#everything you do in this game has to do with numbers

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader  word count: 2.4k notes: part 3 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack WAYYYYY fluffier than the prequel — a gift to me and all of you. Also I think this might be the last part??? unless any of you have questions or one shots you want to hear about these two 🥹

You’re late to Beau’s baseball game. Not wildly—just enough that your pulse is up, your hair’s a mess, and you feel that twist in your chest that only happens when Jack gets there first.

You scan the bleachers, hand shielding your eyes. He’s easy to spot. Legs stretched out, ball cap pulled low, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. One arm draped across the bench beside him, claiming space.

Of course he saved you a spot.

“Christ,” you mutter, flopping into the seat beside him. “It’s mid-April. Why is it still so cold?”

Without missing a beat, Jack tilts his head toward the parking lot but reaches down at his feet. “There’s a coat in the car, but I’ve got a blanket here.”

He pulls out a slightly-rumpled camping blanket and offers it without looking—like this is just what you do now. Like he’s still the guy who knows when you’re cold before you say it.

You shake your head, tugging the sweatshirt you’ve been holding over your head.

“I’m good. Just needed this.”

Jack turns. Looks. And comically blinks.

It’s the team hoodie. The one the team mom handed out last week. Big enough to swallow you whole. Team logo on the chest. But it’s the back that gets him—ABBOT in bold block letters, above Beau’s number: 4.

You pretend not to notice how he’s staring. Pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips when his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“God,” he finally breathes. “You could’ve warned a guy.”

You smirk, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, low and hoarse. “You realize that, right?”

“It’s not like I put your name on it for you, Jack. There’s no player with my last name. I’m supporting our kid.”

His eyes drag down your body again—slower this time. Less surprised. More… appreciative.

“Right,” he says, blinking slow. “Supporting Beau. Totally normal. Not suggestive at all.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. It’s a losing game—trying not to feel everything you’re feeling. Want. Nostalgia. The sharp edges of maybe.

“He’s almost up to bat.”

Jack lifts his phone like he’s just remembered he has it. “Gotta document the moment. Hold still.”

You hear the shutter click.

“Send that to Robby and I’m never wearing it again.”

He grins as he taps the screen. “Too late. It’s already in the group chat. Dana’s gonna combust.”

You groan, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. “You’re such a menace.”

But you feel his gaze still on you. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s remembering the nights he used to get to see you in nothing but one of his sweatshirts—and wondering if this counts.

He nudges your knee with his. “You know, it’s not too late to get one with your last name on the back.”

You glance sideways.

“I mean it.” His voice softens. The grin tugs at his mouth, but his eyes are steady. “You wear my name like that again, I might get ideas.”

Your breath catches—just for a second.

You look away, toward the field, voice deliberately casual. “Let’s just focus on the game, Romeo.”

But he leans in, not quite touching, his breath warm against your ear.

“Sure,” he murmurs. “For now.”

And when Beau steps up to the plate, Jack sits back with one arm stretched casually across the bench behind you, fingertips grazing the letters printed across your back.

–

The next weekend is Beau’s half-birthday—his idea, obviously—and while you and Jack didn’t plan a full-blown party, somehow it’s turned into one.

Robby’s manning the grill like he’s auditioning for Food Network.. A couple of interns are tossing a ball with Beau and his friends on the lawn. You’re watching from the shade with a drink in hand.

Jack sits beside you, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. And it kind of is.

“You need anything?” he asks.

You hum a soft no, your shoulder brushing his.

Across the yard, Dana lowers her sunglasses and stares you down as she approaches.

“Well, well, well.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Look at you two. Domestic as hell.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Jack mutters, sliding his arm around your waist.

Dana smirks. “No, I say that like I’m preparing a toast for the wedding.”

You roll your eyes.

“Not yet,” Robby calls from the grill. “But someone got tagged in a very cozy park bench photo last week.”

Jack winces. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” you say, leaning into him. “People were always going to talk. At least now it’s about something we’re proud of.”

He glances at you—really looks—and nods once.

Just then, one of the neighborhood moms hustles over, diaper bag slung low. “Do you mind watching the baby for a few? Would love to pee in peace for the first time in years.”

“Been there,” you say, arms already out. “Take all the time you need.”

You settle with the baby, Jack beside you, the baby nestled against your chest. Comfortable silence settles between you.

“Now is this grill a time machine?” Robby shouts. “Feels like we’ve turned back the clock five years.”

Jack chuckles, leaning in to nibble the baby’s socked foot. “Yeah. I miss this age.”

You hesitate, heart in your throat. You’ve been dealing with major baby fever lately—but you never thought you'd get to feel this again. Not with him. Not here.

You bite the bullet. “Always thought I’d have two or three, y’know?”

Jack hums. “Never even thought I’d have one. But after Beau, I figured we’d end up with a whole football team.”

A neighborhood kid runs up and squints at you. “Mrs. Abbot… is this your baby?”

You laugh. “Nope, this is Mrs. Turner’s baby. I’m just holding her. My only baby is Beau—and he’s all grown up now.”

The kid nods solemnly and runs off.

“Tough crowd,” you murmur.

You turn—and find Jack still watching you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a quiet look on his face, “...you didn’t correct her on the last name.”

“She’s four. It's a bit complex to explain that yes, my son’s last name is Abbot, but mine isn’t.”

His lip quirks. You nudge his shoulder gently with yours.

–

It’s Beau’s Pre-K graduation and he’s somewhere outside, bounding around in his paper cap with the usual crew.

Inside, you’re balancing a lukewarm coffee in one hand and a paper plate of grocery store cookies in the other. Someone’s mid-way through an impassioned pitch about why you should join the PTA next year.

Jack’s at your side—polished enough for a school event, sleeves rolled, one too many button undone, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Present in a way that feels new. Like he wants people to know he’s here, with you.

You barely even catch the name slip: “So nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s hand finds your hip, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze.

You smile without missing a beat.

The conversation wraps. You make polite excuses. You and Jack step out into the hallway toward the playground.

Behind you, the buzz of small talk fades.

“Felt kinda nice, didn’t it?” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I knew you were going to make a comment.”

You turn the corner—and he catches you. One arm braced against the wall, the other slipping around your waist, pinning you gently between him and the cinderblock.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “They called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t flinch.”

You shrug, breath hitching when he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” he says, lips skating down your jaw, “you keep playing this game, it’s gonna give me ideas.”

“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” you whisper, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

His mouth finds yours again—firmer this time. Slower.

Footsteps echo down the far end of the hallway.

You both break apart, laughing quietly.

“Down, boy” you say, smoothing your hair. “We’ve got a graduate to wrangle.”

Jack grins, still close. “For the record, Mrs. Abbot has a real nice ring to it.”

You laugh, “There are worse last names to be stuck with”.

But when he laces your fingers together and leads you out into the sun, you don’t let go.

–

It’s the last month of Beau’s summer break when you head out to the lake. Your parents will be there. Your sister and her kids. Jack’s brother and his family are driving in, too.

You’re panicking, of course. Jack is cool as a cucumber. Beau’s bouncing off the walls with excitement about a whole week of cousin chaos.

You gave your family a stern talk before you left. Be nice. You love him. Beau loves him. He’s doing the work. He’s different now. You’re making it work—and yeah, you’re scared—but you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been.

Naturally, you three are the last to arrive. Of course it’s your fault. One final Zoom dragged long and you left straight from Pittsburgh with your laptop still warm in your bag.

The cabin is palatial. Jack found it. He definitely went over budget, but you know he’d never charge your family. It’s just who he is now—present, generous, steady.

You send Jack and Beau to the backyard with the others while you start unpacking.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes you glance up. Your sister walks in and flops dramatically on the bed.

“Okay,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you replaced your ex with a well-adjusted clone. Where’d Dr. McBroody go?”

You laugh. “I know. It’s weird. You guys didn’t know him when we first started dating. He’s… back. The guy I fell in love with. I didn’t think I’d get that again.”

She hums, skeptical. “Then why are you still keeping him at arm’s length?”

“What?”

“Just trying to figure out why you’re still holding back when he keeps proving himself—over and over—from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes.”

You glance out the window. Jack’s lifting Beau to dunk over the older cousins, both of them laughing.

You sigh. “I’m scared. I can’t go through that again.”

She softens. “You can’t live like that. Cut the poor man some slack. Either go all in, or cut him loose. But don’t keep him in limbo. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you murmur, following her downstairs.

It’s a surprise when Jack books dinner for just the two of you on the last night of the trip. At the waterfront place you told him your parents went to every summer.

“You’ve got a house full of babysitters,” your dad says, shooing you out the door. “Go enjoy yourselves. Beau’ll be asleep before you’re back.”

It’s a quick drive, and Jack reaches for your hand over the console as soon as you hit the main road. His palm is a little clammy. Yours too.

“I think this might be the best week of my life,” you say, squeezing his hand.

He’s quieter than usual. But relaxed. Smiling.

At the restaurant, he rounds the car to open your door, hand warm on your lower back as he leads you in.

“Reservation for Abbot.”

“Ah yes—right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

You give him a look. “You paid them to say that.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says, smug as he pulls out your chair.

Dinner is easy. Familiar. Dreamy.

“Can I ruin the moment?” you ask.

“Nothing you say could ruin this.”

“I miss Beau. He’d hate it here—no kids menu. But I love our little unit.”

“I love our unit. I love Beau. I love you.” His fingers trace absentminded circles over your ring finger.

“I love you too.”

After dinner, you walk along the beach, your head resting against his shoulder. He leads you to the edge of a quiet pier.

“You know,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve been through a lot. And yeah, I’d change so much… but also nothing. Because it all got us here. And I know we’ve talked about this, kind of, but I still wanted it to feel a little traditional—”

You blink, heart racing. “Jack…”

“Just let me finish—before you turn me down, let me say this. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying. Really trying. And I think you’ve seen that. I think—” his voice catches. “I think we can do this. For real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears are already slipping down your cheeks. “Jack. Just ask me the question.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Oh—right. Okay.” He drops to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Your breath catches.

“Baby,” he says, eyes shining, “I know I don’t deserve you. But would you do me and Beau the honor of becoming an Abbot?”

You drop to your knees in front of him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” You kiss him between each word.

He slides the ring onto your finger. You kiss him again, a little breathless.

“Alright,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let’s get you home.”

In the car, you stare down at your hand.

“This ring is perfect. It looks just like my mom’s. It’s my dream ring.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s not like it. It is your mom’s.”

“What?”

“They knew how much you loved it. They gave it to me.”

You stare.

“We still can go ring shopping if it isn't what you want. But when I told them I was going to ask… they offered it. Thought it might mean more.”

“It does,” you whisper. “They know?”

“Of course they know. And Beau knows. And your sister. My brother. Robby. Half the ER. Even the grocery store checkout lady. I haven’t shut up about it.”

