#Women Workspace

[loverleaverparatu]

My wild Saturday night! I got super crazy and even stayed up till 10 🤭 ive probably shared so many pics of this place, but i really love my work space.. definitely my power place 💪

[raininyourblackeyes]

Literally what's the point of my room if the wifi in it is so bad I can't listen to an online class, can't watch skating competitions, can't even send a fucking message from there

[writer-and-artist27]

When the oldest coworker I have outside of my boss commented (mid-apology to me) today that most of the people he've worked with from my generation fall into either "totally humble" or "totally think they know everything" to the point of causing drama, I can't deny the claim.

Because at this point in my life, I've encountered the latter category 4 times now. And three of those times were from women my age.

It's those kinds of memories - dealing with bossy attitudes and toxic targeted language because they all thought they knew better than even the supervisors in the room - that makes growing up with the Internet feel like a double-edged sword.

[live365days]

[aizawashuichi]

btw chapter 6 will have a medium sized rant about women's unfair treatment in the workspace <3

[bueckets]

The Hit List | Part 1

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part 2

Genre: romance (eventually), slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, smut (eventually), cat n mouse

Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.

What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.

They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.

WC: 11.2k

Authors Notes: i had first written this for jkxreader on my other blog (whoretan) however plot deviates heavily after the first encounter, um, kinda fuck girly paige, but kind of just a love drunk idiot too

Chapter 1: The Unexpected Guest

Your eyes burned as you stared at the CAD model rotating on your screen, the internal combustion engine you'd been working on for the past—what was it now, eight hours?—still refusing to cooperate.

The familiar workspace of SOLIDWORKS had become both your best friend and worst enemy over the past three years at UConn, but tonight it felt particularly vindictive. You'd been trying to get the timing belt assembly to properly mate with the crankshaft for what felt like an eternity, and your deadline was creeping closer by the minute.

"Did you hear?" Riven's voice cut through your concentration as she burst through the door, her designer backpack hitting her bed with enough force to make your desk lamp wobble.

"Hear what?" You didn't bother turning around, instead zooming in on the problematic area of your model. The project was due in six hours, and you were nowhere near having it stress-tested. Sleep was starting to feel like a distant memory from another life.

Riven paused in her tracks—you could practically hear her jaw dropping in that dramatic way she'd perfected since freshman year. "Paige Bueckers was talking about how Q’s jump shot is worse than a middle schooler's."

The absurdity of the statement finally forced you to tear your eyes away from the screen. Your neck cracked in protest as you turned to face your roommate, who stood there with her perfectly manicured hands on her hips, waiting for your reaction. Three years of living together had taught you that Riven wouldn't let you focus until you properly acknowledged whatever piece of gossip she'd brought home.

“That’s literally ridiculous.”

Riven tilted her head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in that characteristic way of hers. Six seconds of contemplation later (you’d learned to count), she shrugged and pulled out her iPhone, probably to text the women's basketball group chat about the latest drama.

Your roommate, much like all the other Huskies superfans, didn't care whose reputation a particular player tarnished. She'd much rather get on their good side, damaged reputations or not. It was a dance you'd watched play out countless times since freshman year, when you'd first been assigned as roommates.

Back then, you'd thought the random housing assignment would be a disaster—the sports-obsessed sorority girl and the robotics team president seemed like a recipe for mutual hatred. But somehow, your differences had created a strange balance. She dragged you out of your engineering cave occasionally, and you reminded her that there was more to college than chasing after basketball stars.

"Caitlin bought Kate those new custom Nikes." Riven thrust her phone in your face, revealing a photo of Clark's teammate happily posing with pristine white sneakers. The caption read, 'Thanks for the gift bb, @CaitlinClark22'.

You squinted at the screen, trying not to think about how those shoes probably cost more than your entire semester's textbooks. The basketball elite weren't just known for their court skills—their NIL deals were equally legendary. Every starter came from successful programs, the kind that built training facilities and had courts named after their alumni.

"What a lucky bitch," Riven sighed, flopping onto her bed.

Apparently, your roommate wasn't the only one who didn't care for her reputation. Last week, she'd blown up your phone with about thirty—maybe sixty—texts about how her sorority sister had seen Caitlin making out with someone else at The Tavern. Looks like those custom Nikes must've been an apology.

You looked up at your starstruck roommate with pursed lips. Riven caught your expression and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, she's being messy. So what? Those shoes are like two thousand dollars with the custom work, that's my fucking meal plan right there."

"Remind me again how you're a neurology student?"

Riven clutched her chest with an open hand, gasping dramatically. "Wow. I see how it is." She threw herself backward onto her bed with the theatrical flair of a soap opera star.

You couldn't help but grin, even as your eyes darted back to your computer screen. The smile quickly died on your lips.

Oh fuck.

The CAD model still sat there, mocking you with its incomplete state. You'd managed to complete maybe forty percent of the assembly, and the entire thing needed to be fully rigged and stress-analyzed by nine AM.

This was the cost of your procrastination, another dinner sacrificed to the gods of engineering deadlines. At least you had a good excuse this time: you'd spent the weekend helping the robotics team prepare for their upcoming competition. Being vice president meant putting in the extra hours, even if it meant cramming your actual coursework into impossible timeframes.

"I have to finish this tonight. Do not bother me with any more basketball drama." You spun your chair back to face your screen, not bothering to check if Riven was sticking her tongue out at you. You could picture it anyway, she had the maturity of a twelve-year-old sometimes.

Five and a half hours later, you finally pressed the glorious 'Submit' button on Blackboard. You turned off your PC with such violence that the desktop nearly toppled over.

"Never doing that again," you groaned, slumping into your chair and letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your neck felt like it had been replaced with concrete somewhere around hour six.

"You literally say that every time," Riven quipped from her side of the room.

If you had any energy left, you would've gotten up and punched her in the ass. Luckily for her, your eyes had started doing that thing where they drooped shut every few seconds without your permission. You'd decided about thirty minutes ago that your chair was an acceptable substitute for a bed. The walk to your actual mattress seemed about as feasible as climbing Mount Everest right now.

"How do I look? Good enough for the party?"

Fucking hell. 

You summoned what little remained of your core strength and groaned as you forced your chair to swivel around. The sight that greeted you was, admittedly, impressive, even through your exhaustion-blurred vision.

Riven wore a black dress that hit just above her knees, with strategic cutouts along her ribs. The laced-up black heels she'd spent twenty minutes struggling with (while whining very fucking loudly) completed the look perfectly. She'd devoted the last hour of your project completion marathon to preparing for KK’s birthday celebration.

“Which party?” you croaked. “The one where everyone’s fighting or the one where they’re pretending nothing happened?”

Her nose wrinkled in that way it did when she was trying not to laugh. "You're so annoying."

Yeeeaaah, definitely the messy one.

You watched as Riven stumbled toward her drawer, rummaging through three compartments before pulling out a neon orange tiny bag. And when you say tiny, you mean tiny, it couldn't have been more than two inches across.

"Can you even fit anything in there?"

A wicked smile spread across her face as she opened the toy purse, pulling out her student ID and a tube of lipstick. Of-fucking-course. “Minimalist chic, baby. Besides, I don’t need much. Just the essentials. I'm serious. Tonight's gonna be fucking legendary."

“Legendary,” you deadpanned, swiveling your chair back to your desk. “Try not to end up on Barstool again.”

You swore she lunged forward, ready to attack you with her miniature weapon. But her phone rang, which happened to be a far more pressing matter. The assault could wait. Riven pressed the phone to her ear with a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat proud.

"Are you here? Yeah, I'm ready. You have the Pink Whitney? Okay. Bye."

She turned back to you with that same manic grin. "I'll get you back for that later. Bye!"

And just like that, Riven leaped out of the room, her neon orange bag and its singular tube of lipstick disappearing with her into whatever chaos awaited at the UConn house.

