlessly through the air. He’s more fascinated with watching you work than paying attention to the speakers. Your motions are graceful and practiced; you deftly create something out of a jumble of fuzzy string without even looking. It’s like magic to him.

After a few meetings he works up the nerve to say hello to you afterwards. Swap names over weak shitty coffee in flimsy paper cups. A few more meetings, and he sits next to you. A few more weeks, and he asks you about your project. You smirk (got another one, you think to yourself) and show him what you’re working on.

You ask him, “Do you want to have a go?”

“Uh, yeah, if you trust me not to ruin it.”

You scoff lightly. “Don’t worry about ruining anything, it’s crochet. Whatever you fuck up, I can pull back and fix. Just...play around with it.”

You show him the basic stitches, the way to maneuver the hook and where to place it, how to pull up a loop and draw it through. He’s surprised to find he likes it. He works through your row and you show him how to make a turning chain, encourage him to work back through the next row. A soft cough behind you both makes you jump. It’s the meeting leader giving you the wind-up. It’s past time to turn off the lights and lock up. Dieter is surprised to find half an hour has passed in your company.

As you start packing up your project again, you can tell he wants to say something. His eyes are a little wild, his teeth biting at his lip nervously.

“Do you think you could teach me more next week? I think I need something like this. Something to keep - keep the hands busy, you know?”

His hands are always restless, you have noticed this. He’s always fidgeting during meetings, pulling at his coat hems, fiddling with at his pant pockets or the buttons on his lapel, twiddling his earring. Right now as you both stand together, his hands are twitching at his side, making flicking motions as if ashing an invisible cigarette.

“Of course. Come early next week and I’ll show you more.” You beam indulgently at Dieter, and to him it’s as if a shaft of sunlight has put a spotlight on your face.

His face relaxes instantly and a shy half-grin emerges. You get the feeling he has a nice smile when he lets it really show. You secretly wonder if he might have a dimple. You agree on half an hour before the regular meeting time and say your goodnights.

The next week, as promised, you bring a ball of yarn and an extra crochet hook and teach him more of the basics. You get him started with a simple dishcloth project that will fit on his lap during the meeting. You don’t say anything, but you do see that he’s more relaxed with this in hand – he’s not actively working on it during the meeting itself, but he is idly stroking the yarn, turning the partial square around in his hands, rolling and folding and twisting it up. You catch his eye and glance at the wadded up square of crochet stitches in his hands. He looks down too, sees what he’s done subconciously, and gives you a sheepish grin. You wink and grin back.

After that first crochet lesson, your friendship with Dieter grows. You look forward to the weekly meetings in a different way, now. He does too. Beyond the obvious connection of being fellow addicts in recovery, he can talk to you and you don’t stare at him like he’s a nutjob. You enjoy passing down the crafts that have helped you to stay sober these past thirteen years.

And there is the attraction. That doesn't hurt.

You can’t help but stare sometimes when he’s not looking. Does he not realise how handsome he is? Maybe he does. But he doesn’t draw attention to himself that way. Over time he lets slip little details, offhand comments, that give you the impression he used to fuck around but he doesn’t anymore. It makes sense, you think. His celebrity and fame lent itself to partying and access to people as well as drugs. If he’s working this hard to stay sober from substance abuse, maybe he’s also staying away from the rest of it. You try not to let your crush get in the way of your friendship. You know he’s not supposed to get into any relationships for the first year of his recovery, anyway.

For all that, you really, really enjoy watching him work. His broad frame hunches over the project on his lap. Even the longest knitting needles always look tiny in his big hands. To say nothing of a short crochet hook, it’s practically fully hidden in his paws. His brow furrows in concentration and his tongue pokes out subconsciously when he’s trying to maneuver the hook the right way.

For Dieter’s part, he can’t help but stare when you don’t notice. Do you not know how beautiful you are? Maybe you do. But you don’t draw attention to yourself that way. Over time you let slip comments about your past that give him the impression you used to party, but you don’t anymore. It makes sense, he thinks. If you’ve worked hard to stay sober for this long, maybe you’re also staying away from relationships. He tries not to let his crush get in the way of your friendship. He knows he isn’t supposed to get into any relationships for the first year of his recovery anyway.

For all that, he really, really enjoys watching you work. Whatever you’re knitting or crocheting, you make it look effortless. During meetings you sit with your feet crossed neatly underneath you, project in your lap, hands moving deftly through the yarn. Sometimes you don’t even look down, you just move without having to see what your needle or hook is doing. It’s like the tool is an extension of your hands and they work independently of your conscious brain. He wants to know what that feels like.