You laugh as he pulls into the driveway.

The house is dark, unusually quiet after a week of family chaos.

You lean across the console to kiss him, half-climbing into his lap. He grins against your lips but gently stops you.

“Let’s get inside first.”

You cock your head. “Since when are you the voice of reason?”

He rounds the car, opens your door, and leads you inside, where the lights flip on and the entire house bursts into shouts of “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Beau barrels into your legs and you scoop him up, laughing through tears as Jack presses a kiss to your temple.And for the first time, you don’t flinch when someone calls you Mrs. Abbot. You just smile, because it’s exactly who you are now.

[bucketsorbueckers]

Trouble - Chapter 1

Age gap Paige X Azzi

Warnings: Language

Word count: 6.3K

a/n: someone dropped this idea in my inbox. i became obsessed. stayed up way too late and woke up way too early to write this bc i actually can't stop thinking about it. IDK how often this will be updated bc i clearly didn't write ahead but yeah. anyways anon, whoever you are, i love you sm thank you for this

also pls let me know if you like this one i know its diffff

Summary:

Paige Bueckers has spent five years as the WNBA’s golden girl—stoic, unstoppable, and famously unbothered.

But she’s also never met Azzi Fudd.

Until the Lynx trade up to draft her.

Azzi’s twenty-three. Number one pick. Gorgeous. Talented. And, not that long ago, was reposting thirst edits of Paige Bueckers like it was her part-time job.

Now they’re teammates. Sharing a locker room. And, if Azzi has her way, a slow-burn love story in the making.

Paige isn’t interested. Azzi isn’t subtle.

And neither of them is remotely prepared.

Azzi POV| 5:07 PM | Night before the draft

Azzi was halfway through her post-shower routine at the hotel, hair wrapped in a towel, legs still damp, wearing the old Chicago Sky t-shirt she’d thrifted freshman year—ripped at the hem and barely hanging on—when her phone rang.

On the screen: Marcus.

Her agent. Her very recently seen agent. They’d met earlier that day to go over everything—schedule, logistics, media. The plan.

Azzi was going number one. That wasn’t new. Wasn’t surprising.

Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year her senior season. Best guard in the class. She’d been headlining mock drafts since before she could legally vote.

Chicago had the pick. Chicago needed a star. She already had the jersey, practically.

So, there was no reason for Marcus to be calling. 

She answered the call with the kind of slow, suspicious grace typically reserved for the moment everything goes wrong.

“Hello?”

“You sitting down?” he asked, and her stomach dropped before he even said the rest.

She sat. Not because he told her to. Because her knees went loose all at once, and the edge of the bed caught her before the floor did.

“There was a trade,” he said. “It’s still you at number one. But it’s not Chicago anymore.”

She blinked. He waited.

She blinked again. “Then who—”

“Minnesota.”

Silence.

“Minnesota?” she repeated, like maybe that was a city she’d never heard of. “As in—”

“Yup,” Marcus said. “Lynx traded up. Desperate move. One of their guards tore her ACL in practice yesterday. Front office went all in. It’s a good opportunity, Azzi.”

But Azzi wasn’t listening. Because her brain had stopped at Minnesota and detoured immediately to Paige Bueckers.

“No. No, wait. Like… Paige Bueckers Minnesota?”

There was a pause. Then: “Well, I believe their facilities are technically in Minneapolis,” Marcus said, flat. “But yes. Pretty much the same thing.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She was too busy recalibrating the trajectory of her entire adult life.

Paige Bueckers. Paige fucking Bueckers. The woman who made midrange fadeaways look like foreplay.  Who never smiled in post-game interviews and somehow made that hot was going to be her teammate.

Azzi looked down at her shirt. Chicago blue—which now felt traitorous. She pulled it off immediately. Now standing in the mirror in just her bra and underwear, she stared at herself.

Oh god.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be drafted by Chicago, do the polite press thing, and flirt with Paige Bueckers lightly on Instagram after proving herself in the league.

She was not supposed to get launched straight into the orbit of her actual dream girl. This was not a drill. This was not a cool moment. This was Defcon horny.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly.

“Azzi, I think we should—”

She hung up before Marcus could finish. Rushed to her suitcase. Dug beneath the carefully folded outfits. Ripped through socks and slides and backup lashes until she found it.

The hoodie.

Faded gray. Slightly oversized. The same one Paige had been photographed in years ago after some summer league game—hood up, headphones in, looking so good Azzi had nearly choked. 

Azzi had seen the picture on Twitter and ordered the hoodie that day. No hesitation.

She pulled it on now. Like maybe it would protect her from the very obvious, very embarrassing crush she still hadn’t grown out of.

It did not.

If anything, it made things worse. Because now she looked like a girl who knew what she was walking into. And was already in way too deep.

She checked the mirror. Pouted. Tilted her head.

“Shit,” she muttered to her reflection. “You’re absolutely gonna ruin everything.”

Group Chat: baby goats🐐🐐🐐

Azzi:

THEY TRADED THE PICK

I’M GOING TO MINNESOTA

MINNE-FUCKING-SOTA

WHY WOULD GOD DO THIS TO ME

Jana ??? girl congrats???

Caroline: wait like BUECKERS minnesota????

Azzi: SHE’S THERE

SHE’S GONNA SEE ME

SHE’S GONNA KNOW

Caroline:what is she gonna know??

Azzi: THAT I’M DOWN BAD

that i’ve been reposting her since sophomore year

Jana i’m sorry didn’t you tweet “paige bueckers if you’re reading this i’m free on thursday. and also every day for the rest of my life" once

Caroline:

oh you’re cooked

Azzi: she’s gonna think i’m a fan

she’s gonna know i’m a fan

i’m gonna get benched for being horny

Jana: can they even put that in the contract?

Azzi:  they’re gonna invent a new clause for me

—-----------

Azzi woke up the next morning with two purposes:

Look unbelievably good.

Don’t make a complete fool of herself in front of Paige Bueckers.

She had a better chance of walking on water than pulling off both.

Her room was already full of people by the time she brushed her teeth. Makeup team. Hair. Stylist. Publicist. A girl holding a tiny steamer and the biggest coffee Azzi had ever seen.

She let them pull her into the chair while they moved around her in practiced formation. Clipped her hair back. Adjusted the lighting. Began.

“Morning,” her stylist said, already unzipping garment bags like they were revealing state secrets. “We’ve got two looks—one for tehs stage, one for the afterparty. You’re gonna like both, but you’re gonna love one.”

Azzi smiled, soft but sure. “Knew I could trust you.”

She sat still as they worked—moisturizer, concealer, quiet chatter filling the gaps. She knew the drill. Sit. Breathe. Let the professionals do their thing while she tried not to overthink hers.

The carpet dress was black silk, ankle-length, with a halter neckline and a slit that would photograph well but not scream trying too hard. Her makeup stayed close to natural, but her eyes were lined sharp exactly how she liked it. 

She looked at herself in the mirror when they finished. She looked good. And not just ‘for a rookie,’ not just ‘draft night ready.’ She looked like someone who belonged—who had trained her whole life for this and was getting what she deserved. 

Still, she adjusted the strap at her shoulder. Smoothed the fabric at her waist. Picked up her phone like it might ground her.

Jana: You breathe yet?

Azzi: No but at least I’ll look sexy while dying

Jana: Post a thirst trap. Establish dominance.

Azzi: You think I won’t??

She didn’t. She posted a mirror selfie mid-makeup with the caption: draft day bts. She half hoped maybe Paige would see it. But Paige didn’t even follow her so the thought was desperate and mortifying in a way she didn’t want to admit. 

The crowd in the room slowly thinned out until it was just her.

Makeup brushes packed away. Dresses zipped back into garment bags. Someone murmured something about call times and press schedules, but Azzi only half-heard it. She nodded, smiled, stayed seated.

She looked back at the mirror. Tucked a curl behind her ear. Took a breath inhaling the slight taste of hairspray and perfume. 

Tonight was about a lot of things. Her future. Her game. Her name being called first. She knew that. She could feel the weight of it behind her ribs, the stretch of everything about to change.

But still, she couldn’t stop imagining Paige seeing her like this.

Not on TV. Not through a tagged post or a highlight clip. Here. In the same room. Breathing the same air.

She didn’t even know if Paige would be there. Maybe she’d be watching from home. Maybe she wouldn’t be watching at all. Maybe this was Azzi being ridiculous—letting a decade-old crush sneak in the side door of the biggest night of her life.

But the thought lingered.

She grabbed her phone again. 

Azzi: if i trip on stage it’s not nerves it’s gay panic. tell my story right.

She sent the text and immediately threw her phone onto the bed like it was hot. Not because it was dramatic. Okay—maybe a little because it was dramatic.

She stood. Smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need it. The fabric was fine. The fit was perfect. It was her hands that needed something to do.

Her heart was doing that weird, too-hard, too-loud thing it did before tip-off. Only this time, there were no sneakers. No court. Just cameras and lights and the unbearable possibility of her dreams coming true in front of the woman of her dreams.

Poetry, or something like that.

She turned to the mirror. Looked at herself for a long second. The girl in the reflection looked ready.  She didn’t feel that way.

“Let’s go,” she said, quietly. To no one.  To herself. To the version of her that still didn’t totally believe this was real.

She adjusted her earrings. Lifted her chin. Took one last breath, like it might hold her together.

And then she stepped out of the room—into the hallway, into the chaos, into the version of her life she hadn’t dared to imagine too clearly. Not out loud.  Not until now.

—--

The moment she stepped onto the orange carpet, everything sharpened.

The lights. The voices. The flashbulbs that went off three at a time. It was like stepping onto another planet—one where the air smelled like hairspray and nerves and the smiles came too fast to be real.

Azzi squared her shoulders, tilted her chin half an inch higher, and kept walking.

She’d been to big events before. Red carpets in college, press days for awards., hell even NYC fashion week. But this was different. This was the night. The one she’d been working toward since she could barely dribble with her left hand.

She moved through the chaos like she’d practiced it—because she had. Step, stop, pose. Give the camera a little shoulder. Smile, but not too big. Enough to say I’m happy to be here, not I can’t feel my face.

“Azzi! Over here!”

She turned toward the voice, one arm resting at her side, the other lightly bent at the elbow. Every pose intentional. Controlled. Like her body wasn’t buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that felt suspiciously like hope.

Hope that maybe Paige was already inside. Hope that maybe she’d notice.

“Who are you wearing tonight?” someone shouted.

Azzi named the designer, barely heard herself say it. She could feel her heart under her collarbone, steady but too loud. A camera shutter clicked. Then another.

“She’s stunning,” someone near the ropes whispered. Azzi didn’t look to see who said it. Didn’t want to ruin it by knowing.

Instead, she kept moving. She made it to the midway point of the carpet before she caught sight of a familiar face.