The sudden silence in her wake felt almost oppressive. You sat there for a moment, contemplating your life choices. The clean lines and precise measurements of your engineering models never gave you this much drama. Maybe that's why you preferred spending your nights with SOLIDWORKS instead of at parties—machines were predictable, logical, and they never started drama about anyone's jump shot.

After nearly crawling your way across the room for what felt like thirty minutes (but was probably closer to five), you finally made it to your bed. Or rather, to the base of your bed. The problem now was getting on top of it. UConn, in its infinite wisdom, had given everyone the tallest fucking beds in existence.

Tall enough that all of your belongings fit underneath it so they could make the rooms ten times smaller by doing so. You sat on your ass, glaring at what felt like a sixteen-foot space between you and the mattress. You could, theoretically, just fucking get up and with one last surge of energy jump onto it. But the soft cotton of your fuzzy rug was suddenly hugging your back, tucking you in, cradling you like a loving parent.

Fuck it, the floor isn't even that bad. You've slept on much worse—like that one time freshman year when you passed out in the robotics lab after a forty-eight-hour building session. At least your rug didn't smell like motor oil and desperation.

Your head lay flat on the floor, the hardwood never felt softer. Riven had left hours ago, and you'd managed to successfully knock out on your chair for a bit. That was until you jolted awake, sweating out of every crevice of your body, and made eye contact with your actual bed. You'd said goodbye to the chair and began the voyage to your proper sleeping place. Clearly, that wasn't going as planned.

It was too late now to dwell on what could've been. Tomorrow, you'd start anew. Just like every time she partied, Riven wouldn't be back for two or three days. You'd have a full day to sleep on your actual bed without the mention of UConn and internal combustion engines.

You turned to your side, the fuzz tickling your chin as you nuzzled into it. Sleep was just starting to creep in when—

"Taylor! Tay baby, please open the door!"

The hairs on your arms rose and a fart you hadn't realized you'd been holding in released into the air. Some drunk player had the wrong door.

“Wrong room,” you called, hoping they’d get the hint. With a shaky breath, you nuzzled deeper into the carpet.

Not a second later, a bang erupted through your room. "Tay, please. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

Your heart thrashed in your chest. Could you not have one night of peace? One night of tranquility to enjoy your own company? One night to enjoy sleeping on the hard floor?

"Taylor, for fuckssake." The asshole nearly knocked the fucking door off the hinges.

First, you're going to knock her the hell out. Then, you'll find out where Taylor lives and knock her out, too. Maybe you could work it into your next robotics project—a robot specifically designed to punch drunk athletes who can't read room numbers.

"Tay, please—"

You jolted upward and ran to the door so fast you probably broke several laws of physics. Swinging the wooden panel open like a madwoman, you yelled, "Listen asshole, I don't know who Taylor is and I don't give a damn. It's late as hell and some of us actually enjoy sleeping!"

Said asshole leaned against the door frame of your room, a Nike-covered foot tapping against the floor as she pressed a finger to your lips. "Shhhhh, baby, I said I'm sorry."

Your throat locked and you nearly laughed at the audacity. Did this fucker really not notice you weren't Taylor? Through your sleep-deprived haze, you managed to register a few details about the intruder: tall, athletic build that made your mouth go dry, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and wearing what looked like exclusive UConn team gear. Great. A drunk basketball star. 

Said basketball star happened to also push herself off the door frame and trudge past you, right into your room as if she'd been there a million times.

Much like you wanted to before your carpet trapped you, the stranger leaped onto your bed, stomach flopping onto the cushion of your mattress. She muttered something you couldn't hear as she grabbed your favorite pillow and brought it close to her chest. She was snuggling your Mr. Gummy.

You were going to go to jail for assaulting a Division I athlete. Yeah. This was the end of your girl boss engineering career. Goodbye feminist STEM icon. Hello convict. All those years of suffering to get into UConn just for you to catch a case over the Greek Goddess, Nike, herself. At least you'd submitted your project first, might as well get credit for that before you went to prison.

"Babe, I don't remember your bed smelling this good." She'd gone into a fetal position, kicking off her—yep, definitely team-exclusive Nikes. Maybe, just maybe, you'd knock her out and then sell her shoes on StockX. The proceeds could cover your legal defense.

You rubbed your forehead with the back of your palm, wiping away the stress sweat that had accumulated. You swung your head out of your door, looking left and right, then repeat. Empty. Fuck. Fuck, and fuck.

You paced back and forth a few times, biting on the edge of your hand. You can't pick this goddess off your bed. One, she's drunk as hell. Two, she's... You gazed back at the stranger, somewhere on her journey to your bed she'd tossed her UConn warmup jacket to your floor. Leaving her in a fitted tank top that left nothing to the imagination.

Who needs that many shoulder muscles? The definition in the arm that hugged Mr. Gummy was sculpted by years of perfect jump shots. Each shift of her body revealed new curves, like a living Nike ad designed specifically to torment sleep-deprived engineering students.

Holy hell. Get a fucking grip.

Okay, so you can't drag the basketball star off your bed.

Plan B it is.

You trudged into your room, taking one last look at the hallway. Should you close the door?

If someone did hypothetically walk past would they think you drugged her? She was slurring her words and hugging your favorite bear while you paced back and forth like you happened to "accidentally" slip something into her Gatorade.

You closed the door.

You needed to call Riven. You could care less that she was at the beginning of her three-day rager, you weren't going to wait till the next morning when Nike would wake up and start accusing you of kidnapping UConn's star point guard.

You slowly walked toward your desk, making sure to avoid the panels on the floor that creaked every time someone stepped on them. Empty. You pushed your chair back to see if it happened to fall earlier. Empty.

The air stilled, and you shook your head. No. No. She was laying on it.

You'd chucked your phone onto your bed after deciding to finally start your project. You had to call Riven. There was no other choice but to tell someone. And given the fact that your contact list included your parents and Riven, she was looking like the most optimal candidate.

As silently as you could, you tip-toed toward your bed and did a quick examination. Near her head? Nope. Mr. Gummy? Nope. Legs? Nope. Hip?

Yeah.

Maybe you would go to jail after all, for assault.

You better get an A on that fucking project.

You took a step forward, awkwardly climbing the edge of your bed to get closer to your phone. Which was nicely tucked right under the curve of her ass, your camera barely peeking out as if it was taunting you.

Shit. How are you going to pull it out?

Your face contorted as you inched closer to the basketball player, thumb and middle finger clutching the edges of your phone and lightly tugging backward. She huffed out a soft groan. Dear god.

It's not budging.

In and out. Breathe.

You tugged again.

Something thudded against the floor.

Your eyes left the phone and gazed to the floor where your Mr. Gummy lay sacrificed to the floor demons. Uh oh.

You turned back to retrieve your bear when your eyes locked with hers. Her very open eyes.

She was smiling.

"Baby I didn't know you were so handsy."

You stared. That's all you could manage to do—stare at the face of the beautiful drunk idiot in front of you. And holy shit was she beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you question if UConn's recruitment standards included a mandatory photogenic quota for certain players.

The idiot had a playful smile playing across her stupidly perfect face. Taylor must be a lucky girl. Not lucky enough, though, considering her girlfriend was currently in a stranger's bed. How drunk did someone have to be to not recognize they had the wrong person?

"C'mere," she grabbed your arm, pulling you to your side as if you weighed nothing. A strong arm locked around your waist and began rubbing circles on your stomach. The motion sent shivers down your spine that you desperately tried to ignore.

"Missed you, n' I'm sorry baby," she slurred into your ear. Her voice was much softer now, a warm whisper that made your whole body tingle.

Taylor, I'm so sorry.

The words shot straight between your legs. You hadn't been touched in almost two years. Sue me. A gorgeous basketball star was rubbing your lower stomach while she told you—her girlfriend—she missed her. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. You spend three years avoiding athlete drama, and now the universe deposits one directly into your bed?

You needed your phone. Pronto.

"Listen— I—" You raised a clammy hand to lift her, attempting to wrap your fingers around her wrist to lift it. Your engineering brain was trying to calculate the exact force required to remove her arm without waking her up further, but all mathematical ability seemed to have short-circuited.