He’s an eager student. You teach him to crochet first. He wants to be able to “make ALL the things, I don’t want to limit myself!” So you teach him what you know. You teach him to make increases, decreases. Amigurumi toys, granny squares, knitted stockinette. Ribbing, lace, cables, socks, shawls, hats.

He learns to notice mistakes and fix them himself. He teaches himself to alter a pattern to suit his own tastes. He teaches himself to do colourwork through YouTube tutorials, after you admit it’s something you aren't interested in yourself. He figures out what he likes and doesn’t like in his crafting.

Just as Dieter’s path along sobriety has entwined with yours, your lives become more and more entwined over time.

For his six month pin you knit him a slouchy beanie.

For your 14 year pin he crochets you a little stuffed heart, which he presents to you with a shy smile.

For his 1 year pin, you crochet a little stuffed raccoon (his favourite animal) holding the stuffed heart he gave you last year. You’ve embroidered a little word “yes” on the heart.

For your 15 year pin he knits you a simple lace shawl.

For his two year pin, you knit him a handsome scarf and a matching pair of fingerless mittens. (Not too long in the cuff, his tattoos like to be free to breathe.)

For your 16 year pin, he knits you an intricately cabled scarf that he designed himself.

The next year you crochet an afghan together, using your combined stash scraps to make wildly colourful granny squares and crochet them together. Dieter drapes it proudly over the couch in the house you’ve bought together.

When he met you, Dieter was desperate for a hobby to keep his hands busy, to distract himself from the cravings and needing to chase his next high. Thanks to you, he found a different path to the high. Now he chases the euphoria of sinking into a trance as his hands move unconsciously in rhythm with the yarn. The way his brain hums peacefully as he reaches a meditative zen state. He craves the feeling of creating something and watching it grow in his hands.

He loves you, and he loves that you’ve been with him to celebrate every finished project, and every milestone date. Together.

With you, he thinks he can actually do this sobriety thing.

Part 2 is here

Tagging some peeps who were interested in this as a wip!

@toomanytookas @avastrasposts @schnarfer @galway-girlatwork

@grogusmum @jolapeno @bitchwitch1981 @sunnytuliptime @dieterbravobrainrotclub

@ghotifishreads @covetyou

[religh]

These are a few of the necessary skill sets for a full-stack web developer, however, they are by no means all required. A developer should also possess outstanding soft skills including communication abilities, a tech-driven attitude, creativity, excellent time management skills, and a persistent willingness to learn, apply, grow, and update.

Website:- https://www.relightechnologies.com/blogs/6-skills-to-look-for-in-a-full-stack-web-developer/

[secretbigboylover]

Buffet Date

CW: Weight gain, rapid weight gain, teasing.

Trevor was trying to ignore how full his belly was and how good it felt. His big belly spilled over his lap and pushed his favorite button up shirt to its limit. It was a sky-blue shirt with yellow rubber duckies dotted all around it. His boyfriend, Max, had picked it out as a gift when they first moved in together. The same Max that confided in him that he liked his men chunky, the same Max that kept buying Trevor’s favorite snacks even though Trevor was on a diet. The same Max that innocently suggested a buffet for their date night.

Trevor knew he’d over eat, but couldn’t help himself and he was sure Max did too. The food just smelled amazing. There were so many options from pizza to pasta, stakes to hotdogs, every fried savory food he could think of, and the desserts were so mouthwatering. Trevor didn’t used to be a big guy, but boy did he have a big appetite. He had played football in high school and in college. Trevor had a wide build that made him the first pick on any team. He even had the good looks to make any man swoon or at least he used to. Now, thanks in part to dating Max, Trevor felt he had lost some of that. He was still broad and tried to be athletic, but had started developing a bit of a gut. Sure, some of his gym buddies when through bulking phases and got a bit chunky before getting ripped, but Trevor didn’t do any body building stuff. He liked to keep a lean muscle look. Now staring at an orb of a gut he groaned. He was so full and the food was so good. Rubbing his taught stomach only showed just how much of a pig he made of himself, but it also felt good. He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of Trevor really liked this feeling of being over stuffed. It was a good excuse to let Max dote on him while he just digested. He knew he should be more active, but Max always looked so happy when Trevor ate too much. Maybe it was time to give in? That though vanished when he looked down at the sad state of his favorite shirt.

The day he had gotten the shirt Max had taken him on a magical date to the winter fare. They had gone ice-skating, Trevor had tried to win Max a stuffed animal, they had hot chocolate, and road the Faris wheel. They had stopped by a little boutique before going home. It was filled with all kinds of crazy and goofy shirts. When Trevor saw the rubber ducky shirt he fell in love and he was over joyed when Max bought it for him. They took it home right away. Trevor was so swept up by how cute it was that he didn’t realize it was a size too big. Max had ensured him that he still looked cute in it and the bigger size only gave him room to grow.