“Yo,” someone hissed near a row of photographers. “Tell me I’m not sweating through my dress.”

Azzi turned—smiling, grateful—and found Kiara Johnson fanning herself with her hands. Her dress was fire engine red and absolutely unfair.

“You look beautiful,” Azzi said smiling. 

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Thanks. You look unbothered. Hate that for me.”

Azzi laughed, and for a moment, the cameras blurred out. The nerves, too.

Behind her, Simone was already deep into an interview, talking with her hands like the cameras might miss her otherwise. Somewhere to the left, Delaney was yanking at the top of her strapless dress like it might betray her at any second.

They were all here—lined up, glossed up, trying to look chill while buzzing out of their skin. No one said it, but everyone was thinking it: getting drafted was one thing. Making a roster? Whole different story. And the lights were hot. The makeup was sweating. The stakes were higher than any of them wanted to admit.

Azzi took a breath. Smiled. Tried to look like she belonged.

“See you on the other side,” Kiara said, brushing past her with a wink, already headed toward the interview line.

The moment slipped by, and Azzi moved with it—fielding a few more questions, posing for photos, laughing at something one of her old teammates said. She nodded, waved, kept walking.

But finally, she made it through. The final stretch of the carpet calmer. Fewer cameras. Less shouting. Just the hum of anticipation and the low thrum of music from inside the venue.

Azzi slowed her pace. Let the moment sit.

People always said draft night moved fast—that it blurred. She didn’t feel that. If anything, everything felt too sharp. The air too cool on her shoulders. The lights too bright. Her skin too tight across her ribs.

She’d done this before. Interviews. Spotlights. Moments where people clapped just because she walked into a room. But this time was different. This time, it felt like something was about to begin, and she didn’t know who she’d be on the other side of it.

She reached the end of the carpet and stepped out of frame.  But then she paused.

She glanced back—over her shoulder, slow and searching. Just in case. Just in case maybe Paige was there. Standing off to the side. Looking at her like…

She didn’t even know. She just wanted to know. But there was no one.

Just a few photographers packing up. A tech guy adjusting a boom mic. The kind of silence that hums when it’s supposed to be loud.

Azzi lingered for half a second too long. Then turned back. And stepped into her future. 

Paige’s POV 

Paige dropped onto the couch and handed Courtney a beer.

“Thanks,” Courtney said, cracking it open with the corner of her hoodie sleeve like they weren’t sitting ten feet from the kitchen.

It was draft night. The kind of thing you watched because you had to, not because you wanted to.

Paige had made it through exactly half a press request before deciding she didn’t want to be there in person. She hadn’t said why. Just texted her agent staying home. thanks though.

But she knew she needed to watch. So, here she was. 

Tori had torn her ACL three days ago—awkward landing in a non-contact drill. She’d crumpled before she even hit the paint. Paige had watched it happen. Hadn’t said much.

Now, the front office had scrambled, like they always did. Moves made over phones and closed doors, things shuffled before most people knew there was a gap.

Enter Azzi Fudd.

Number one pick. Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year. Flashy handle. Clean jumper.

Apparently league-ready, though Paige found all rookies questionable on principle. Even the good ones. Especially the ones who came in shiny and hyped and smiling too much.

She took another sip. Let the beer go warm in her mouth before swallowing. Tapped her fingers once against the bottle in her hand. And then Azzi Fudd appeared on the screen.

“Didn’t she cross up that French guard at Worlds?” Courtney asked, squinting toward the TV.

“Probably,” Paige said.

Azzi stepped onto the orange carpet in a black silk dress.

Sleek. Minimal. The kind of dress that clung just enough and moved when she walked. High neckline. Open back. Legs for days. Not showy, but precise. Every detail meant to look like it hadn’t been thought about at all—which meant it had been thought about a lot.

She posed like she’d done it before. Hand at her waist. Chin tilted just slightly. Confident. Camera-ready.

The kind of look that worked hard to seem effortless. And mostly got away with it.

Paige watched her for a second longer than she meant to. Not because she cared. She didn’t.

She just hadn’t expected her to walk like that. Like she owned the carpet. Like she knew how she looked. Like she knew people were watching and wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

She wasn't sure why she was surprised.

Azzi was good-looking. Everyone could probably admit that. But the confidence -

“She’s good-looking,” Courtney said, casually. Like she was reading Paige’s mind and calling her out on it before Paige could pretend otherwise.

Paige didn’t flinch. “She looks like a kid.”

Too fast. Too automatic.

Courtney turned her head. Just slightly. “That is not a kid.”

Paige brought the bottle to her lips. Didn’t drink. Her eyes drifted back to the screen, where Azzi was still smiling like the world had already said yes. And the thing was—no. She didn’t look like a kid.

Not in that dress. Not with that walk. Not with the way she tilted her chin at the camera like she already knew every eye was on her. 

She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. And was probably used to getting away with it.

Trouble. 

But Paige didn’t say that. Didn’t even think it, not officially.

“She’s confident,” Courtney added.

“She’s twenty-three,” Paige said. “They’re all confident.”

It wasn’t a slight. It was just math.

Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up beside her. She glanced at it. Her agent.

Need to post a ‘welcome to Minnesota’ tonight, P. It’s a good look.

Paige rolled her eyes. Clicked the screen off without replying. She wasn’t in the mood to perform a warm reception.

She set the phone facedown on the coffee table. Picked her beer back up. The draft coverage rolled on in the background—names, stats, dresses, practiced smiles.

She didn’t watch. She already knew what she needed to know. The Lynx had a new rookie. And Paige had a season to win.

The volume was still muted when they called Azzi’s name. But the words still crossed the screen: 

“First overall pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…the Minnesota Lynx select Azzi Fudd.”

Courtney leaned forward. “There it is.”

Paige didn’t move. Just watched as the camera panned to Azzi—already on her feet, hugging the people at her table. Composed. Moving slow. Like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life and had no plans to let anyone else touch it.

She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it. Dress sleek, smile soft but deliberate. No stumble. No nerves showing.

“Clean,” Courtney murmured. “I’ll give her that.”

Paige made a quiet sound in her throat. Not agreement. Not disagreement either.

Azzi reached the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey with the right amount of polish. Flashes went off around her. People cheered.

Paige took another sip of her beer.

“She’s gonna be on your left,” Courtney said.

Paige shrugged. “If she earns it.”

On screen, Azzi waved at the crowd. Her smile cracked a little wider, just for a second. Genuine. Then the screen faded to black.

Paige shifted on the couch. Let the silence settle for a second. Ran through her mental list of shit she needed to get done.

And then the music kicked back in—cinematic, dramatic, over the top. The draft coverage returned with one of those slow-motion montages ESPN couldn’t resist. Azzi crossing someone up at Worlds. Azzi pulling up from the logo with zero hesitation. Azzi grinning, scissors in hand, cutting the net.

“Azzi, huge congrats. First overall—how does it feel, and what are you most looking forward to as a member of the Lynx?”

Azzi smiled. “I mean… everything, really. It’s a great team, great coaching staff. I’ve grown up watching this league, so to be part of it—especially with this franchise—feels surreal. I’m ready to learn, to work—just excited to be part of the culture.”

“She’s media trained to hell,” Courtney muttered from the far end of the couch, one leg tucked under her.

Paige didn’t respond.

Azzi was answering all the usual questions—grateful, humbled, excited to learn. She hit every note perfectly. Not too eager. Not too rehearsed. Just enough to come off smooth. And then the reporter smiled, a little too wide. A little too pointed.

“You’ll be joining a team with some serious veteran talent. I’ve gotta ask—are you excited to play with someone like Paige Bueckers?”

Paige blinked.

Courtney groaned. “Here we fucking go.”

Azzi hesitated. Barely. But enough to see it. The pause. The shift in her shoulders, like she was resetting.

She smiled again, quick and reflexive. “Yeah, of course. I mean—she’s Paige Bueckers.”

Paige closed her eyes for a second. Inhaled. Forced herself not to look over at Courtney, who she knew—without question—was sitting there with that annoying-ass grin, just waiting. Exhaled. Opened her eyes. Azzi was no longer on the screen.

Slowly, she turned her head.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Courtney held it together for maybe half a second. Then lost it—low and sharp and immediate.

“She said it like one of your fan girls.”

“She said it like someone answering a forced question on live TV.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, a forced question that made her whole spine go stiff.”

Paige didn’t bite. Just kept her eyes on the screen, now back to showing some other prospect hugging their family.

Courtney leaned back, grinning. “I’m just saying—if she goes all shy and stuttery every time you walk in the room? I’m not gonna survive.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Courtney snorted. “You sure? 'Cause right now she’s out here sounding like she still got your jersey saved in her closet.”

Paige stared ahead, expression flat. “You done?”

“For now.”

Paige sighed. “She’s a kid, Court. It’s draft night. She was nervous.”

“Nervous about playing with the Paige Bueckers,” Courtney squealed, lifting her hands like she was presenting a prize on a game show.

Paige clenched her jaw, “Why the fuck did I invite you over again?”

Courtney shrugged. “Because I’m one of the few people who still put up with your ass.”

Paige scoffed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, cracking open another drink. “But I’m right.”

Paige didn’t argue.

—----------

Later that night, after the noise had faded and the apartment had gone still, Paige crawled into bed and stared at the text from her agent. She didn’t roll her eyes, but the instinct was there.

She knew she should do it. She’d known since before the draft even started. Since the trade went through. Since someone in PR mentioned “messaging alignment” and how nice it would be if she tapped in as a vet.

A simple post. A “Welcome to Minnesota.” A teammate move. The kind of thing that looked good. That people noticed.

She remembered her own draft night. The nerves that crept in after the cameras cut. The way everything felt bigger than she was, even if she didn’t show it.

And she remembered what it meant—seeing a name she recognized in her notifications. A vet she respected saying something as small as can’t wait to hoop.

She hadn’t known, at the time, if she belonged yet. If she’d be accepted. That one message hadn’t fixed it, but it had helped.

Paige sighed, unlocked her phone, and started typing.

She didn’t follow Azzi yet. She hadn’t thought about it. Not really her thing to follow people before they showed up. Rookies came and went. Most of them weren’t worth tracking until they were in the gym.

But Azzi was going to be her teammate. Number one picks don't go anywhere.

And so, Paige typed “azzi” into the search bar. First result. Blue check. Profile picture of her in a UCLA uniform. 

She tapped follow. Found a photo of her holding the jersey on stage. Shared it to her story. 

Typed:

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work. Tagged her. Posted it.

Then she locked her phone, flipped it face down on the nightstand, and turned out the light.

Azzi’s POV

The afterparty was loud, gold-lit, and dripping in free liquor. Azzi was still wearing her heels—even though she swore she wouldn’t be that girl—but the champagne buzz made it easier to lie to her calves.