"You're so squirmy tonight," she intertwined your fingers.

What the fuck are you supposed to do? You inched your body further away in an attempt to shrug her off. A move that, in retrospect, was about as well-thought-out as trying to integrate calculus while drunk.

Nike thought otherwise. She pulled you closer until her front was pressed firmly against your back, her breath warm against your neck. You could feel the defined muscles of her stomach through her tank top, her body radiating heat that made your head spin.

FUCK.

You'll wake up with a gay panic and a warrant.

"I'm really tired," you squirmed against the death grip around your waist. For someone supposedly blackout drunk, she had the grip strength of someone who'd spent their life fighting through double teams.

Just pretend it's not there. You do not feel anything. Just toned arms and her—

"G'to bed baby. I'll make it up— make it up to you n' the morning." Nike lifted herself to place one last sleepy kiss against your cheek.

Two minutes later, Nike’s light snores vibrated against the back of your neck, warm breath caressing your skin. You wouldn't be able to move her off you. You had no clue where your phone was. Her hip could very well have fully consumed it at this point, creating some kind of phone-eating black hole that physics hadn't yet discovered.

With a sigh, you closed your eyes, pretended there wasn't a Division I basketball star sleeping in your bed, and prayed that you wouldn't end up in some viral TikTok before noon. At least if you did become internet famous, you'd already submitted that goddamn CAD project.

Your last thought before drifting off was that Mr. Gummy better not tell anyone about this.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL!"

Are you being robbed? Is someone being murdered? You jolted upwards to see Riven staring at you with an open mouth, her perfectly applied makeup from last night now resembling a raccoon's Halloween costume.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of sleep. What's her problem?

She pointed to your bed and you turned your body to the side. Oh.

Oh.

Nike was rapidly blinking, those unfairly long eyelashes fluttering as she was most likely realizing you were not Taylor. The morning light streaming through your window illuminated her features in a way that should be illegal before coffee.

You laughed nervously, hands flailing in front of you like a malfunctioning windmill. "It's not what it looks like."

"Why is Paige Bueckers in your bed?"

Paige Bueckers? The same UConn Basketball Star Paige Bueckers? No fucking way.

This Paige had cuddled Mr. Gummy half of the night before opting to trap you in the bed with her. There was no chance that this was the same Paige Bueckers that had NIL deals with Nike and Gatorade and had laid waste to half the NCAA. 

Paige—definitely Paige—groaned beside you, hands rubbing her face. "Taylor's going to kill me," she mumbled underneath her breath.

"No, we— we didn't. We." You pointed between yourself and Paige, your brain short-circuiting like a poorly wired circuit board.

"Listen, sweetie, I'm sure it was the time of your life, but this was a one-time thing." Her voice had that practiced smoothness of someone who'd given this speech before, probably more times than the number of equations in your thermodynamics textbook.

Your eyes bulged out of their sockets. Was she serious? Did she think you two—? And she was okay with it? Now, this fits the description perfectly of the cocky superstar Paige Bueckers was known to be. 

Your face burned hotter than an overclocked processor. "We did not have sex. You came in here drunk off your ass screaming about your girlfriend."

By the time the word girlfriend left your mouth, Paige Bueckers had already jumped off your bed with the agility of someone who definitely wasn't as hungover as she should be. She snatched up her UConn warmup jacket from your floor and was halfway down the hallway before you could blink.

What an arrogant little asshole. Your muscles quivered with the urge to strangle her. That is if you ever saw her again. Which, given your luck and UConn’s campus, was probably inevitable.

"How long have you and Paige been seeing each other?" The empty spot beside you filled with Riven's weight. "Is that why you never wanted to come to the games with me?"

"Riven, you have five seconds to get off of my bed before I strangle you."

"You can't avoid this conversation forever!" she called out as you stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to process the reality that you'd just spent the night cuddled up with Paige fucking Bueckers. The same player whose name had been carved into the unofficial NCAA hierarchy since before orientation. 

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the memory of how her arms had felt around you, how her breath had tickled your neck, how her—

No. Absolutely not. You were not going to join the ranks of college students who'd lost their minds over a basketball star. You had bigger things to worry about. Like whether your CAD project had uploaded properly. Or if you could ever look at Mr. Gummy the same way again.

The next few days passed in a blur of classes, labs, and actively avoiding any location where you might run into Paige. You'd even skipped Tuesday's Engineering Club meeting, sending your vice president a detailed email about needing to catch up on work. It wasn't entirely a lie—you did have work to catch up on, considering you'd spent half your study time calculating alternate routes to class that avoided the usual athlete hangouts.

But by Thursday afternoon, your luck ran out. The library was supposed to be safe—the one place on campus where the basketball players rarely ventured. They had their own private study rooms in the athletic center, after all. Which is why you'd let your guard down, settling into your favorite spot near the engineering section to catch up on your reading.

The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by two girls settling at the table across from you, their whispered conversation carrying clearly in the quiet space.

"So yeah, I like totally made out with Paige in the team room. We almost knocked over Coach's whiteboard, isn't that hilarious?" The prettier of the two said as she placed her MacBook on the wooden table, her voice carrying that forced casualness of someone trying very hard to seem unbothered.

Her friend laughed and took a sip of her Starbucks, a lemonade, probably sugar-free, because of course it was. "So how was it?"

Paige's latest conquest giggled and opened her laptop, trying to seem as uninterested in the conversation as possible. You'd seen this play before, the carefully crafted nonchalance that masked the inevitable disappointment when Paige moved on to her next target. You'd bet your entire scholarship that she'd gone home crying after being ghosted, only to watch Paige pretend she didn't exist the next day.

By this point, you'd given up all pretense of studying chemical processes and electron movement. You'd reread the same paragraph in your textbook sixteen times, your brain more interested in this glimpse into the life of your unexpected bedmate. So what if you're being nosy? Everyone is nosy, and besides, you'd mentally checked out the moment these two sat down.

"She's such a good kisser.” Her friend's mouth dropped open as she placed her half-empty cup onto the table, grabbing her friend's shoulder with one hand. The former nodded, still giggling, "Sarah, I know. She like totally picked me up against the whiteboard."

Are they not aware that people can hear them? That they're in a public space? You glanced around the library, which was half-empty as usual. So maybe you were the only one eavesdropping. Still, you wouldn't go around a library of all places announcing your hookups to the world.

"Hey buttercup," an eerily familiar voice purred in your ear.

You jolted, arms flailing like a malfunctioning robot, inevitably colliding with your pencil case and sending its contents scattering across the floor. Various writing implements rolled under nearby tables like they were making a break for freedom.

You turned to lock eyes with a very, very familiar pair of hazel eyes. Shit.

"Do I know you?" You asked through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how good she looked in her fitted Nike training gear. The amount of exclusive team merchandise on her body probably equaled your entire semester's expenses.

Why would Paige, of all people, be looking for you? If you remembered correctly, she was the one to so diligently inform you that whatever happened was a one-time thing—even though nothing had actually happened.

Paige's eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips tugged upward into that infamous smirk. She leaned forward, resting one hand on the edge of the table, the other on the back of your chair, effectively caging you in. "Don't play dumb."

She was in your bubble. Way too close for comfort, especially since you'd been planning on never having to interact with her again. You groaned and leaned backward, roughly pushing your chair back to give yourself space to lean over and pick up your scattered pens. The move was partly practical and partly designed to annoy her.

"Listen, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here either." Paige grabbed the chair to your left and pushed it closer to you, dropping into it with that natural athlete's grace. "I've been to your room every day since Sunday and you haven't been there once."

Welp. Why the hell would she be looking for you?

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was supposed to be waiting in my room for you." You shoved the pens back into your pencil case, gripping the zipper and tugging it closed with perhaps more force than necessary. Looks like the library was no longer a safe haven.

"I lost my phone and you're the only person I remember being with that night," Paige groaned, turning her head.