Now diamonds of doughy flesh poked between the buttons. Trevor leaned back and stroke his belly. He couldn’t imagen taking another bite. He had already stuffed himself with four full plates. Trevor vowed this would be the last buffet date for the year. He would get back on his fitness grind and fit back into his favorite shirt. Once Max came back, he would tell him his master plan about getting his summer beach bod ready.

Max came back with three plates, one with a few slices of pizza, one with a slice of cheesecake, and the other stacked with two slices of strawberry cheesecake and warm brownies.

          “Sorry for the wait. I heard they were bringing out a fresh batch of brownies and I know how you love them.” Max said.

Trevor completely forgot about his aching belly the second he smelled the brownies. They were so rich. He could smell the semi-sweet chocolate and could almost taste it. His summer body forgotten he chowed down on the brownies. They were even better than he imagined. So dark and rich, with the perfect smooth fudge texture. They practically melted in his mouth. Trevor inhaled the last few and the cheesecake. Without a second thought he got up and raced towards the brownie station.

They had set out two massive sheets, still steaming. Like a child possessed, he quickly loaded his plate high with brownies. As he walked back to his table he had to peak over the mountain of brownies and had missed Max’s massive grin. Max was full on laughing by the time Trevor came back to the table.

“What, did I take too many?” Trevor said.

“No baby, your shirt.” Max said as he tried, and failed, to keep in his laughter.

Trevor looked down and saw two buttons in the middle of his shirt had popped off, his soft belly exposed to the air. He turned the deepest shade of crimson and hid behind his tower of brownies.

“Aw baby, no need to be embarrassed. I think you look very sexy with that soft belly.” Max said.

“Then why were you laughing?” Treavor said.

“Because I got an email that your new shirt had arrived.” Max said.

This did not quite answer Trevor’s confusion and Max recognized that and continued.

“I know how much you love that shirt and I know it has been fitting a little snug recently. So, I found out that store had a webpage and, on a whim, bought it the next size up. I’m just laughing because right as I got the email your buttons flew off.” Max said.

Trevor was still embarrassed but touched. He looked down at the plate and a had a wicked idea.

“Well let’s see if you can pop the rest of my button’s off.” Trevor said.

Now it was Max’s turn to be flustered.

“Wait what?” Max said.

Trevor wasn’t sure what came over him. He still wanted his lean summer bod, but loved seeming Max flustered and new this would do the trick.

“Yea, just feed me till I pop.” Trevor said as he pushed the plate of brownies towards Max.

Still flustered, but now definitely horny, Max picked up a brownie and popped it in Trevor’s mouth. Instantly Trevor was in heaven. The brownie was still as good, but the extra edge of having his sexy boyfriend feed them too him was doing wonders. Trevor knew in that moment his new shirt wouldn’t last very long.

[womenhoops]

AAU GAME p II

It was game day—and for the first time ever, Azzi was facing Paige in an official matchup.

They’d known each other for years—two, to be exact—but this was their first time squaring off in AAU. Different states, different teams, but the same competitive fire.

Not that Azzi was nervous or anything. Okay, maybe a little. Winning mattered—not just for the scoreboard, but for the bragging rights. So when she spotted Paige during warm-ups, she flashed a quick, confident smile and locked in.

At least, she tried to stay locked in—until the tip-off, when Paige casually strolled over to her side, leaned in, and whispered 

“You look so pretty, Azz. Can’t wait to beat you on the court.” 

Azzi’s eyes rolled so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull, and her stomach did a full somersault. But she wasn’t about to let Paige get in her head. So she hip-checked her, smirked, and shot back: 

“Good luck losing, P.”

The moment the whistle blew, it was war.

Azzi and Paige went at each other like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this—every drive, every shot, every defensive stop charged with something electric. The problem? Azzi’s team couldn’t keep up. Every perfect pass was fumbled. Every set play collapsed. By halftime, she’d already dropped 20 points—and they were still down 15.

Paige noticed.

She wanted to win—badly—but watching Azzi fight so hard, alone, made something twist in her chest. Azzi was having the kind of night players dreamed of, yet the score kept slipping further away.

Paige tightened her defense, face-guarding Azzi as they traded blows.

"Your shooting form is so perfect, Az," Paige teased, sticking to her like a shadow. "Let’s see if you can make it count."

Azzi, breathing hard, shot back, "Keep talking, P. I’ll still drop 40 on you." But she knew that the game was slipping away from her finger tips. 