She was mid-laugh when Caroline grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her away from the circle of girls around the DJ booth, and shoved her phone into Azzi’s face like it was breaking news.

“AZZI.”

Azzi turned, grinning. “Jesus. What?”

Caroline didn’t speak. Just shoved her phone forward again like it was a bomb. “Look.”

Azzi squinted. Read what was on the screen. Blinked once. And then fully screamed.

Because there it was. Paige Bueckers’ Instagram story. 

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work, @/azzifudd. Tagged. Plain as day.

Azzi clapped a hand over her mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, bitch!”

Azzi grabbed Caroline’s phone like it might vanish. Stared at the story. The caption. Her name. Her face. Paige fucking Bueckers had posted her.

“Did she follow me?” Azzi asked, voice already an octave too high.

“Yes.”

“She tagged me?”

“YES.”

Azzi shrieked again. Someone turned and looked. She didn’t care. She was pacing in tiny drunk circles, heels clacking against marble, one hand still holding her drink like a lifeline, the other pressed flat to her chest.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she said.

Caroline looked delighted. “No, you’re gonna cry. Then you’re gonna DM her. And then you’re gonna marry her.”

Azzi stopped mid-circle. “Do I DM her?”

Caroline blinked, like she couldn't believe Azzi took that seriously. “Are you insane?”

“Yes?”

Azzi fumbled for her own phone. Opened Instagram. Her hands were sweaty. Her brain was screaming. But there it was. Paige Bueckers. Blue check. Following you.

She screamed. Again.

Caroline absolutely cackled. “You’re gonna combust,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

Azzi didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the wall, head tipped toward the ceiling like if she moved even a little, the alcohol and adrenaline sloshing around inside her might actually spill out.

“She posted me,” she whispered.

“Yup.”

“She knows I exist.”

“She definitely does.”

Azzi dropped her phone. Caroline caught it mid-air.

“I peaked,” Azzi said, eyes glassy. “It’s all downhill from here.”

Caroline laughed so hard she snorted. “This is the gayest moment of your life.”

“So far,” Azzi shot back, managing a wink.

Caroline cracked up again, and Azzi just sat there—grinning like a dumbass and letting herself have it. The moment. The buzz. The quiet shock of it actually happening.

And yeah, sure—maybe the woman she’d been casually obsessed with since she was eighteen had just acknowledged her existence...publicly. And maybe her brain had short-circuited a little. But this wasn’t just about Paige.

This was hers.

Her name. Her number. Her jersey. The dream she’d chased across a thousand late nights and long practices, now finally unfolding—loud and real and hers.

—-

Her and Caroline ended up in bed together.

Not like that. Just sideways across the hotel mattress, still in their dresses, makeup smudged, Azzi’s heels abandoned somewhere under the desk. The lights were off, save for the glow of Caroline’s phone screen and the pale halo of the city bleeding through the window. Azzi was lying dramatically on her back, one arm flung over her face.

“She posted me,” she whispered for the third time that hour.

“Yes, Azzi.” Caroline’s voice was dry. “She posted you. We know. We have analyzed every font, every pixel, every breath of it.”

Azzi lifted her phone off her stomach and tilted it toward her face again. Paige’s story was still up. Still tagged. Still maddeningly casual.

“Do you think she picked that picture on purpose?” she asked.

“I think the options were limited.”

“But it's a good photo.”

Caroline rolled onto her side. “You looked hot. She noticed. Congrats.”

Azzi groaned, half-smiling. “She didn’t notice.”

“She did.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

They were quiet for a second. Just the sound of distant traffic, the soft hum of the hotel AC, and the fizz of Azzi’s brain trying not to read too much into something that probably wasn’t anything.

Probably.

“I should repost it,” Azzi said finally.

“Yes,” Caroline said, without hesitation.

Azzi stared at her screen.

“What do I say?”

“Don’t overthink it.”

“I am overthinking it.”

“I know.”

Azzi hovered over the repost button for a full minute. Then tapped it. Drafted three different captions. Deleted all of them. Groaned into the pillow. Caroline waited, patient like the best friends always are when you’re being slightly insane but they loved you anyway. 

Finally, Azzi typed:

Let’s. Then added a basketball emoji. A wolf. A white heart. Paused. And hit post.

The story blinked up on her screen. Her name and Paige’s, together. Not side by side, exactly, but close enough. She exhaled, dropping the phone on the mattress between them.

Caroline nudged her knee. “Proud of you.”

Azzi smiled. Soft. Sleepy. “She’s probably not even thinking about it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Maybe not.”

They let the silence settle again. The good kind. The kind that means everything is still, and sweet, and safe.  Eventually, Caroline fell asleep. Azzi didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, she lay there blinking up at the ceiling, heart still doing that stupid flutter thing every time she thought Paige knows who I am.

Her phone kept buzzing. Someone replied to her story with fire emojis. Another repost. Another tag. Her mentions were chaos, but she didn’t check them.

Instead, she opened her own profile. Scrolled. Paused on a selfie with a suggestive caption from last summer. Deleted.

Another one—captioned something like wife me—gone.

A photo in Paige’s college jersey, posted years ago with an “accidental” crop that still showed the number? Archive.

She kept going. Just in case. Not because she cared what Paige thought. She didn’t. Not really.

She just wanted to seem…cool. Chill. Like she hadn’t been watching Paige play since she was young and realized just how good Paige was. Like she hadn’t watched her interview clips on YouTube, or bought that hoodie the second Paige wore it in a tunnel fit.

Azzi groaned quietly into her pillow. This was so dumb. She was a professional now. A grown-ass adult. Still, she archived one more post, just to be safe.

Then finally, she turned off her screen, slid the phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Caroline was snoring softly behind her.

Paige Bueckers had tagged her. And now, they were teammates.

God help her.

—---

Training camp came quicker than she was prepared for.

One minute, she was still drunk off adrenaline and nice champagne, doing half-coherent interviews in a silk dress. The next, she was alone in her car with her duffel bag in the passenger seat and her knees shaking like it was the first day of high school.

The Lynx practice facility rose ahead, sleek and intimidating, like it was designed specifically to make rookies question their entire life.

Azzi stared out the window. Tried to breathe like a normal person.

She could do this. She had done this—first days, new teams, pressure so thick it pressed against her chest like a physical weight. She knew how to show up. Knew how to play.

Still, her legs wobbled when she stepped out. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was Paige Bueckers.

(Probably Paige Bueckers.)

She pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck, shifted her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the doors like they weren’t the gateway to her actual childhood dream.

The glass reflected her face back at her—tired eyes, lips pressed into something that was almost a smile. She squared her shoulders.

This was fine. She was fine. Totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine.

She stepped inside.

The air was cool and smelled like disinfectant and money—cleaner than any gym she’d ever trained in. The kind of place built for greatness. The kind of place that didn’t just expect banners and trophies but demanded them.

Azzi paused just past the entrance, eyes catching on the wall to her right. Photos stretched down the hallway—players frozen mid-crossover, mid-celebration, mid-legacy. Maya Moore. Seimone Augustus. Napheesa Collier.

And then...

Paige Bueckers.

Azzi’s eyes caught on that one. Briefly. Too briefly. She looked away fast enough to give herself whiplash, like if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t register.

It was a good photo though. Intense. A little smug. Paige had her hands on her hips, chin tipped like she already knew she’d won — because she probably had. That kind of quiet confidence you couldn’t teach, just had to be born with.

And yeah. Maybe Azzi had once saved that exact photo to her phone. For, you know. Motivation. But she had deleted it last week like any normal person would. 

Azzi adjusted the strap on her duffel and kept walking. Kept ignoring the creeping thoughts threatening to topple her. 

She didn’t need to stare at a wall of greatness and spiral about where she fit in. Or worse: imagine what her photo would look like up there one day.

What if I never make it?

Nope. Not today.

Today, she had one job: walk in like she belonged. Even if her stomach was flipping and her palms were clammy and her brain was already shouting don’t say anything weird to Paige Bueckers.

One step at a time, she forced herself to think.

She pushed open the locker room door and stepped in, trying to look chill. She wasn’t.

The place was already alive. Bass pulsing through the speakers, someone laughing from the far corner, the sharp rip of a duffel unzipping. It smelled like eucalyptus and someone’s overpriced lotion, warm and floral and a little too strong.

Heads turned.

“Look who finally showed up,” Bridget said, lounging in a sports bra and sweats, socked feet kicked up. “Miss Number One.”

A few others laughed, and Courtney gave her a nod from across the room. “Go ‘head and find a seat, rookie.”

Azzi smiled because what else could she do? She gave a small wave, muttered, “Nice to meet y’all,” and found the open locker with her name on it. 

A few players came over to introduce themselves. A little side hug from Alanna. Another grin from Courtney as she passed with a protein shake in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Welcome to the league,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder like it wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Azzi smiled again, this time a little tighter. She was trying not to scan the room too obviously, but the longer she stood there, the more obvious it felt.

No Paige.

The absence settled over her like static. Not loud, but present.

She didn’t say anything. Just peeled off her hoodie, folding it with too much care—like it was the most important thing she'd do all day. She stuffed it into her duffel and wiped her palms on her leggings, fingers twitching.

Eyes darted around again.

Still no Paige.

“You good?” Alanna asked, passing by again.

“Yeah,” Azzi said quickly. “Just… taking it in.”

“I get it,” She said with a small smile. “But you got drafted for a reason. So, remember that.”

Azzi nodded and tried to keep breathing.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and yanked it up, halfway over her head, arms caught for a second, shoulder twisting awkwardly.

Of course, that’s when the door swung open behind her. Because timing was a cruel, heartless bitch.

She stilled. The fabric still clinging to one arm.

And then, the room shifted in that subtle, almost imperceptible way that happens when someone important walks in. Energy coiling. Conversations dipping.

She yanked the shirt off with a violent twist, hair static-y and sticking to her face, and turned around and almost died.

Paige Bueckers. In the flesh. Black hoodie. Basketball shorts. Tall. Blonde. Looking like a deleted scene from a Nike commercial. Like she hadn’t just walked into Azzi’s most persistent daydream.

Azzi stood there, caught mid-breath, shirt clutched in her hands like she was preparing to wave it as a white flag.

Paige’s eyes flicked to her. Not in a weird way. Just in a normal, I-am-acknowledging-you-as-a-human-being way.

And then she nodded.

Just a nod. A small, neutral nod. Like good morning, or I see you exist, or I didn’t just walk in on you shirtless, don't make it a thing.

Azzi nodded back. A simple gesture. Easy. Universal.

Except—no. Not the way she did it.  Too fast. Too eager. Like a bobblehead with something to prove.

Cool, she thought. Real chill. Definitely nailed the nod. But then came the panic spiral.

Was it too sharp? Too aggressive? Had she nodded up or down? Was it more of a chin lift? What if Paige thought she was challenging her? What if it looked like a salute? Oh god—what if it looked like a bow?