Does she truly remember that night? Remember that you two didn't actually hook up but instead cuddled? You wanted to convulse at the memory of how safe and warm you'd felt in her arms. How right it had—no. Absolutely not.

"Oh fuck," she mumbled, her expression shifting from annoyed to something closer to panic.

Your eyes followed her gaze to see what had caused this reaction.

Ha. Ha. Ha. In your face, superstar. You couldn't help but grin as you realized the two girls were still very much present. Not only present but staring at you and Paige with expressions that suggested their jaws might actually detach and hit the table.

Paige leaned back in her chair, sending them a small wave and a—was that a wink? Your eyes nearly rolled directly out of their sockets. How much more predictable could she get?

You didn't bother to look back at the two girls to see their reaction. You could guess it anyway—probably swooning in their chairs, maybe even planning their own strategic "accidental" encounters with her. You wouldn't be surprised if they were already planning to show up at her next practice session.

"Anyways," Paige turned back to you, her voice dropping to that low register that definitely didn't do things to your insides, "Have you seen it?"

You shook your head, closing your textbook. Time to get the hell out of here. "No, I haven't. Sorry."

"Are you mad about what I said? Is that why you're holding my precious phone hostage?" Paige's hand shot out to land on top of your textbook, preventing you from shoving it in your bag—or directly at her stupid, perfect face.

"Mad about what exactly?" You grabbed her hand and tried to shove it off the textbook. She didn't budge. Of course she didn't, you'd seen her arms during all those ESPN highlights Riven forced you to watch. "I do not have your phone."

Within seconds, Paige's hand slid off the textbook only to trap your hand against it instead. She moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward until her lips were at the shell of your ear. Her warm breath hit your skin and you had to resist the urge to squirm. "About what I said in front of your roommate, sweetie."

Your blood ran cold. Does she think you give two shits about what she said in front of Riven? That she made your roommate think you two were secretly hooking up and that she would undoubtedly eventually let it slip to her sorority sisters? Who will tell the rest of campus? No. Not. At. All.

Asshole. She's a no-good little asshole with too many NIL deals and too little accountability.

You turned your head to face her, ignoring the fact that you were now inches apart. If you weren't so pissed you might've paused to appreciate how her eyes looked up close, how they seemed to hold more mischief than all the troublemakers in Cambridge combined. But now wasn't the time for character studies.

You held her gaze, noting the slight knit in her brow that suggested she wasn't as confident as she was pretending to be. "Listen here Bueckers, whether or not you want to keep pretending like we hooked up or not is none of my business. I do not have your fucking phone, and if I did I would've thrown that shit into the Charles River by now."

You yanked your hand away from her grasp and turned back to your desk. You managed to successfully toss your textbook into your bag and rise from your chair without another word from her.

Before making your very dramatic exit, you turned to face her one last time. Might as well make it grand.

Paige hadn't moved an inch since you'd stood up. She stared at you with a raised brow and that infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. She found this amusing? Found humiliating you in the library a good pastime?

You bent over your chair, placing one hand on her shoulder and leaning in until you were at the shell of her ear. She stiffened under your touch, and you felt a small thrill of satisfaction. What the fuck are you doing?

You leaned in further, so close that your chest pressed flat against your arm and her body. So close that your lips actually grazed her ear as you whispered, with all the venom you could muster, “This might work on your little groupies, but, I’m not interested.” 

The last thing you saw as you straightened up and walked away was the shocked expression on her face, like she couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Good. Let her be confused for once.

You managed to make it all the way to the library exit before your hands started shaking. What the hell had gotten into you? You'd just essentially declared war on one of the most prominent athletes at UConn. The star player who could probably get you banned from every sports event without blinking.

But as you pushed through the heavy doors into the crisp fall air, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Maybe it was time someone stood up to the mighty Paige Bueckers. Someone who didn't want anything from her except for her to leave them alone.

Your muscles were still tense from your library encounter as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm room. The familiar hallway felt longer than usual, probably because every step reminded you of how spectacularly you'd just antagonized UConn's star player. At least you'd managed to get through your thermodynamics lab without dwelling too much on the way Paige's face had dropped when you'd—

No. Stop fucking thinking about it.

You fumbled with your key card, missing the reader twice before finally getting the door open. The first thing you noticed was an envelope on the floor, likely slipped under your door while you were in class. You bent down to pick it up, ready to toss it in the recycling with all the other campus spam, when Riven's voice cut through the room.

"What's that?"

You jumped, nearly dropping the envelope. Your roommate was sprawled across her bed, still in her scrubs from her hospital rotation. She must have gotten back early.

"Nothing," you muttered, but it was too late. Riven had already launched herself off her bed with surprising agility for someone who'd just finished a twelve-hour shift.

"Oh my god," she squealed, snatching the envelope from your hands before you could protest. "These are courtside tickets to Saturday's game!"

Your stomach dropped. Sure enough, two tickets peeked out of the torn envelope in Riven's hands. But what caught your eye was the note attached.

Found my phone in the team room. Who would’ve thought, right? Peace? - PB

"We're going," Riven declared, already pulling out her phone. "I'm texting the group chat right now. Do you know how impossible these tickets are to get?"

You reached for the tickets, but Riven danced away, holding them above her head like a prized trophy. "We are not going."

"Oh yes we are," she grinned, typing furiously with one hand while keeping the tickets out of your reach with the other. "Everyone's going to be so jealous. How did you even get these?"

"I didn't—" you started, then stopped. How exactly do you explain to your basketball-obsessed roommate that these tickets were some kind of weird peace offering from Paige Bueckers? A peace offering that felt more like a challenge, especially given that note.

"Earth to engineering nerd," Riven waved her hand in front of your face. "You're coming to this game. No excuses. I've already told everyone you're finally embracing the Husky spirit."

You groaned, falling face-first onto your bed. Mr. Gummy stared at you judgmentally from his spot against your pillow. Even he seemed to be saying you should have thrown those tickets away the moment you saw them.

"I have to study," you mumbled into your comforter.

"You always have to study," Riven countered. "But how often do you get courtside tickets from Paige Bueckers?"

Your head shot up. "How did you—"

"PB?" Riven held up the note, smirking. "Please. I may be pre-med, but I'm not stupid. Also, her signature is literally on every piece of UConn merch in the campus store."

Great. Just great. Now you had no choice but to go to the game. If you didn't, Riven would never let you hear the end of it. She'd probably drag you there anyway, study plans be damned.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape route from this situation. Instead, all you could think about was how you'd have to sit courtside—courtside—and watch Paige play. Watch her make those impossible passes, sink those perfect three-pointers, command the court like she was born to do it.

And she'd know you were there. That was the worst part. This wasn't just a peace offering—it was a power play. She was making sure you couldn't ignore her anymore.

"Fine," you sighed, already regretting the word as it left your mouth. "But I'm bringing my thermodynamics textbook."

Riven's squeal of delight was probably heard all the way in the engineering building.

You grabbed Mr. Gummy and hugged him to your chest, wondering how exactly you'd gone from successfully telling Paige Bueckers to fuck off to having courtside seats to watch her play. The bear offered no answers, but you could have sworn he looked a little smug about the whole situation.

The next two days were a special kind of torture. Riven had taken it upon herself to become your personal "game day preparation coordinator," which apparently meant forcing you to sit through endless highlight reels of UConn's recent victories. By Friday afternoon, you could probably recite Paige's stat line from memory—not that you'd ever admit that to anyone.

"You can't wear that," Riven declared as you pulled out your standard comfort outfit: UConn Engineering hoodie and black leggings.

You glanced down at your clothes, then back at your roommate. "Why not?"

"Because we're sitting courtside," she emphasized the word like you were a particularly slow child. "People are going to see us. The cameras might even pan to us during timeouts!"

The mere thought made your stomach churn. "That's exactly why I should wear this. I don't want to draw any attention."

Riven was already shaking her head, diving into her closet with the determination of someone on a mission. "No way. If Paige Bueckers gives you courtside tickets, you dress for the occasion."

"She didn't give them to me," you protested, even though technically she had. "They were just left under our door."