Their banter was playful, but the tension was real. The crowd buzzed, mesmerized as they went bucket-for-bucket—Paige with the advantage of a stacked team, Azzi with nothing but sheer will. 

The crowd roared as Azzi pulled up from deep - nothing but net. 

Again. And Again. And Again. 

The gymnasium buzzed with electricity as she single-handedly kept her team within striking distance against Paige's powerhouse squad. Every time Azzi scored, the cheers grew louder, the energy more palpable. She wasn't just playing basketball - she was putting on a show, a masterclass in determination against impossible odds.

Paige wiped sweat from her brow, watching as Jason - that obnoxious guy from yesterday who needed to develop a sudden interest in Antarctic exploration - led a new chant: "A-Z-Z-I! Best game! Cutest dimples!" The entire gym picked it up, their voices bouncing off the rafters.

"Seriously?" Paige muttered under her breath, stealing a glance at Azzi, who was trying (and failing) to hide her grin as she backpedaled on defense. That dimpled smile only fueled Paige's competitive fire hotter.

Then came the play that changed everything.

Third quarter. Two minutes left. Paige's team up 28. The game should have been over, but Azzi kept coming, kept fighting. She split the defense with a vicious crossover, driving hard to the basket when-

CRACK.

Paige's teammate - Sarah, a senior with a mean streak and obvious jealousy issues (to be fair, Paige was never her biggest fan, she was not the best player and was definitely selfish which made no sense to a team sport like basketball)  - stepped in late and threw a dirty hip-check that sent Azzi airborne. 

Time seemed to stop as Azzi's body crashed to the hardwood, the sickening thud echoing through the suddenly silent gym.

Paige saw red.

In three long strides, she was in Sarah's face, shoving her backward. "What the actual hell was that?" Paige's voice shook with barely contained rage. "We don't play dirty!"

Sarah smirked, wiping her hands on her shorts. "Someone had to slow her down. She's making us look bad."

"We're up twenty-eight!" Paige's hands balled into fists at her sides. "You're just jealous because-"

"Because what?" Sarah challenged, stepping closer. "Because this whole tournament's in love with her? Including that little boy over there?" She jerked her chin toward Jason, who was looking worried from the stands… 

That girl - that jealous, 18-year-old senior - had just deliberately hurt her best friend. Her Azzi. The one who FaceTimed her every night until they both fell asleep mid-sentence. The one whose dimples appeared even when she was trying to be serious. The one who'd sobbed into Paige's shoulder when Olaf melted in Frozen, whispering "But he was just trying to help Anna" between hiccuping breaths.

And now she was on the ground, clutching her side in pain.

Paige's world narrowed to a single point of white-hot rage. The sounds of the gym faded - the shocked gasps, the concerned murmurs, even the referee's whistle disappeared. All she could see was Sarah's smug face and Azzi's pained expression. Her hands trembled with barely restrained fury as she took another threatening step forward, muscles coiled like a spring-

"Paige."

That voice—Azzi's voice, strained but achingly familiar—sliced through Paige's red haze like dawn breaking through a storm. It had always been her anchor, this connection that transcended distance and circumstance. When they were states apart and Paige's late-night frustration texts came through in all caps. When that careless turnover during the U17 championships nearly cost them everything, and Azzi's quiet "We got this, P" steadied her trembling hands. When narrow-minded whispers about Azzi's skin tone curled through Argentinian gyms like poison smoke, and Paige felt her fists clench until Azzi's fingers laced through hers—wordless, unshakable.

Just one word. Just her name. But it was enough to make the world start turning again.

Azzi was still on the ground, clutching her ribs, but her eyes were locked on Paige. Not the trainers rushing over. Not her own teammates. Paige.

The blonde exhaled sharply, the fight draining from her shoulders as she turned away from Sarah and dropped to one knee beside Azzi. 

"You okay?" The words came out rougher than she intended.

Azzi winced as she tried to sit up. "Oh now you care?" Despite the pain, that trademark smirk played at her lips.

"Shut up," Paige shot back, but there was no heat in it. She slipped an arm behind Azzi's shoulders to help her up. "Can you stand or not?"

Behind them, Sarah's venomous whisper cut through the murmuring crowd: "Unbelievable. Queen Paige bending the rules for her little crush.”

Paige didn't bother turning. Her response came low and dangerous, each word measured like a knife thrust: "It's called sportsmanship. Look it up sometime." Then, barely audible but razor-sharp, she added: "And that's my best friend, you bitch."