She didn’t dare glance back to check.

Instead, she turned to her locker, opened it with forced purpose, and stared into the abyss of the empty space like it held the meaning of life.

She could feel Paige’s presence behind her. That quiet, steady energy. The kind that didn’t need to fill space because it already owned it.

Azzi, meanwhile, was contemplating the physics of spontaneous combustion.

She took out her water bottle. Put it back. Took it out again. Her hand was shaking slightly, which was fun and normal. And then, because apparently her body was still committed to ruining her life, she nodded again.

At no one. To herself. As if to say: Yes. Good. Great. You are the nodding champ!

She blinked at the wood shelf in front of her and whispered under her breath, “Kill me.”

Then she slapped the locker shut and sat down like everything was fine.

(It wasn't.)

Paige’s POV

Paige pushed open the locker room door, hoodie sleeves shoved up, headphones still around her neck. Familiar voices bounced around the space—Courtney arguing with Bridget about something dumb, someone laughing near the back. Normal. Comfortable.

She stepped inside.

Azzi Fudd was halfway out of her shirt, arms stuck, shoulder twisted awkwardly like her body had forgotten the mechanics of sleeves. Paige barely registered it, just enough to slow her pace, glance once.

Azzi finally yanked the shirt off. Hair clinging to her face, cheeks already pink. She turned around like she’d been summoned. And froze.

They made direct eye contact. Azzi’s eyes blowing wide. Paige blinked, looked around the room for a beat, wondering if she’d missed something—spilled drink, surprise visitor, fire alarm. But no. Just Azzi. Still staring. Still mid-panic.

So Paige nodded. Simple. Casual. Nothing loaded. Just Hey.

Azzi nodded back. If you could call it that. It was more like a full-body twitch. Quick. Panicked. Slight unhinged. And maybe even painful.

Paige arched a brow before continuing to walk. But from the corner of her eye, she saw it: Azzi staring into her locker like it was a portal to another dimension. Pulling out a water bottle. Putting it back. Pulling it out again.

Then, unbelievably, nodding. Again. At no one.

Beside her, Courtney let out a low snort, knocking their shoulders together on instinct. Paige didn’t look over. Just rolled her eyes, pulled her headphones off, tucked them into her locker.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But in her head, one word rang clear and smug:

Trouble.

[lovezbrownies]

Speed dating. (Yandere!Racing driver.)

Masterlist.

Synopsis: Everyone still wonders how you, an average smartass, managed to enamour the heart of the cold and ruthless number 2 Ferrari driver.

PAIRING: Lena Montgomery x GN!Reader.

CW: Lena is british, word arse is used unwillingly, obsession, aggression while driving f1 cars, a lot of Formula one terminology, Lena’s embarrassing and you’re embarrassed, justified ferrari formula 1 team slander.

Lena Montgomery isn’t known for kindness. She isn’t known for generosity, either. Lena is known for being cutthroat — for snatching victories in the final seconds, for hunting her prey on and off the track. She’s notorious across the Formula 1 grid, hated by fans and rivals alike. But what people whisper about most is her strange, obsessive affection for her race engineer.

You’ve only held the title for a year now — the youngest race engineer in Formula 1 history — but the moment you were told you’d be paired with Lena Montgomery instead of her teammate Red Ludenhart, every instinct in your body screamed that you’d made a grave mistake signing that contract without actually reading it. Ferrari played it dirty, they never specified which driver you’d be assisting, only hinted at a dream position beside the golden boy of the sport.

You were beyond nervous. Sure, you were professional — ready to give your all — but being tethered to the most aggressive driver in the game? That wasn’t what you signed up for. The only small comfort was Lena rarely disrespected her race engineers. She only ever yelled when they dared suggest giving up a position… or, god forbid, letting Red win while she fended off the rest of the pack.

What Lena adored about you, however, was the fact that you let her win. Not in the way that implied favoritism or cheating — but with strategies so sharp, so flawlessly executed, that she could slice past Red or anyone else in her way with surgical precision . You gave her the tools to dominate, and she wielded them like a blade. It didn’t take long before she started to stick to your side like glue — pulling you aside for quiet strolls around the paddock, dragging you away from your other responsibilities just to bask in your presence a little longer before the race weekend ends.

Your team principal hated it. The nagging, the veiled threats of termination — it all became background noise the moment Lena stepped in. She made her stance clear: if they fired you, she was walking. And not alone — she’d take you with her, contract or not.

The two of you were unstoppable. A perfect storm of calculation and aggression, bringing home wins and championships with frightening consistency. Somehow, impossibly, you were also the only person who could rein her in. When Lena pulled a dirty overtake, it was your voice in her ear that made her give the position back. When the team begged her to play fair, she ignored them — but she always listened to you. You were the one who could convince her to settle for second place. That Red deserved the first place position once in a while. That victory wasn’t worth it if it meant burning everything else to the ground.

The internet, of course, was feral over the two of you. Lena, flirting with you through the radio, in the middle of a race, no less. The way she looked at you on media days — not just admiration, but something warmer, more dangerous. The way she stormed past fans, staff, even her eventual close friend Red, after every win, just to find you first.

And now, after six years of Lena and Red dominating the sport together — two rookies turned titans — everything has shifted. Red’s younger sibling, the quiet, unreadable rookie named Siolis Ludenhart, has stormed onto the grid and done the unthinkable in the last race of the 2024 season: outmaneuvered them both. A fresh and young rookie, in a car that shouldn’t be capable of doing what it just did, Siolis slipped past Lena and Red like it was easy. Like it was inevitable.

A new prodigy had entered the scene. And just like their father Grim before them, Siolis didn’t just win — they increased the stakes. They were in imending storm, ready to reel in championships as soon as they can, as their father, brother, and aunt did before them.

Watching the new rookies of the year — fast, hungry, unshaken by pressure — Lena felt something she hadn’t let herself feel in years: exhaustion. Not the kind that from long raves or endless interviews. No, this was something deeper. A quiet, creeping sense that her time was up. She’d had her fun— clawed her way through the ranks, carved her name into the sport’s history books, collected more trophies than she had shelves for. But lately, her edge had dulled. The thrill of the fight was fading, and the Ferrari name was becoming less of a legacy and more of a punchline.

The car couldn’t keep up. The strategy calls were archaic, stubborn ancient men clutching to strategies that just won’t hold up in modern times, men too peoud to admit the sport had evolved past the,. And Lena? She was done playing damage control for a team that refused to change. Red had already made the switch to Mercedes, thriving under the glamor and hopes of new wins, as Lena stupidly stayed back, now having to deal with teaching her new teammate the ropes.

She had money — more than enough. Investments tucked away like aces up her sleeve, real estate in four countries, and a retirement fund that looked more like a billionaire's savings account. She didn’t need this anymore. Not the politics. Not the paddock games. Not even the glory.

So she made the call. Quietly. Privately. The team was informed: her contract would be terminated by the end of the 2025 season. The press get their headline when she was ready — not a second before. And you? You wouldn’t hear a word of it until she told you herself. She made that part very clear.

Now it’s a lazy afternoon. The sun casts long golden streaks over the Ferrari hospitality, and Lena is lounging outside in one of the padded seats, hair damp from Monaco’s moist weather, sunglasses slipping slightly down her arched nose. She’s dressed in casual team attire, legs crossed over one another, posture relaxed — the picture of someone who should be carefree.

But her eyes were on you. Always on you.

You’re sitting across from her, absorbed in your laptop, typing furiously — probably running simulations, tweaking setups, or analyzing data that won’t matter in a year. You haven’t even touched your drink yet. Lena watches the way your brows furrow, how your fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second when you’re deep in thought.

She smirks to herself.

You don’t know it yet, but you won’t need to stress about any of this next year. Not strategy, not tyre wear, not back-to-back triple headers. You won’t be her engineer and her secret lover, you’ll be her lover, her retired and spoiled rotten partner. She’ll plaster you all over her instagram, brag about you in her tweets, buy you whatever you shall desire. As soon as you retire alongside her, because no way in hell would she let you go and become another driver’s race engineer.

You sat oblivious to her line of thought, your attention was laser-focused on your laptop, eyes scanning spreadsheets and outdated strategy notes handed down by the team’s half-senile strategists. You were deep in the numbers, trying to thread the needle between possibility and fantasy — somehow, somehow, making Monaco work in your favor.

The Grand Prix was prestigious, yes, but painfully dull when you knew your car couldn’t compete. Red Bull and Mclafen had left Ferrari in the dust this season, their machines sleeker, faster, smarter. Still, this was your job — to play the hand you were dealt with and bluff it like hell.

You let out a quiet tut, clicking your tongue, then a sigh that turned into a half-whispered groan of concentration as you massaged your temple. You barely registered the soft tap against your foot — at least, not until you looked up.

Lena.

She sat across from you, slouched in that effortlessly arrogant way that only someone like her could pull off. One arm resting along the chair’s edge, her chin balanced against her fist, her legs crossed. Her entire posture screamed lazy royalty. But her gaze — piercing green eyes that had through the fiercest rivals on the grid — was soft now. Fixed on you. Her lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile as she watched you unravel over the Monaco race plan.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable, darling?” She purred, her voice low and warm with amusement, “You don’t need to be so… zoned in. I can live with placing outside the podium, you know. Let the young blood have their little moment in the spotlight, hmm?”

She shifted then — slow and deliberate— sitting upright as she uncrossed her legs and spread them with no shame at all, a move bold enough to make your breath hitch. She patted her thigh with a smirk, fingers tapping against the red of her team pants. A clear invitation. A reminded of how you sat so obediently on top of her, the shy look you gave her, the way you buried your face into her strong neck when the embarrassment got to the best of you.

However, you sputter, mortified, as Lena breaks into a fit of loud, unrestrained laughter — the kind that echoes off every damn corner of the hospitality lounge. Your face heats up immediately, and when you glance around, your stomach drops. Great. Now everyone’s staring. Team members, media staff, even a few drivers across the courtyard — all eyes are on the two of you because Lena Montgomery, the hyena that she is, has decided to turn your entire existence into a comedy special.

You kick her leg under the table, leaning in close, hissing through clenched teeth, “Oh my god, shut up! People are looking! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

You snap your laptop shut, more flustered than you’ve been in weeks, and shot straight to your feet. There’s no way you’re staying seated near her another second. Not with the way your pulse is hammering. Not with the smug loom on her face.

But before you can take two steps toward the hospitality building’s entrance, a firm grip coils around your wrist. Fast — too fast. Lena’s reflexes, honed by years of high-stakes racing, strike like a viper. You barely register the motion before you’re being yanked back.

“Jesus—!” You flail instinctively, panic kicking in. For a horrifying second, you think she’s about to drag you into her lap right there in front of everyone, but she doesn’t. Instead, with far too much ease thanks to her athletic training, she pulls you past her spread legs and into the chair beside her.