"Right," Riven emerged with an armful of clothes. "Just like she just happened to end up in your bed that night?"

You threw Mr. Gummy at her head. She dodged, laughing as the bear bounced harmlessly off your desk lamp. "We are not talking about that again."

An hour and approximately seventeen outfit changes later, you finally escaped. Your excuse about needing to pick up materials from the engineering lab wasn't entirely a lie—you did have a project due next week. The fact that the engineering building was on the opposite side of campus from the athletic facilities was just a bonus.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice the person exiting the coffee shop until it was too late. Hot liquid splashed across your chest as you collided with what felt like a brick wall of muscle.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" A voice that definitely wasn't Paige's (thank god) exclaimed.

You looked up—and up—into the concerned face of one of UConn's basketball players. The Croatian accent and defensive intensity were legendary enough that even you, perpetually sports-oblivious, recognized her from Riven's endless team discussions.

"It's fine," you managed, trying to ignore how the hot coffee was currently seeping through your shirt. At least it wasn't your engineering hoodie—Riven would've killed you if you'd ruined her carefully planned outfit for tomorrow.

She was already pulling napkins from her pocket, dabbing at your shirt with a look of genuine distress. "Let me buy you a new coffee. And shirt," she added, eyeing the growing stain.

"Really, it's fine." You stepped back, ready to bolt. The last thing you needed was another interaction with a basketball player.

But she wasn't letting you off that easy. She grabbed your wrist with surprising gentleness for someone known for her aggressive defense. “Nah, I insist. I'm Nika, by the way. And I really do feel terrible about this."

Before you could protest further, she was steering you back into the coffee shop. The barista's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Nika—clearly a regular customer—but otherwise maintained their professional composure.

"The usual for me," Nika called out, "and whatever she wants." She turned to you expectantly.

You mumbled your name and order—"Just a black coffee"—trying to shrink into yourself. Several students were openly staring now, probably wondering why Nika Mühl was buying coffee for some random engineering student.

"And a chocolate croissant," Nika added, ignoring your attempt to protest. "Trust me, they're amazing here."

You shifted uncomfortably as she paid, very aware of the wet fabric clinging to your skin. Nika seemed to notice your discomfort because she shrugged off her UConn warmup jacket and held it out to you.

"Here, you can't stay in that wet shirt."

You stared at the jacket like it might bite you. The same style jacket Paige had left on your floor that night. The one that probably cost more than your textbooks.

"I can't—"

"You can and you will," Nika insisted, pushing the jacket into your hands. "There's a bathroom right there. Go change before you catch a cold."

Something in her tone brooked no argument. You found yourself in the bathroom before you could really process what was happening, staring at your reflection as you zipped up the warmup jacket. It was slightly too big, making you look like a kid playing dress-up in their older sibling's clothes.

When you emerged, Nika had already claimed a table in the corner, your drinks and the promised chocolate croissant waiting. She waved you over with a smile that somehow managed to be both friendly and slightly intimidating.

"So," she said as you slid into the seat across from her, "what's your major?"

"Engineering. Mechanical." You picked at the croissant, wondering how quickly you could eat it and escape.

Nika's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Engineering— wait." Her eyes widened with recognition. "Holy shit, are you that girl?"

You froze mid-bite. "What girl?"

"The one from the library! The one who told Paige—what was it?  ‘That you’re not one of her groupies’?” Nika's grin spread across her face like wildfire. "No wonder she's been such a mess lately."

You choked on your croissant. "What?"

"Oh my god, this is perfect. You're also the one she—" Nika cut herself off, studying your increasingly red face with growing delight. "The one whose room she crashed in after KK’s party?"

Your face burned hotter than the coffee you'd been wearing moments ago. "How did you—"

"Paige tells me everything," Nika leaned back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Well, eventually. Had to drag this one out of her after she spent three days moping around practice like someone had stolen her favorite pair of Jordan’s.”

"I didn't steal anything," you protested automatically. "Not her phone, not her—"

"Oh, she knows that now," Nika waved dismissively. "Found it in the team room yesterday morning. Right where those girls said it would be." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Though I have to say, watching her spiral about it was pretty entertaining. She's not used to people calling her out like that."

The implication hung heavy in the air. You remembered the library girls' story about making out with Paige against the whiteboard. Something must have shown on your face because Nika's expression softened slightly.

"Look, Paige is complicated. She's not used to people seeing through her bullshit." She took a sip of her drink, considering her next words carefully. "Those tickets? That's her way of saying she fucked up."

"By accusing me of stealing her phone?"

"By letting you think she didn't remember that night."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "What?"

Nika's phone buzzed before she could answer. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Speaking of her royal highness, I'm late for film." She stood, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "Keep the jacket. Consider it compensation for the coffee attack."

You watched her head toward the door, your mind spinning with questions. Just before she left, she turned back with a knowing smirk.

"See you tomorrow at the game. Front row, right?"

The door chimed as she left, leaving you alone with a half-eaten croissant and more questions than answers. You looked down at the jacket, at the way the UConn logo seemed to mock you with its pristine embroidery.

Somehow, in trying to avoid Paige Bueckers, you'd managed to get tangled up in her world anyway. And tomorrow, you'd have to sit courtside and watch her in her element, all while wearing her best friend's jacket.

Mr. Gummy was definitely going to judge you for this.

"No." You glared at the suspicious red cup Riven was waving in front of your face. "Absolutely not."

"Come on! It's tradition!" She pushed the cup closer, its contents sloshing dangerously near the rim. The sharp smell of cheap vodka mixed with what you assumed was cranberry juice wafted toward you. "You can't go to your first real game sober."

You turned back to your mirror, adjusting Nika's warmup jacket for the hundredth time. The number 10 stared back at you, a constant reminder of yesterday's coffee shop encounter. You'd tried to talk yourself out of wearing it, but everything else felt too casual for courtside seats (according to Riven) or too formal (also according to Riven).

"I'm not pregaming a basketball game at three in the afternoon."

"It's four," Riven corrected, checking her phone. "And yes, you are. The team's already been at Gampel for hours, and we need to leave in thirty minutes if we want good spots for warm-ups. I refuse to let you sit there reading thermodynamics while history happens right in front of us."

You spun around, hands on your hips. "History?"

"Yes! We're playing Notre Dame. It's huge." She thrust the cup into your hands with such force that some of it splashed onto your fingers. "And you're wearing Nika Mühl's personal jacket. Do you know how many people would kill for that?"

"I got it because she spilled coffee on me," you muttered, but took a small sip anyway. Just to shut her up. The drink was surprisingly not terrible— mostly juice with just enough vodka to warm your chest.

"Right. Just like Paige 'accidentally' ended up in your bed." Riven made air quotes with her fingers, nearly spilling her own drink in the process. "And then 'accidentally' gave us courtside tickets."

"Can we not talk about that?" You took another sip, larger this time. The warmth spread through your limbs, making everything feel slightly softer around the edges. Maybe Riven had a point about the drinking thing.

"Oh, we're definitely talking about it." She flopped onto your bed, somehow not spilling a drop. "You're wearing her best friend's jacket to watch her play. This is like, next level psychological warfare."

You choked on your drink. "It's not warfare! I just didn't have anything else to wear."

"Mhmm." Riven's knowing smirk made you want to throw Mr. Gummy at her again. "That's why you spent twenty minutes adjusting it in the mirror."

"I did not—"

"You did! You were all,” She stood up, mimicking your earlier movements with exaggerated precision. "'Oh, should I zip it up all the way? Maybe halfway? What if I push up the sleeves?'"

You drained your cup in one go, grimacing at the burn. "I hate you."

"You love me." She was already mixing another drink, this one slightly stronger than the last. "And you're going to thank me when Paige sees you in that jacket and loses her mind."

"She's not going to lose her mind," you protested, but accepted the fresh drink anyway. "She probably won't even notice."

Riven's laugh echoed off the walls. "Oh honey. Paige notices everything. Why do you think she's the best point guard in the country?"