Her fingers lingered on Azzi's elbow - a fleeting touch that said everything her words couldn't. The warmth of contact, the unspoken check-in, the silent promise that this wasn't over.

The arena erupted as Azzi waved off the trainer with that stubborn set to her jaw Paige knew so well. When she tested her weight, rolling her ankle with careful precision, that trademark grin flashed - bright enough to make Paige's chest tighten.

"Might wanna leash your attack dog," Azzi teased, eyes glinting with challenge, "before I return the favor."

Paige snorted, the sound equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration. "Please. Like you'd fight dirty." But her gaze betrayed her, scanning every microexpression on Azzi's face for signs of real pain - the slight tightening around her eyes, the barely-there hitch in her breathing that no one else would notice.

The gym fell into that charged silence unique to crucial free throws. Paige remained rooted, watching with singular focus as Azzi's routine unfolded - two precise dribbles, that steadying exhale Paige had watched her practice a thousand times, then-

Swish.

The explosion of sound was deafening. Jason and his cronies leapt up like puppets on strings, their obnoxious cheers grating on Paige's nerves. (She hated how his eyes tracked Azzi's every move, hated how he reduced her best friend to "hot" when Azzi was so much more - and if that realization made Paige's stomach twist, well, that was nobody's business.)

But all that noise faded to static as Paige watched Azzi's face transform - the way her eyes lit up with that pure, unfiltered joy that made the scoreboard irrelevant, the pain meaningless, the whole world narrow to this moment.

The whistle's shrill note brought them back. As they retreated on defense, Paige caught Azzi's eye across the court and mouthed two familiar words - their words: "Show off."

And when Azzi grinned back - that full, dimpled smile that had been Paige's favorite since they were fourteen - it felt like winning something far more important than a game.

By the fourth quarter, both Azzi and Paige were benched—each on their own team’s sidelines, but their eyes kept finding each other across the court. Paige couldn’t help but watch in awe. Even down by 32, Azzi was still leading. Leaning forward on the bench, calling out plays, clapping for teammates who—let’s be real—probably shouldn’t have been playing competitive basketball. But that was Azzi. Relentless, even in a lost cause.

And when one of her drawn-up plays actually worked, her smile lit up the entire gym. Paige had seen that grin a thousand times—during late-night snack runs where Paige sad she would drive azzi to get her favorite type of ice cream, when they’d FaceTimed each other after stupid fights—but it still hit her the same way every time. 

Like sunlight breaking through clouds.

When the final buzzer sounded, Paige’s team won by 29. But as the players lined up for post-game handshakes, Azzi tugged Paige closer by the jersey, her lips brushing Paige’s ear.

"You won," she whispered, breath warm against Paige’s skin. "But I still dropped more points than you."

Paige’s stomach did a backflip. She should’ve fired back with some cocky remark, should’ve rolled her eyes and called Azzi a sore loser. But instead, she just smiled—genuine, unguarded, proud. Because damn it, Azzi had been unreal tonight.

Then Sarah ruined the moment. Again. 

When Azzi extended her fist for the customary bump, Sarah pretended not to see, walking right past her with a dismissive scoff.  And, Paige’s blood went from warm to boiling in half a second.

Before Azzi could even react, Paige grabbed Sarah’s wrist, yanking her back hard enough to make her stumble. 

"What the hell is your problem?" Paige hissed, voice low and dangerous.

Sarah jerked her arm free, glaring. "You’re really picking her over your own team?"

"I’m picking respect over whatever petty bullshit you’re on," Paige shot back. "Apologize. Now."

The gym had gone eerily quiet. Even the refs were watching.

Sarah’s jaw tightened, but under Paige’s furious stare, she finally muttered, "Whatever. Sorry, I guess."

Azzi, still standing there, just arched a brow. "Wow. That was almost convincing."

Paige bit back a laugh.

As Sarah stormed off, Paige felt Azzi's shoulder bump against hers, their fingers brushing in that silent language only they understood. The contact lasted barely a second, but it carried volumes - admiration, solidarity, something warmer than either would name.

Then came the Fudd family, cutting through the dispersing crowd like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "My two favorite warriors!" Azzi's mom beamed, already raising her phone. "We need pictures - this was historic!"

Azzi groaned but didn't resist as her parents pulled them together. "Mom, we just got our butts kicked-"

"Nonsense!" Her father interjected, throwing an arm around both girls. His coaching instincts surfaced as he addressed Paige: "You played lights out, kid, but..." He tapped his temple knowingly. "Third quarter? Should've forced left more often. Right side was overplaying you all night."

Paige felt her cheeks flush - not from criticism, but from how effortlessly he included her in his basketball wisdom. The way he analyzed her game with the same attentive care he gave Azzi.