Her arm snakes around your shoulders, drawing you into her warmth, into that signature scent of leather and engine oil that clung to her like perfume. She leans in close — so close her breath grazes the shell of your ear.

“As much as I love the feeling of your arse squirming on my lap,” she murmurs, voice low and thich with amusement, “I’d rather be the only one to see it.”

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Ferrari media day — “A day in the life of the youngest Formula 1 race engineer. 🔴 LIVE.”

Official team content. You agreed to it only because they promised Lena wouldn’t be there to humiliate you live. You were lied to.

The Ferrari social media team had decided to broadcast a “day in the life” livestream of the unfiltered and harsh realities working as a race engineer in a competitive playing field, featuring yours truly, the youngest engineer of Formula 1 history, doing your usual prep work ahead of a big race weekend.

It was meant to be a sleek, professional insight into the work behind the scenes with live commentary and quick answers to any kids aspiring to be a race engineer in the future. The team broadcasted what they could without leaking out any strategy information in fear of rival teams watching.

Everything was going fine at first. You explained the process of tire selection, how you communicate with strategists and drivers during and before a race, and even pointed to your favorite spreadsheet programs like you weren’t dying inside from the attention of thousands of people watching you live. You answered questions to the best of your ability as you went on.

But then of course, Lena waltzed in like she owned the room.

Clearing her throat loudly so the cameras would pan over to her as she strode towards you, “Don’t mind me,” She said with that wolfish smirk on her face, grabbing a protein bar and hovering right behind you as you dead pan into the camera, already tired of her shit. Though the cameraman was having a field day as he zoomed in.

“Just checking in on my favourite engineer. Still saving my career?” Your eyes rolling were definitely not missed by the camera.

“Still trying to ruin my public image?” You blurt out, looking back at her with your body still facing the camera. You can see the live chat blowing up on your phone from the corner of your eye, but you’d rather not see the ship name they’ve adorned you and Lena today.

Lena only chuckled and leaned in closer towards you and the camera ahead of you, “can i ruin it more?”

You froze. The silence that followed was ungodly.

Yet she took your silence as permission — of course she did — and casually draped an arm around your chest, enveloping you and drawing you close to her, she rested her chin against your head as you felt the rumble of her voice, “You know, they only asked to mic you up because they wanted to hear what I hear every day,” she murmured, clingy and affectionate so shamelessly, “That sexy little brain of yours is working its magic!”

That was your last straw as you pushed off of her and panickedly rushed yourself and the cameraman to another room, ignoring the barking laughter of Lena in the back.

The following few hours the Formula 1 fanbase could only talk about the interaction from the live.

@/LenaMonLM12:

THE ENGINEER TRYING TO HOLD IT TOGETHER WHILE LITERALLY CUDDLING THEM LIVE??? HELLO.

@/lena_monhoery:

her voice. the proximity. the ‘can i ruin it more.’ please. i have a family.

@/badferraristrategies:

lena has no media training and i pray she never does omg shes so whipped

@/(shipname)updates:

you can literally see the moment their soul left their body 💀💀💀

@/lena_step_on_me332:

where can i apply to be a race engineer fuck

> @/galex_supporter:

dont think she would fw anyone other than y/n atp 😭

Lil visual of how she looks like :3

[lovejongseob]

How the other P1H members find out your relationship

Jongseob probably wouldn't be able to hide it for long, for a number of reasons. First of all, P1Harmony is his family. They live together, work together, have spent many years together, and so much more. Very rarely were they unaware of what everyone is up to. And, of course, you just made him so happy, it manifested in new habits the group would obviously pick up on.

Rather than staring intensely at his phone, like he's about to burn through it with his eyes, he's been smiling fondly and giggling louder. He takes pictures of just about everything and seems to be taking way more selfies than they need to post. It's like a new interest has taken over his mind, and his friends just keep noticing more.

Soul would get suspicious when he notices Jongseob playing more multiplayer games, but isn't inviting him as much. He keeps speaking to him, talking in multiple languages, including alien, but his headphones are too loud. Usually he gets a little startled at sudden noises, but maybe he was just too focused on his game ?

Intak is confused, "Jongseob, didn't you leave with a jacket ?" Thankfully, none of the others were there to keep connecting the dots, but Jongseob was definitely frozen for a second. He did leave with a hoodie, but if he explained why he didn't come back with it, he'd definitely get teased. It wasn't hard to convince Intak that he'd confused his attire with last night's, since he's been going out more often.

There's been a recent trend with one of the members, and Jiung is the first to pick up on it. In his personal time, Jongseob has been wearing less and less baggy clothes, opting for tighter shirts. He's more comfortable wearing crop tops, and skirts if he likes. He still adores his comfier and bigger clothes, but Jiung sees him putting extra effort into his appearance when it's not necessarily needed.

Jongseob knows he's on thin ice, and that it's risky to ask such things, but he really needs to know. He trusts Theo a lot, so he confides in him about personal questions and worries. He doesn't say anything about having a romantic partner, but Theo assumes at the very least he's interested in someone because hes nervously asking things like, "How do you be romantic while being so shy ?", "Did you have any relationships while you weren't an Idol ?", and, "How do you make them feel as hopeless as you ?"

So when Keeho slips into Jongseob's room to retrieve something he forgot way earlier, he isn't surprised to see his youngest friend has fallen asleep with his phone next to him, still in his hand. However, when he sees one of the prettiest people he thinks ever on the other side of a FaceTime call, his jaw doesn't even drop.

The moral of the story, is, Jongseob is never wrong. Maybe he could've avoided some of the teasing by just being upfront about it, but he's sure there still would've been a few jokes to be made. He wakes up to the P1H group chat's profile picture as both of your sleeping faces. There are 46+ messages, half of them from Theo, none of which he is responding to.

considered doing one or two paragraphs for each member, but decided to just make it multiple for jongseob. i have a lot of ideas for full group fics already so ill write those when i write those. "he'd" to "he's" cannot be right but in my head it sounds acceptable. always spell and grammar checking but what about checking the switch between present tense and past tense ? (im genuinely HORRIBLE with this) god i hate writing. i finished proof reading but i actually feel like i just fucked it up more

[peach-se]

유지민 - - — -> “Say please” -> Y.JM

Warning -> g!p dom/sub dynamics, oral control, spanking, overstimulation, begging, soft aftercare

Pairing -> Bratty Y/N x Sugar Mommy g!p Yu Karina

Synopsis -> Bratty Y/N pushes her luck with sugar mommy Karina one too many times — and gets exactly what she deserves. With a silk robe, a firm grip, and a g!p that doesn’t play games, Karina breaks her down until “please” is the only word Y/N can remember. Power play, teasing, and soft aftercare — luxury has never hurt so good.

The elevator doors glided open into Karina’s penthouse, and the moment your heels tapped across the marble floor, you knew she was watching.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when you walked in late—twenty-eight minutes late, to be exact—or when you tossed your little jacket over the armrest like it wasn’t a $2,000 designer piece she bought you last week. Not when you plopped yourself onto the edge of her plush velvet couch, crossed your legs, and flashed the tiniest smirk in her direction.

Karina didn’t look up at first. She took a slow sip of her wine, gaze fixed on the skyline beyond the glass windows. She was lounging in a deep red silk robe, dark hair falling over one shoulder, legs stretched out like she owned the night. And she did.

“Evening,” she said coolly.

“Missed me?” you chirped, tilting your head like a little brat who knew exactly what she was doing.

Karina’s eyes flicked to you—slow and sharp, like a blade being drawn. “You’re late.”

“I’m cute,” you replied, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured it evens out.”

She stood up, calm and dangerous. You watched the way the robe flowed around her legs—how the silk clung to her figure, how tall she looked in those subtle heels she wore just to look down at you.

“Take off the shoes,” she said softly. “You’re not going to need them.”

You giggled, crossing your arms. “Or what? You’ll pout?”

Karina’s hand was around your jaw in one second flat.

Not rough. Not violent. But firm. Controlling. Her thumb brushed your bottom lip while her eyes bore into yours.

“You like testing me,” she murmured.

“I like watching you crack,” you whispered back, pupils blown wide.

Karina smiled—slow, dangerous. “Oh, baby. I don’t crack. I make you beg.”

You went still. Heat crawled down your spine. You hated how fast you clenched.

Minutes later,

You were bent over the couch, face flushed, skirt flipped up over your hips.

“Count,” Karina said softly, tracing a fingertip over your thigh.

You wiggled your hips. “Count what?”

Smack.

The sharp sting made you jolt. She didn’t even put much force behind it—but the control in her voice, the dominance in her stance, that was what undid you.

“Count,” she repeated.

“One,” you breathed, already panting.

Smack.

“Two.”

She alternated cheeks, each swat met with another sweet whisper of numbers from your mouth. You knew you deserved it. You knew exactly how bratty you’d been. And you knew she was only warming up.

After ten, Karina leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the small of your back. “Good girl. Now get on your knees.”

You slid off the couch like your legs had forgotten how to hold you.

She stood tall above you, robe falling open just enough for you to catch the outline of what you wanted—what you’d been teasing her for.

Karina’s g!p was already half-hard, hanging heavy between her legs, perfect and clean like everything else she owned.

You reached out eagerly.

Her hand shot out. “No.”

You blinked, pout forming. “What—?”

“Use your mouth,” she said, cupping your chin. “No hands. Show me you’re sorry.”

You sank forward without hesitation, lips wrapping around the head of her length as your hands dropped uselessly to your sides.

Karina inhaled sharply, one hand gripping your hair. “Good. That’s my girl.”

You started slow—lips sliding down her shaft, tongue swirling around the underside. You loved the way she hissed between her teeth when you sucked just right.

But she didn’t let you control the pace.

“Deeper,” she instructed. “All the way. Take it.”

You gagged once, then adjusted, nose brushing her lower stomach as you swallowed her whole.

Her praise came in quiet growls. “You look so pretty like this… lips stretched around my cock, drool running down your chin.”

You whimpered around her, thighs pressed together.

“You want more, don’t you?” she said, thumb brushing your cheek. “Then say it.”

You pulled off with a wet gasp. “Karina…”

“Say. Please.”

Your jaw clenched.

So did your thighs.

You loved her. Loved the way she never begged. Never gave in. Loved that she made you work for it.

Still, you refused.

“Still don’t want to say it?” she said, raising a brow. “Fine.”

She hauled you up, turned you around, and pushed you back over the couch.

This time she was rougher—pressing against your soaked entrance, teasing with the blunt head of her cock but never entering.

“Say it,” she whispered into your ear, one hand on your hip, the other sliding between your legs to toy with your clit. “Just one word.”

You bit your lip, back arching as she flicked your clit faster, harder.