The walk to Gampel Pavilion was a blur of Riven's excited chatter and your growing anxiety. The drinks had taken the edge off, but your heart still raced as you approached the arena. Students were already lining up outside, many wearing jerseys and carrying signs. Your hand instinctively went to the zipper of Nika's jacket, suddenly very aware of what you were wearing.

"Stop fidgeting," Riven hissed, pulling you toward a separate entrance. "You look hot. Own it."

The security guard barely glanced at your tickets before waving you through. The arena was already humming with energy— staff rushing around with equipment, the band setting up in their section, early arrivals claiming their seats. 

Your courtside seats were exactly where you'd dreaded they'd be: directly behind the UConn bench. Close enough to hear every word, see every expression, feel every moment of tension.

"This is insane," you muttered, sinking into your seat. The court stretched out before you like a stage, the overhead lights making everything feel surreal.

"Look." Riven nudged you, pointing toward the tunnel. "They're coming out for warm-ups."

Your heart jumped into your throat as the team emerged, led by the coaching staff. Players filed onto the court in perfect formation, their practice jerseys a sea of navy and white. You spotted Nika first— impossible to miss with her distinctive playing style, already intense even in warm-ups.

And then there she was.

Paige moved with that effortless grace that made everything look easy, her ponytail swinging as she dribbled two balls simultaneously. She hadn't looked toward the crowd yet, locked in that pre-game focus that elite athletes got.

"Here we go," Riven whispered, her phone already out and recording.

You watched as Paige went through her warm-up routine, each movement precise and practiced. She worked her way around the three-point line, barely seeming to notice as shot after shot swished through the net.

Then she turned to grab a rebound, and her eyes swept across the courtside seats.

You saw the exact moment she registered you. Her hands froze mid-dribble, the ball bouncing away forgotten. Her gaze locked onto the number 10 across your chest, then slowly traveled up to meet your eyes.

The intensity in her stare made your whole body flush hot. You watched as her jaw clenched, that familiar muscle ticking in a way that sent heat straight to your core. Her eyes darkened with something that looked dangerously close to possession.

Nika appeared beside her, saying something that made Paige snap back to attention. But not before you caught the way her gaze lingered on how her best friend's jacket fit your frame.

"Holy shit," Riven breathed, still recording. "I think you broke her."

You slumped lower in your seat, already regretting letting the vodka convince you this was a good idea. "Shut up."

"No way. This is better than any reality show." She zoomed in as Paige missed her next three shots in a row. "Look what you did to her."

"I didn't do anything," you protested weakly, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from Paige's form. The way her practice jersey clung to her shoulders, how her muscles flexed with each movement, the intense focus that had returned to her features – though you swore you caught her glancing in your direction between plays.

This was going to be a very long game.

The game started exactly as you'd expected— with Paige absolutely demolishing Notre Dame's defense while you tried very hard to look anywhere else. It wasn't working.

"Did you see that pass?" Riven screamed in your ear for approximately the eighteenth time. "She didn't even look!"

No, you hadn't seen the pass, because you were very deliberately studying the fascinating architecture of Gampel's ceiling. The vodka buzz had worn off about twenty minutes ago, leaving you hyperaware of every move, every sound, every time Paige jogged past your seats during transitions.

The worst part? Nika kept sending you these knowing looks from the bench, like she was watching her favorite rom-com play out in real time. You were starting to regret not bringing your thermodynamics textbook after all. At least differential equations made sense. They didn't smirk at you or have perfectly defined arm muscles or—

"Time out, Huskies!"

The players jogged toward the bench, and suddenly your personal space was invaded by very tall, very sweaty athletes. You tried to shrink further into your seat, but there was nowhere to go. Especially not when Paige dropped into a crouch right in front of you, ostensibly to grab her water bottle.

"Nice jacket," she said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear over the timeout huddle. Her eyes traveled down your body in a way that made you feel like you were wearing significantly less than a full warmup jacket and jeans.

You opened your mouth to respond with something witty, something that would put her in her place like you had in the library. Instead, what came out was: "Your friend has good taste."

Paige's eyes darkened, that same possessive look from warm-ups returning with intensity. "Does she?"

Before you could dig yourself into an even deeper hole, Coach Auriemma's voice cut through the tension. "Bueckers! Get your ass over here!"

You watched as she jogged back to the huddle, trying to ignore how your skin felt electric where her gaze had lingered. Beside you, Riven was practically vibrating with excitement.

"I got all of that on video," she whispered, waving her phone in your face. "This is going in the group chat."

"If you send that anywhere, I will reprogram your phone to only play the Barney theme song."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The timeout ended, and the players returned to the court. You noticed Paige was playing with even more intensity now, if that was possible. Her crossovers were sharper, her passes more precise, like she had something to prove.

"Twenty bucks says she's showing off for you," Riven muttered.

"Thirty says you're delusional."

But as you watched Paige sink another impossible three-pointer and turn slightly— just slightly - in your direction before jogging back on defense, you had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Riven had a point.

The game continued in a blur of strategic timeouts (during which Paige found increasingly creative ways to end up near your seat), incredible plays (that you definitely weren't watching just to see the way her muscles moved), and Riven's running commentary (which was getting progressively less about basketball and more about the "tension that could be cut with a knife").

By the fourth quarter, UConn had built a comfortable lead, and you'd developed a concerning familiarity with exactly how Paige's practice jersey clung to her shoulders when she was sweating. This was not information you needed in your life. You had CAD models to build, robots to program, a future in engineering to secure. You did not have time to notice how her hair had started falling out of its ponytail in these impossibly attractive wisps, or how—

"Game! Huskies win!"

The final buzzer snapped you out of your completely professional analysis of athletic biomechanics. The crowd erupted as players from both teams exchanged handshakes and hugs. You stood, ready to make your escape before—

"Leaving so soon?"

You turned to find Paige standing right there, still slightly breathless from the game, her presence filling your entire field of vision. Up close, you could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the slight curl of her lips that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

"I have studying to do," you managed, proud that your voice came out steady.

"On a Saturday night?" She stepped closer, and you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with sweat. It should not have been as attractive as it was. "After watching me put up thirty points?"

"Thirty-two," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Beside you, Riven made a sound that might have been a squeal or a laugh.

Paige's smirk grew wider. "So you were watching."

"It was kind of hard to miss, considering where we're sitting." You gestured to the courtside seats that had started this whole mess.

"About that," she ran a hand through her hair, and those loose strands fell perfectly around her face in a way that had to be practiced. "I was thinking maybe we could—"

"Paige!" Nika's voice cut through whatever she'd been about to say. "Media's waiting!"

You'd never been so grateful for press obligations in your life.

Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "This isn't over," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear. Then she was gone, jogging toward the media section with that natural athletic grace that made everything look effortless.

You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Your skin still tingled where she'd been standing close enough to touch.

"So," Riven's voice broke through your daze. "Still think she hasn't noticed you?"

"We're going out," Riven declared, already rummaging through your closet without permission. "No arguments."

You looked up from your laptop, where you'd been desperately trying to focus on anything other than replaying the game in your head for the past two hours. "I have to—"

"If you say 'study' I will literally scream." She emerged with your one decent going-out top, the black one with the low back that you'd bought on impulse and worn exactly once. "You just watched UConn destroy Notre Dame from courtside seats while Paige Bueckers eye-fucked you in front of the entire student section. We're celebrating."

"She wasn't—" You cut yourself off, heat creeping up your neck. "And anyway, shouldn't she be celebrating with her girlfriend?"

The words tasted bitter in your mouth. You'd been trying very hard not to think about Taylor, about how Paige had crashed into your room calling out her name, about how clearly serious it must be if she was that desperate to apologize. The fact that she'd spent the entire game looking at you like... that... well, it just proved what everyone said about her, didn't it?

"Oh my god," Riven threw the shirt at your head. "Put this on. We're getting drunk and you're going to tell me everything you're overthinking about right now."