"You're absolutely right, Coach," she admitted, rubbing her neck. "I got too comfortable with the cross-court passes."

Azzi's dad grinned, squeezing them tighter. "Ah, but when you two matched up?" He whistled. "Best basketball I've seen all season. Even if someone-" he pinched Azzi's cheek, "-needs to work on her help defense."

"Dad!" Azzi swatted his hand away, but her protest dissolved into laughter when Paige joined in teasing her.

As camera flashes popped around them, Paige caught herself leaning into this moment - into the easy way Azzi's parents folded her into their family orbit. The way Mrs. Fudd fixed Paige's sweaty ponytail without asking, the way Coach Fudd's advice carried both challenge and belief.

Azzi met her eyes over their posed smiles, and in that glance Paige saw understanding. This family wasn't just becoming important to her. They were becoming hers.

"Mom, where are we eating? We’re starving."

Azzi’s voice was half-whine, half-laugh as she tugged at her jersey, still damp with sweat from the game.

Miss Fudd smiled sweetly at Paige—a smile that carried just a little too much knowing amusement—then turned to Azzi.

"Well," she said, tapping her chin, "Paige actually asked me earlier if she could take you out tonight. Just the two of you."

Azzi’s head whipped toward Paige so fast her braids smacked her own cheek. "You—what?"

Paige’s face burned. She hadn’t expected Mrs. Fudd to just announce it like that. She’d imagined pulling Azzi aside later, playing it cool—Hey, there’s this place I found, you wanna check it out?—not having it laid bare in front of her entire family.

“I mean, yeah,” Paige muttered, suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces. “If you want. No big deal.” She kept her voice casual, but the words came out too fast. “Just thought since it’s our last night, and I’m flying back to Minnesota after lunch tomorrow, and we don’t have a game—”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed, stoping Paige’s resembling to remember that Paige had asked her parents permission. "You asked my mom? Like, formally?"

"I was being polite," Paige shot back, defensive. "Unlike some people who just show up at my house unannounced and eat all my cereal."

Azzi opened her mouth to retaliate, but her mom cut in, laughter in her voice. "It’s settled, then. You two go have fun. But, Azzi—" She held up a warning finger. "Phone on. Loud. And back by eleven."

"Mom, we’re not twelve," Azzi groaned.

"And yet," her dad chimed in without looking up from his clipboard, "somehow, you still forget to text when you're running late."

Paige bit back a grin. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Azzi's ear as she whispered: "Go get ready, princess. I'll meet you in an hour at our hotel lobby."

The reaction was instant—Azzi’s breath hitched, her neck flushing pink where Paige’s words had touched skin. (Totally normal best friend behavior, she told herself.)

"Bold of you to assume I'm saying yes," she muttered, but the way her fingers twitched against her gym bag strap betrayed her.

Paige smirked, stepping back. “You will. And wear something white.” A pause, just long enough to make Azzi’s pulse jump. “So we can match.”

And of course—Azzi did.

——

Paige had changed four times before settling on dark jeans and a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Casual but put-together—the perfect balance between I didn’t try too hard and I absolutely did, but I’ll deny it if you call me out.

(Which Azzi always did.)

Meanwhile, Azzi stood frozen in her bathroom, clutching a tube of mascara like it might bite her. Since when do you care this much? She’d swiped on a little makeup—just enough to make her eyes pop, just subtle enough to play it off as habit. The sweater was fine. The jeans were fine. Everything’s fine.

The elevator dinged, and there she was—soft blue sweater clinging to her shoulders, and white jeans that should’ve been illegal, hair still damp and curling at the ends where it brushed her collarbones. Paige’s throat went dry.

"You’re late," Paige said, checking her watch with exaggerated annoyance.

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. "By two minutes. And you’re staring."

"Am not."

"You literally haven’t blinked since the doors opened." Azzi stepped closer, tilting her head. Was the mascara too much? Did she notice? "What, do I have something on my face?"

Yes. Your face. Which is the problem. 

Paige swallowed hard. "Shut up and let’s go. We’re gonna miss our reservation."

Azzi grinned. "Oh, so it’s a reservation now? Not just ‘grabbing food’ like you said?"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

Paige’s chest tightened. Yeah. That’s the issue.

The walk to the place was quick, and in silence. Both teenagers immerse in their own thoughts. Paige had scouted this place carefully—a small Italian spot with dim lighting, great pasta, and, most importantly, atmosphere. Quiet enough to talk, but not so fancy they’d feel awkward. Just… intimate.

Not a date. Best friends can have intimate dinners.