You could barely breathe. You were shaking. She kept teasing the tip against you, leaking against your folds but never pushing in.

“Karina—” you gasped. “I—I need—”

“Say it, baby. Or I’ll stop.”

You whined. Eyes squeezed shut. Your pride was burning. Your body was worse—needy, aching, fluttering around nothing.

She leaned closer, cock brushing your entrance again. “Last chance.”

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“What was that?”

“Please, mommy,” you moaned, nearly sobbing.

Her hand tightened on your hip. “Good girl.”

And finally—finally—she sank inside.

Karina fucked you like she owned you.

Not just your body—your mind, your pride, your soul.

She started deep and slow, hips rolling in a rhythm that made you see stars. Every thrust hit your g-spot perfectly, her cock stretching you just right, making your back arch with each stroke.

“You take me so well,” she murmured. “So greedy. This is what you needed, isn’t it?”

You nodded desperately, fingers clawing at the couch.

She picked up the pace, thrusts sharper, making the couch creak under the pressure. You couldn’t speak—only gasp, moan, cry out her name like a prayer.

“Mine,” she growled, wrapping your hair around her fist. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimpered.

“Louder.”

“Yours, mommy—please, I’m yours!”

“Good fucking girl.”

You came first—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream as she drove you over the edge.

She didn’t stop. Not even when you begged. Not when you whimpered for her to slow down. She fucked you through it, chasing her own high with a growl, burying herself to the hilt as she spilled deep inside you.

You collapsed forward.

Boneless. Fucked out.

Karina caught you before you slid to the floor, strong arms wrapping around you.

⸻

Later, wrapped in silk robes and pillows,

She fed you strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, one by one. Your head rested in her lap, eyes still hazy.

“Next time,” she said, brushing a thumb across your lip, “you don’t make me wait.”

You blinked slowly. “I like when you’re mad.”

Karina smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You like when I ruin you.”

You grinned sleepily. “Maybe.”

She tucked your hair behind your ear. “Say it again.”

You flushed. Whispered it without hesitation this time.

“Please, mommy.”

Karina hummed.

“Good girl.”

— - — -> Navagation || Masterlist

Copyright © 2025 Peach-se/Peach!z. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | Do NOT edit, copy, translate or repost any of my work without permission.

[honeyslibrary]

Game Five | Jake Oettinger

Pairing; Jake Oettinger x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Established relationship, SMUT, cursing, angst(?), edited once, not sure what else

Summary; Stars are eliminated from the playoffs with a 6-3 loss from Edmonton on home ice.

Word Count; 2k

Authors Note; I will be very shocked if Pete DeBoer is still employed by the Dallas Stars come next season. Absolutely asinine comments to make about your franchise goaltender. Anyways, my first time writing for Jake! Hope I did alright! ☺️ I honestly thought there would be a lot more fics for him then there is...Sooo if you have a favorite Otter fic please let me know 🙏🏽 -Honey

The drive home is a heavy silence, thick with the weight of disappointment and frustration that hangs between you like fog. Jake doesn't speak. Hasn't said a word since you left the arena twenty minutes ago. Doesn't glance your way, doesn't acknowledge the soft music you turned on to fill the void. Just stares ahead through the windshield, jaw locked tight enough that you can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, knuckles white around the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it.

The city lights blur past in streaks of amber and red, but you're not really seeing them. Your attention is fixed on the man beside you, on the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his breathing is still too controlled, too measured. You know better than to try to pull him out of it, you've been here before, in this exact passenger seat, watching him wrestle with demons that have nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with it at the same time. He's not ready, not tonight. Not after that game. Not after those words that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Two goals on two shots in the first period. Pulled seven minutes in, walking that long, shameful trek to the bench while eighteen thousand people watched in stunned silence. And then DeBoer afterward, throwing numbers and blame like knives during postgame media, his voice steady and clinical as he dissected Jake's performance for the world to see. "The reality is if you go back to last year's playoffs, he's lost six of seven games to Edmonton. And we give up two goals on two shots in an elimination game...That's a pretty big sample size."

Your stomach had twisted hearing it, imagining Jake's face go blank in that way it does when he's putting walls up.

When you finally pull into the driveway of your shared house, the one you bought together last summer, Jake doesn't pause. The car engine dies with a quiet rumble, and he's out before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt. He doesn't wait for you, doesn't hold the door, just heads straight inside and makes a beeline for the bathroom. The water starts running almost immediately, too hot, the pipes groaning in protest.

You take your time gathering your purse, your jacket, wanting to give him the space he needs. The house feels different now that Jake's season is officially over, bittersweet in a way that hurts yet again. You change into one of his old practice shirts, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of his cologne and something that's just uniquely him. Nothing else besides panties, and the shirt that hangs to mid-thigh and makes you feel wrapped in his embrace even when he's not around to give it.

You climb into bed with the TV on low, some late-night talk show host making jokes you're not really listening to. The shower is still running, has been for fifteen minutes now, and you can almost feel the scalding water he's standing under, trying to wash away the sting of failure and public criticism. You wait patiently, because that's what you do. That's what you've always done.

When he finally emerges, he's wrapped in steam and nothing else, a towel around his waist that he drops almost immediately. His hair is damp and disheveled, skin flushed pink from the heat, and there are still droplets of water clinging to his shoulders, his chest. He looks raw, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second, brown and wounded and angry, and then he's moving with purpose and desperation.

Towel dropped. No words. No gentle preamble or soft touches.

He climbs onto the bed and kisses you like he needs to breathe and you're his only source of oxygen. Like he has to have this, has to have you, or he might just fall apart completely. His mouth is frantic against yours, all tongue and teeth and barely controlled hunger, hands tugging at your shirt with an urgency that speaks to something deeper than desire.

You let him. You want him to. You've been waiting for this moment, knowing it would come, knowing he would need this release, this way of proving to himself that he's still worth something to someone. His hands are everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming over your ribs, pulling at the hem of his shirt until you lift your arms and let him strip it away.

He doesn't bother with your panties, just pulls them to the side with a roughness that only makes your breath catch, makes heat pool low in your belly. There's something intoxicating about being wanted this desperately, about being the safe harbor he runs to when the world feels like it's crumbling around him.

He slides his cock into you with one devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through both your bodies. He's thick and hard and perfectly right, filling you completely, and his body is tense above you, every muscle coiled tight with frustration and need. His movements are unrelenting as he starts to move, hips snapping against yours with a rhythm born of desperation rather than finesse.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough and broken in your ear, hot breath making you shiver. "Two fucking shots. Two."

The words are bitter, self-deprecating, and you wrap your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, taking everything he's willing to give and asking for more. Your hands smooth over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the play of muscle beneath skin that's still damp from his shower.

"Team didn't fucking show up," he growls, the sound vibrating against your throat where he's buried his face. His hips snap into yours harder, more punishing, like he's trying to fuck the anger right out of himself. "Defense might as well have stayed in the locker room. But it's all my fault, right? Always is."

You thread your fingers through his hair, the short strands still wet at the ends, holding him close as his pace grows harsher, more erratic. You can feel the tension radiating from every inch of him, the way he's wound so tight he might snap at any moment. "No, baby." You whimper out.

"They skate around like it's fucking preseason," he continues, each word punctuated by a deep, punishing thrust that has you gasping, seeing stars. "Give up breakaways like party favors. But I'm the one getting roasted on national TV."

His breathing is ragged, harsh pants against your skin, and he's angry. He's furious at his teammates, at his coach, at the media, and at himself most of all. But not at you. Never at you. You're his sanctuary, his safe place to fall apart, and he knows you'll catch every piece of him that breaks off.

"They hung me out to dry for three fucking games," he groans, voice cracking slightly on the words. "I can't be in net and score goals too."

You press your lips to his jaw, soft and quick, tasting salt and frustration and something that's purely him. Your own arousal is building, heat spreading through your body like wildfire, but this isn't about you right now. This is about him, about giving him what he needs to survive another night, another loss, another public humiliation.

"I'm here," you whisper, voice steady despite the way he's making you shake. "I'm right here, Jake."

He groans into your neck, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he doubles down, fucking you harder, like he's chasing something he's afraid he'll never catch, some sense of worth or validation that always seems just out of reach.

"Pete wants a scapegoat? Fine," he bites out, and you can hear the bitterness in his voice, the way any respect for his coach was slowly going down the drain with every passing minute. "I’ll be it."

Your back arches off the mattress, body slick with sweat and heat and the friction of skin against skin. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines that he'll feel tomorrow, marking him as yours in the most primitive way possible. You moan his name, the sound torn from your throat as he hits that perfect spot inside you, as the tension coils tighter and tighter in your core.

He catches your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours with urgency, desperate to try and pour everything he can't say into the kiss.

"Fuck, baby, you take it so good," he growls against your lips, and his voice is wrecked, absolutely destroyed. "Always here for me, never giving up on me. Never putting the blame on me like everyone else."

The words make your heart clench, make you clutch him tighter, feeling your own climax build with the raw emotion in his voice, the desperation in his movements. He's falling apart in your arms, coming undone in the most beautiful, heartbreaking way, and all you want is to catch every piece of him and hold them safe.

"Come with me," you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath hot against his skin. "Let go, Jake. Please."

And when he finally does, when he buries himself deep and moans your name like a prayer, it's a breakdown. A surrender, a need too big for words or logic or anything beyond the innate human desire to be held, to be wanted, to matter to someone even when the rest of the world seems determined to write you off.

You follow him over the edge, your own pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave, clinging to him with everything you have, giving him your own surrender without question or reservation. Your bodies move together in those final moments, finding a rhythm that's purely instinctual.

After, he doesn't pull away like he sometimes does when the vulnerability gets to be too much. Instead, he stays pressed to you, still inside you, still connected in the most intimate way possible. His forehead rests against your collarbone, breath slowly evening out, and you can feel the gradual loosening of his muscles as the tension finally starts to drain away.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore," he murmurs, and the admission is so quiet you almost miss it.

You kiss his temple, and your hands move to trace gentle patterns on his back, delicate and soothing. "You're doing your best. That's more than enough."

"Is it, though?" He lifts his head slightly to look at you, and his eyes are so brown, so lost. "Because it doesn't feel like enough. Feels like I'm failing everyone. The team, the fans, you..."

"Never me," you say firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "You could never fail me, Jake. Good game or bad, you're still the man I chose, still the man I love."

He exhales slowly, a shaky breath that seems to carry some of his pain with it. His arms tighten around your waist like you're his lifeline, like if he holds you close enough, maybe the rest of the world, with its expectations and criticisms and crushing weight of professional sports, will go quiet for just a little while.

"I don't want to talk about hockey anymore," he says after a long pause, voice small and tired.

"Then let's not," you say softly, pressing another kiss to his forehead. "The rest of it can wait until tomorrow."