An hour later, you found yourself at The Tavern, nursing your second Moscow Mule while Riven recounted the game to anyone who would listen. The bar was packed with students celebrating the win, most still wearing their UConn gear and riding the high of victory.

"I just don't get it," you said, mostly to your drink. "Why is she suddenly so interested? I'm literally nobody. I spend my Friday nights debugging Python scripts and building robots that occasionally catch fire."

"Maybe that's exactly why," Riven waggled her eyebrows. "You're different. You don't worship the ground she walks on."

You snorted. "Right. Because what Paige Bueckers really wants is someone who told her to fuck off in the library."

The doors to The Tavern burst open, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted. A new wave of celebration swept through as the team arrived, fresh from their post-game duties. Your stomach did a complicated flip as you spotted Paige among them, now changed into fitted black jeans and a white button-down that should be illegal. Her hair was down, falling in waves that your fingers definitely didn't itch to touch.

"Speak of the devil," Riven smirked. "Want to test that theory?"

"Don't you dare—" But Riven was already waving enthusiastically, catching Nika's attention. The Croatian player's face lit up with unholy glee when she spotted you.

"Engineering girl!" Nika bounded over, dragging a very amused-looking Paige with her. "Still wearing my jacket, I see."

You started to unzip it, but she waved you off. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway." She shot Paige a meaningful look that made your cheeks burn.

"I need another drink," Riven announced suddenly, grabbing Nika's arm. "Come show me where the team keeps their secret stash."

"We don't have a—" Nika caught on quickly, grinning. "Oh, right. That secret stash. This way."

And just like that, you were alone with Paige at the crowded bar, your body humming with awareness of how close she was standing.

"Subtle, aren't they?" Paige smiled, and for once it wasn't that practiced smirk. It was something softer, more genuine. She signaled the bartender, who materialized instantly. Must be nice being a campus celebrity.

"The usual?" The bartender asked Paige, already reaching for a bottle.

"And whatever she's having," Paige nodded toward your nearly empty Moscow Mule.

"I can buy my own drinks," you said quickly, reaching for your wallet.

Paige's lips twitched. "I know you can. But consider it part of my ongoing apology for the whole bed situation."

You raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You always apologize to your drunken mistakes with expensive drinks?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to snatch them back. But instead of looking offended, Paige just studied you with those impossibly intense eyes.

"Only the ones who let me cuddle their stuffed bears."

"Mr. Gummy," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Again.

The bartender returned with your drinks, and you grabbed yours perhaps a bit too quickly, needing something to do with your hands. The Moscow Mule was perfect – strong enough to blame your burning cheeks on the alcohol.

"So," Paige said after a moment, looking far too comfortable for someone who'd just been called out on their drunken mistakes. "Engineering, huh?"

You nearly choked on your drink. "Are we really doing small talk right now?"

"Would you prefer I go back to staring at you from across the court?"

"I prefer knowing where I stand," you shot back, the alcohol making you braver than usual. "Because last I checked, you had a girlfriend you were pretty desperate to apologize to."

Something flashed across her face – regret? Embarrassment? "Taylor and I it's complicated."

"Isn't it always?" You couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of your voice. You'd heard enough stories about Paige's "complicated" situations to fill a textbook.

She turned to face you fully, and your breath caught at the unexpected vulnerability in her expression. "Look, I know what people say about me. Some of it's probably true. But Taylor and I have been over for months. That night... I was drunk and stupid because she'd started seeing someone new, and I handled it badly."

"By trying to crawl into her bed?"

"By accidentally crawling into yours." Her voice dropped lower, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. "Which, in retrospect, might have been the universe doing me a favor."

You forced yourself to meet her gaze, ignoring how your heart raced at the way she was looking at you. "Does that line usually work?"

"I don't know," she smiled, and it wasn't her usual cocky smirk. It was something smaller, almost shy. "I've never used it before."

Before you could process that, a commotion erupted near the pool tables. You both turned to see Riven attempting to teach one of the team's shooting guards proper form, which seemed to involve a lot of unnecessary physical contact.

"Ten bucks says they end up making out in the bathroom," Paige said, amusement coloring her tone.

"Twenty says Riven chickens out and spends the next week telling me about all the signals she thinks she missed."

Paige laughed, and the sound did something dangerous to your insides. "You know your roommate well."

"Well enough to know she's going to interrogate me about this conversation later."

"This conversation?" Paige shifted slightly closer, and you caught that intoxicating mix of her perfume and something uniquely her. "What's there to interrogate about?"

You gestured vaguely between you. "This whole... whatever this is. Where you're suddenly interested in small talk about my major and making jokes about the universe doing you favors."

"Maybe I just want to know more about the girl who told me to fuck off in the library." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "While wearing my best friend's jacket, no less."

"That was an accident—"

"Was it?" She was definitely closer now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like a challenge."

Your grip tightened on your drink. "Not everything is about you, Bueckers."

"No," she agreed, her voice soft but intense. "But the way you've been looking at me all night? That might be."

The air between you crackled with tension. You should step back. You should remember all the stories, all the warnings, all the reasons this was a terrible idea. You should—

"There you are!" Nika's voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water. "Coach just texted. Team meeting tomorrow morning got moved up."

Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "What time?"

"Eight AM." Nika's eyes darted between you and Paige, her expression far too knowing. "Sorry to interrupt."

"You weren't," you said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly judging by Nika's raised eyebrow.

Paige turned back to you, and the intensity in her gaze made your breath catch. "We'll finish this conversation later."

It wasn't a question.

You watched her walk away, trying to ignore how your body still hummed from her proximity. Nika lingered behind, grinning like she'd just won a bet with herself.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've never seen her work this hard for someone's attention before."

"I'm not—" you started, but Nika was already following Paige, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a half-empty Moscow Mule.

Riven materialized beside you moments later, her eyes wide. "Okay, what the hell was that?"

"Nothing," you mumbled into your drink. "Just Paige Bueckers being Paige Bueckers."

But as you watched her gather her team to leave, she turned back just for a moment, catching your eye across the bar. The look she gave you was pure heat, a promise of more conversations to come.

You were so beyond utterly fucked.

Continue Reading Part 2

[calltoamentor]

Professions, Authenticity, and The Entitlement to Service

What do teachers, writers, cashiers, and janitors have in common? How we decide which career paths receive dignity and livable conditions, and which ones deserve nothing? Why do we draw those lines?

Daily writing promptWhat profession do you admire most and why?View all responses What are some of the most commonly accepted answers for “What do you want to be when you grow up?” What answers tend to get you the least amount of judgement when you say that this is what you want to dedicate your life to?Firemen, Doctor, Police Officer, Therapist, Social Workers, Teachers.Careers that, on paper,…

[cosmosis]

MOVED TO @seratopia

miguel o’hara x reader (fluff) - jealousy

miguel gets jealous possessive after a new intern flirts with you this is part of the same universe as my call oneshot!

Being 2nd in charge of the multiverse is... honestly not that hard for you. It’s mostly just co-leading, and being a secretary. Lyla helps out a bunch, but sometimes, a sassy AI can only do so much. 

Jess informed you of a new intern she recruited. Apparently, he’s having his first day today, which means you’ll probably have to do a quick run-through of things with him later. 

For now, it’s your fated duty to sit with Miguel at his desk so he doesn’t get all pouty later. He starts huffing and puffing when you aren’t near, takes it out on the kids sometimes. 

Thanks to your suggestion, Miguel invested in a nice desk and swivel chair for the office, so now it looks more like an actual workspace instead of a maniac’s plot room. (either way, he his one lmao)

Since Lyla’s gone for the time being, you’re standing up on the office platform, tapping away at a multitude of screens. Miguel lays lazily in the office chair, swiveled up behind you to rub his face into your upper back, as well as run his hands along your tummy. 

“Hun, you gotta let go. I needa tour the intern.” You mutter, closing in on an ID photo of the recruit.

“No.“

“Well, if I don’t do it, then who will?“ You ask. 

“Jess.“

“She’s busy on her break. Pregnant women need breaks, you know.“

“Ugh. I don’t want you to leave.“ He whines. squeezing you tighter. 