The second they walked in, Azzi’s eyebrows shot up. "Ohhh. This kind of dinner."

Paige’s stomach dropped. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Azzi smirked, trailing a finger over the white tablecloth. "Just… candles? Fancy napkins? You reserved this, didn’t you?"

Paige had. She’d also requested the corner booth and may or may not have Googled best date spots in the city before remembering—not a date.

"Shut up," she muttered, sliding into the seat. "I just didn’t wanna end up at some chain place with your dad’s playbook spread over the table."

Azzi laughed, leaning forward. "You planned this. Admit it."

Paige’s pulse spiked. Azzi was too close, her grin too knowing. "Yeah, well," she deflected, "someone had to. You’d have dragged me to the first smoothie place you saw."

"Damn right." Azzi picked up the menu, then paused. "P… there’s nothing here you’d eat. No fries. No plain chicken tenders. Just… vegetables." She squinted. "Did you pick this place for me?"

Paige’s ears burned. "No. I just… wanted to try something new."

Azzi’s expression softened. "You hate new."

"I don’t hate it."

"You once cried over a menu because they ‘changed the fries.’"

"That was one time—"

Azzi reached across the table, her fingers brushing Paige’s wrist. "Hey." Her voice was quieter now, teasing but tender. "You could’ve just said you wanted to take me somewhere nice."

Paige’s breath caught. Because it’s you. Because I’d sit through a hundred vegetable plates if it meant watching you smile like this. Instead, she shrugged. "Figured you deserved a break from my culinary crimes."

Azzi squeezed her hand. "You’re ridiculous."

Their conversation flowed as easily as it always did—like they were picking up right where they’d left off, like no time had passed at all. Dinner was… perfect. And they’d missed each other so much - being best friends in different states was not for the weak. 

They argued over breadsticks (Paige dunked hers in ranch; which the brunette called it a "culinary crime"). They debated the best NBA players which was not a big discussion given that Azzi had very limites knowledge on the matter (Paige fought hard for Luka; Azzi, predictably, Steph). 

They laughed so hard at one point that the couple next to them shot them dirty looks, and Azzi had to press her napkin to her mouth to stifle a snort. And the blonde found that the most cute thing ever, but she would deny that with her life. 

But then, as the waiter cleared their plates, Azzi grew quiet. She traced the rim of her glass, her voice softer when she finally spoke.

"You didn’t have to do this, you know."

Paige frowned. "Do what, Az?”

"All of it." Azzi gestured between them. "The dinner, the… whatever this is. We could have done something casual. Your company Is more than enough, P.”

Paige’s chest tightened. 

"I didn’t want to," she said instead.

Azzi looked up, holding her gaze. "Why not?"

The air between them crackled. Paige’s mouth went dry. She was not quite sure of the “why”. 

But before she could answer, Azzi’s phone buzzed loudly on the table.

MOM: 30 minutes, Azzi. Don’t make me come find you.

The spell broke. Azzi groaned, flopping back in her seat. "Ugh, kill me."

Paige exhaled, equal parts relieved and frustrated.  "

C’mon, I will ask for the check, and we can still make it on time. Don’t worry princess.“ 

When the check came, Azzi immediately reached for her wallet. "Split it?"

The blonde snatched the bill before the younger girl’s fingers could graze it. "Nope."

Azzi rolled her eyes. "Come on, P. I ate half your breadsticks. Least I can do is—"

"I invited you," Paige said firmly, sliding her card into the leather folder before Azzi could protest. "My treat."

Azzi opened her mouth to argue—then stopped.

There was something in the way Paige said it. Not just stubborn, but certain. Like it mattered to her. Like this—taking care of Azzi, even in this small way—was something she wanted to do.

A strange warmth fluttered in Azzi’s chest.

Oh.

She’d always teased Paige for being competitive, but this wasn’t that. This was… intentional. The way Paige had picked the restaurant knowing Azzi would love it. The way she’d insisted on walking her back. The way she was looking at her now—chin tilted, eyes soft—like Azzi was something precious.

You do this a lot, don’t you?

The realization hit her like a delayed pass, right to the ribs.

Paige always took care of her.

The extra Gatorade in her bag when Azzi forgot hers. The way she’d text "You good?" after a tough loss. The time she’d had sent a care package all the way from Minessota because Azzi had mentioned feeling sick during a FaceTime. All these little things, piling up.

And Azzi—oblivious, glitchy Azzi—had never let herself think about why it made her stomach swoop.

So, she decided to be a little bold:  "You never answered my question," Azzi said lightly.

"What question?"

"Mean Streets," Azzi teased, bumping her shoulder. "You still owe me that movie night."