And he does. He stays curled around you, breathing you in, letting your heartbeat steady his own. In the upcoming days, they'll be end of the season interviews where he'll have to face the music again, locker room clean outs, or maybe a meeting with management. But tonight, in this bed, in your arms, he's just Jake. Not a goaltender or a disappointment or a cautionary tale. Just the man you love, holding onto you, finding comfort in you.

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[breadandblankets]

Elaine and Doug didn't really expect to hear anything back once the billionaire was out of their house. of course, looking back that was a silly thought.

It started with a snack basket and flowers with a hefty investment from Wayne Ent. into getting more funding for the cities social services. Doug got jokingly mad because he wanted flowers. Elaine had laughed at the time, privately planning to get her husband a bouquet.

She gets a text at work the next day from Doug, a picture of a gorgeous bouquet of chrysanthemums.

Wayne didn't exactly leave a phone number but it was sort of impossible to live in Gotham without knowing where Bruce Wayne lives. Elaine writes a letter, by snail mail, inviting Wayne to a Thomas family dinner.

The second time Bruce Wayne is in their living room, he's looking a lot healthier than the last. He's dressed down, Elaine estimates his outfit is only worth one year of her salary not two. In one hand he holds a bottle of wine that probably has lineage papers or whatever rich people do, and in the other some fancy french lemonade.

"Alfred always taught me to never show up empty handed," he says with a disarming smile.

"He taught you well then," Elaine says diplomatically.

Dinner isn't a fancy affair. Duke has set the table with a sort of haphazard arrangement. (Doug had tried to explain where all the things go, Duke had responded "but you can just grab what you need? why do I need to arrange it for you?" and no one really had a good answer for that.) The lasagna Doug spent all day on smelt heavenly where it cooled on the stove.

Conversation flowed well, Bruce was as charming and funny as he was the last time. He and Doug had become their impromptu dinner time entertainment as they "yes, and-"-ed their way through a whole slew of ridiculous stories.

Duke had waited until Bruce had taken a drink to say: "You know my parents are married right?"

Surprisingly the man hadn't spewed expensive wine all over the table, although it did look like it went up his noes.

"Duke," Doug said with a face palm.

"Just wanted to make sure he knew," Duke said.

"I'm aware," Bruce croaks when he recovers. "Friendship only, I promise."

"Good," Duke sniffs primly, then smiles in smug amusement.

Wayne for his part seems to be a good sport about it, he even offers to host next time.

"Not at the Manor, I wouldn't subject you to that, I have a small place in the city."

(Spoiler alert: the place is not small.)

Bruce doesn't cook, in his words he "burns water", but he does get thai from a local hole in the wall. Elaine has to ask if he knew that was her favorite, and Bruce shyly tells her he asked Doug for suggestions.

At some point the back and forth extends beyond dinner parties, Knights games, spa days, park outings (some that even had normal plants!).

Bruce Wayne had never been a stranger in the lives of the Thomases.

So when the Joker took, he took everything.

[deramin2]

I'll say this for Daggerheart:

I didn't even make it through character creation before the physicality of the game inspired me to imagine the sort of Character Sheet Contraption that I would truly love playing it with. What would feel like a customizable instrument for playing the game?

I gathered simple materials and spent yesterday taping it all onto a cut of paper grocery bag. Got through several bouts of "This is so stupid; why am I doing this?" Actually finished a physical prototype, which I've never done so fast. Spent hours today gathering even more materials and reworking a particular system. I've done a lot of it through feel, using origami measurement folds for measuring and closing my eyes to feel how it would work during play as much as how it would look. There's sheet holders with various loading configurations, card holders, many abacus-like trackers, and hard surfaces all in a thing I can fold into a binder at the end of the game with very little to set back up or put away. Like a steamer trunk where all your things are tucked into neat little compartments. The mechanical button cockpit of my dreams for flying the game.

Something like this has been lurking in my mind taking root for the quarter century I've been playing TTRPGs, but everything's been so book-and-memory oriented that it never quite fully formed.

Things I've tried before to varying success:

Papers on table with a stack of books.

Lots of tabs in the books.

Storage clipboard.

Advanced Excel auto-leveling character sheets other people designed.

Advanced Excel auto-leveling character sheet I designed.

"Character Manual" where I copy over all relevant rules from every book into a single document and create combined leveling tables and detail every single thing I took when and how I calculated every number and put it in a binder. (This is what the Daggerheart cards effectively construct for you.)

Digital toolset platforms that conceptually do what I want but are confusing and buggy to use in practice.

Back to the Character Manual version 2.0.

Counting tokens.

Rotating dice as counting tokens.

[I've considered an abacus many times but never actually committed.]

Item and spell cards in the binder.

I've considered an abacus or abacus-like tracker many times but never actually committed. I accidentally taught myself how to count on my fingers similar to an abacus as a kid based on bastardized ASL. It is significantly harder to lose count when physically holding the numbers. Plus being able to count on my fingers up to 110 or 1023 depending on number system used is very handy. Counting to 10 rapidly outgrows its usefulness.

None of them have fully worked because the games themselves have not been designed for them to really work. I've been fighting the system every time. Mostly I've come out of it feeling bad about myself and that I was too incompetent at memorization, record keeping, and character building to play.

But Daggerheart is explicitly made to accommodate poor memories, minimal math, attention/comprehension gaps, rapidly getting assistance with the rules, arranging your own physically engaging space, and creating enough generalized scaffolding to fit the system into your ideas instead of trying to fit your ideas into the system.

Looking forward to trying it out in play with my other neurodivergent and disabled friends to see how it feels in play. But just being able to intuitively imagine and feel out the physical space of play is huge. Analogue interaction that would let me do things with my eyes closed accurately and not lose my place. Even if it ends up not being my preferred system, it's already taught me how I really want to be playing.

I really hope I'll keep pushing myself to complete this contraption and have a working, repeatable pattern. I would love to make + sell something like this, and/or make a pattern and instruction zine to sell.

[purple-ant]

Padawan Qui-Gon and knight Rael: *chilling*

Dooku, walking in with Sifo-Dyas: Qui-Gon, settle a little tiff that Si and i are having

Sifo-Dyas: let's be honest, Doo, it's not a tiff, it's a row

Dooku: and now it's a scene

Rael: it's okay, master, we don't want to get involved in your personal life

Dooku: it's not personal, it's a math problem

Rael: pass

Qui-Gon: no no no-

Sifo-Dyas: Dooku and I had a dinner last night for the first time in two weeks, thanks to the mission-

Dooku: -and Sifo thought it would be fun to spoil our date with a math problem to which his answer is wrong-

Qui-Gon: enough foreplay, let's get to the numbers

Dooku: it's the Monty'hall problem. imagine, you're on a game holoshow, there are three doors behind one of which is a car-

Sifo-Dyas: you're telling it wrong. there's three doors behind one of which is a car. you pick a door, the host who knows where the car is opens a different door showing it's nothing behind it. now the host asks if you'd like to choose the other unopen door. should you do it?

Dooku: no

Sifo-Dyas: yes!

Dooku and Sifo-Dyas: it's simple math!

Dooku: it doesn't make any sense to switch. the prize is behind one of two doors, it's a 50/50 chance either way

Sifo-Dyas: it's 2/3 if you switch, 1/3 if you don't. the probability locks in when you make the choice. we've been over this 8 times

Dooku: 7 times. now you can't do a simple addition

Qui-Gon: master Sifo is right

Dooku:

Dooku: go meditate

Qui-Gon: WHAT

Rael: lol

*

Qui-Gon: okay we have to explain this thing to master Dooku to save their relationship AND you laughed at me when i went to that weekend long math conference

Rael: because you called it Funky Loth-Cats and Their Feisty Stats

Qui-Gon: that was the name! it was so cool!

Rael: it was not

Rael: anyways it's not about the math. they haven't see each other because of the missions. they just need to bone

Qui-Gon: what?! gross! Rael, they are our dads!

Rael:

Qui-Gon: I mean... that's not what I think, master Dad is just my teacher

Rael: wow

Qui-Gon: nevermind! i'm teaching father the math!

Rael:

Qui-Gon, leaving: whatever, Rael!

*

Qui-Gon: :c

Dooku: is everything okay, padawan?

Qui-Gon: i lost my river stone :c

Dooku: did you see where it went?

Qui-Gon: actually- *gets out three little doors*

Qui-Gon: it's behind on of these doors. why don't you pick one?

Dooku: are you trying to Monty'hall me?? unbelievable. i don't need Monty'hall ruining my place of work when Monty'hall has already ruined my home life

Rael: come on, master, the math isn't a problem. the missions keeping you and Sifo apart

Rael: you two just need to bone

Qui-Gon: D:

Dooku: what did you say?

Qui-Gon: don't say it again

Rael: I said, you two need to bone

Qui-Gon: *horrified*

Dooku: how. dare. you. knight Averross?? I'm your MASTER!!

Dooku: BONE?!!

Qui-Gon, Rael:

Dooku: what happens in my bedroom, Rael, is none of your business!!

Dooku: BOOOOOOONE?!

Qui-Gon, Rael:

Dooku: don't ever speak like that to me again

Dooku: *leaves*

Qui-Gon: why did you do that??

Rael: dude is pent up, now he knows. problem solved

*

Qui-Gon: oh, master! i know you don't want to talk about Monty'hall but i did contact a math professor-

Dooku: no need, padawan. it's all good

Qui-Gon: so the fight with master Sifo is over?

Dooku: yep

Qui-Gon: because you understand the math now-

Dooku: nope

Rael: because you guys-

Dooku: yep!

Rael: knew it

Rael: see what happened is your dads had sex-

Qui-Gon: oKAY-

[rubys-domain]

genshin is basically a numbers game isn't it

[navree]

Incorrect, the fact that Biden has dropped out and a candidate with history of supporting medicare for all and being more receptive to a ceasefire in the I/P conflict has made me go from "I cannot morally support the Democratic nominee" to "I am voting for the Democratic nominee despite the fact she isn't perfect in every respect." I'm really happy this played out. The Dems for the most part abandoned the old Obama platform and it feels like its possible an actual progressive agenda could come to pass in my lifetime.

Kamala 2024!

If you weren't going to vote Democratic in this election before Biden dropped out you're a dorkass loser who does not care about any of the issues you're yammering about here and also a fundamentally bad person, and I hope you get run over by a bus.

But you got one thing right in all of this gibberish, Kamala 2024.

[wilting-fl0wer]

The only correct form of caltam, as far as i am concerned

[nebuladreamz]

The voices are loud and I am WEAK

[xxplastic-cubexx]

after finally playing scarlet witch long enough to get this icon ive decided that you really have to love wanda to get this icon

anyway Bonus cause Heh....... Fam.....

[shmowder]

She was a fairy 🧚‍♀️ (who could only fly in hot air balloons)

[kathrynmjaneway]

.