Paige’s pulse jumped. You have no idea what you do to me. "Yeah, well. Maybe next time we’re in the same hotel."

Azzi grinned. “How about you sneak into my room tonight given that I have no roommate? "

Paige's fingers twitched against her jeans. Just a movie. Just friends. But her throat had gone dry as desert asphalt in July. "Your mom would literally murder me if she caught me sneaking in after curfew."

Azzi's eyes glittered under the hotel's exterior lights, mischief written in the curve of her smile. "Since when do you care about rules?" She stepped closer, the toe of her sneaker bumping Paige's. "Come on. We've stayed up later at tournaments. And it's not like—" Her voice dropped, suddenly shy, "—it's not like we'd be doing anything wrong."

That's the problem, Paige thought wildly. I might lose control if you keep looking at me like that.

The confession nearly slipped out right there between the parked cars and humming streetlights. Instead, she cleared her throat. "What time's lights out?"

"Eleven." Azzi rocked back on her heels, suddenly nervous. "But you don't have to—"

"I'll be there at 10:45." The words left Paige's mouth before her brain caught up. "I can bring the snacks: Sour Patch Kids and those weird peanut butter crackers you like too.”

Azzi's resulting smile could've powered the entire hotel. 

"Deal." 

She turned toward the entrance, then glanced back over her shoulder, damp brunette curls catching the light. "Don't chicken out,  you already know my room number.”

And to be fair, Paige had actually memorized it the second azzi told her. 

10:42 PM - Third Floor Hallway

Paige counted doors with her heartbeat thundering in her ears. 1124...1126... The ice machine down the hall rattled like her nerves. This was stupid. This shouldn't feel so monumental. They'd shared beds before—crammed together in the Fudds' cabin last summer, limbs tangled during movie nights in Minnesota. 

But those times had been easy. Safe.

They were also never actually alone. 

Never after Azzi had looked at her like that over breadsticks.

She raised her hand to knock—then froze. 

She was freaking out because she knew what this meant. It was painfully clear she had a crush on her best friend. But did Azzi feel the same? What would that even mean for them? For their friendship? ? And then there was Jason—the guy Azzi had shut down, but still. He was a boy, and that somehow made it different.

She remembered their conversation last night—Azzi confessing she’d never kissed anyone, Paige admitting her own experiences weren’t as wild as people assumed. The way Azzi’s eyes had lingered when she’d said, "you already know my room number."

Before she could second-guess herself any longer, Paige knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately—like Azzi had been waiting on the other side.

And there she was: damp curls framing her face, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, pajama shorts that Paige was pretty sure were hers (stolen in Minnesota, no doubt).

"You gonna stand out here all night?" Azzi smirked. "Or are you coming in?"

Paige’s throat went dry. "Was working up to it."

"Scared, Bueckers?"

"Of you? Please." 

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the warm, vanilla-scented dark. 

[mide404]

My sister says: Let me tell the world about the heat of the tent… 💔

The heat that melted everything: the color of our skin, our emotions, our dreams, the colors of our clothes, the stacks of deodorant cans, the lipstick and eyeliner pencils I’ve kept for nine months without using—just to remind myself that I am still a woman.

We toss and turn in the tent from one corner to another, like schnitzel pieces frying in hot oil. Sweat covers our features until we taste its salt, burning our eyes, destroying our hair that once enjoyed oil baths and healthy routines, exhausting the pores of our skin that were once used to care and pampering.

In the tent, everything is unbearably hot: the mattress, the pillow, the blanket, the water container, the cups, the plates, the sand, the towel, the only chair. Even the drinking water, which is supposed to cool us down, is so hot you can see bubbles rising from the lone stainless steel cup standing on the tent floor.

In the heat of the tent, your body becomes a fingerprint scanner for ants, mosquitoes, lice, fleas, flies, heat rash, and other things.In the heat of the tent, you share space with lizards, rats, scorpions, and insects you’ve never seen before.In the heat of the tent, no one can keep their true nature intact: the calm are no longer calm, the dreamers stop dreaming, the obedient grow defiant, and it’s rare to find someone who maintains their understanding of others as before.

In the heat of the tent, headaches are constant, blood pressure fluctuates, skin rashes appear, kidney problems develop, bones ache, bodies wither, and a general fatigue overwhelms you. There’s a suppressed cry every time you feel suffocated by your own sweat.

I am Mahmoud Saleh. I plead with you to look upon my torn and displaced family with mercy and give them the chance to continue their lives in peace. I stand here before these compassionate hearts, full of hope that you will help what remains of my family and provide them with a better life, one where they can live safely and peacefully.

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