You start squirming out of his grip, pulling his pinky off of your stomach. Inching away, you push Miguel away by his head. Reluctantly, he starts letting you go, lazily running his hands onto the skin of your hips and lower thighs before letting go. 

“I’ll see you in a bit, baby.“ You say, scuffing up his hair with your palm. Gracefully, you leap down from the platform, somersaulting onto the floor and skating out the exit. You hop over a few stray cardboard boxes. 

Miguel watches you stroll away, and fixes his hair back into place. 

Lyla magically appears, phasing in and out with a different sly look each time. She snickers, flickering all around Miguel’s head. 

“Whipped.“

“Shut the fuck up.“

. . .

Miguel’s blood starts to boil as soon as you roll in with that stupid, bastard of an intern. He’s too close to you for comfort, so close to his arm nudging yours... Miguel’s teeth start to clench, his fangs close to drawing blood from his mouth. He’s paying too much attention to you, there’s a vibe he gets that he hates to his core. 

Everything about him is aggravating; the blonde hair, the snarky smirk, all of it.  

“...and this is Miguel’s office!“ You say, gesturing your hand to the majority of the area. 

“Sweet, nice to meet the bossman.“

Bossman, his ass. Miguel would only ever let you call him bossman. 

“Miguel! Come down!“ You yell, and his heart warms in his chest. He turns around from his standing form on the office platform, eyeing the intern in order to scare him a bit. 

“Hey, what’s up man! Glad to finally meet the man behind the slaughter!“ The intern exclaims, his hands rested on his hips. 

Miguel fights every urge to both roll his eyes and tackle the recruit, keeping a somewhat straight face on. He chuckles a little, not a single trace of a smile on his face. 

“Heh, yeah? Excited to meet the bossman?“ Miguel taunts, but it looks like the intern can’t tell he is. 

“Heck yeah dude! Where do I start?“

Miguel starts nodding a little, plastering on a face smile, chuckling a bit...

Before he throws the entire office chair at the recruit. Not to hit you, though. He’d never, ever hit you. 

Instantly, the intern turns away, shielding his body with his hands. In the nick of time, though, you latch your webbing onto the chair, slinging it away to side before it could harm anyone. You cross your arms. 

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry about tha- MIGUEL!“ You scream. 

And he throws a literal file cabinet at the man. Again, you latch it out of way without problem. 

“What th'heck, man?! What’s your fuckin’ problem?!“ The intern yells, spreading his arms out. 

“My fuckin’ problem is you nagging my wife!“ He roars. 

“Wait a sec- she’s your wife?“

Miguel then  leaps down from the platform, chin held up high in a sinister glare. Slowly, he steps over towards the both of you, fixing his eyes on the intern the entire time. 

Miguel’s tall, really tall compared to the newbie. He pokes his finger to the recruit, leaning in real close. 

“Stay at least 5 feet away from my wife at all times.“ Miguel utters, and you kinda feel bad for the new guy. 

You cross your arms. “C’mon, Miguel. He’s literally new, take it easy on him!” You say back, and Miguel pouts, whines. Possessively, he reaches over to you, pulling in you in by the hip to try to soothe you. It doesn’t work, and you present yourself from giving into his needy touches.  

And then, you turn around back to the newbie. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about that! He’s usually not like this-”

“Man, fuck this.“ The intern exclaims, taking a few steps back in agitation. “Take me back home, I ain’t dealin’ with this shit!“

He storms off, kicking a stray cardboard box on the way out. 

“Aw, crap.“

“Finally.“

You swerve back around, hands on your hips. “Miguel, that was uncalled for.”

“Yes it was! He was smothering all over you!“ He yells, throwing his hands up in the air like it was the most obvious thing ever. 

“Well, now thanks to you, we lost a recruit.“

“One of literally thousands!“

“And now, there’s papers everywhere on the floor!“

“Shhh, honey, I’ll clean it up later.“

Ignoring your frown, Miguel finally pulls you into him, pressing your lower back into his own with a nose into your hair.

“I saw the way he put his arm around you. He was flirting with you too. Hated it.“ Miguel utters. 

“When?“ You ask.

“On the surveillance.“ He says, and you sigh. He’s right, the guy was flirting with you for a bit, but you chose to ignore it so you could get over with the tour faster. 

“Eh, he gave me the heebie jeebies from the beginning.“ You say, and Miguel automatically squeezes you tighter into him, a deep grumble bellowing from his inner throat.

“I’m never letting you tour anyone ever again.“ Miguel admits.

“After that? Go ahead.“ You scoff, and finally, he sighs in relief. 

He tries drags you back to the office platform again, but then forgets that he threw the chair, grumbling in regret. Instead, he just hovers behind you for the rest of the day, occasionally pressing a smooch to your head. 

[singdrossel]

In Krankheit und Gesundheit

Heute ist Dienstag. Seit einer Woche und zwei Tagen sitze ich krank zu hause. Drei Krankmeldungen sind in dieser Zeit bei meinem Arbeitgeber gelandet, da ich immer wieder gehofft hatte, dass es mir besser gehen wuerde. Die dritte reichte ich am Donnerstag ein. Die Reaktion war schwierig, wenngleich Ausbilder einen Pluspunkt bekommt, da er zumindest nicht gefragt hat, was ich denn haette. Denn reinrechtlich darf er das gar nicht.(!) Und man kennt es ja meist nicht anders. Ich zumindest nicht: Die meisten Arbeitgeber:innen fragen nach dem Grund der Krankmeldung, denn eventuell koennte man ja doch noch arbeiten, weil es gar nicht so schlimm sei und schließlich werde man ja gebraucht! Was machen Arbeitgeber:innen nur ohne uns ?! -offensichtlich untergehen. Naja ich war ja vorhin noch gar nicht richtig fertig. Ich bin im zweiten Jahr meiner Ausbildung zur Restaurantfachfrau. Erst Anfang April habe ich den Betrieb gewechselt. Mein Ausbilder fragte mich nach der dritten Krankmeldung, ob ich mich denn wirklich nicht in der Lage saehe, zu arbeiten.... eh.. nein? Wuerde ich mich sonst krank melden? Und dann schonwieder diese versteckte Unterstellung oder dieses Infragestellen dieser...Entscheidung? Da fehlt mir gerade das Wort aber Entscheidung ist definitiv das falsche. Denn wo entscheide ich mich denn dazu krank zu sein ? Wir sind nicht dafuer verantwortlich, wenn der Betrieb fuer nen paar Tage untergeht. Die zweite Krankmeldung ging letzten Dienstag ein und da kam das erste Mal der Gedanke auf: Scheiße, jetzt sind die unterbesetzt. Und ich kann doch nicht gleich am Anfang schon so 'lange' fehlen. Dann schreibt mir eine Arbeitskollegin/Freundin, fragt wo ich sei: 'Ja, eh ich bin krank', "Ja scheiße ich auch", 'Bist du arbeiten?', "Ja, weil du schon fehlst und wenn ich auch, dann wuerden schon zwei fehlen." ... noch mehr Druck. Ich weiß, dass die Kolleg:innen fragen und sagen 'Wenn ich krank bin, gehe ich auch arbeiten.' Ja.. und jetzt findet den Fehler..

(Ok, ich komm zur Arbeit und kotz den Gaesten auf den Teller - sorry.. konnt's mir nicht verkneifen)

[finnick-odairs-slut]

Tempting Fate| Rhysand/Illiryan!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Desc: Rhysand saves a Illyrian woman, his mother helps, and they grow close before the events of Under the Mountain occur. Why was he drawn to you?

P1 of a series :)

Rhysand’s mother had lived a hard life, and even one still that was hard. 3 growing boys under her care, and with her husband occupied with ideas of war, this left her alone most of the time during the day. She was on a visit to the war camp to see the three boys, they had just completed the blood rite together, for this her husband accompanied her. She could barely believe how fast Rhysand had grown before her, as well as Cassian and Azriel. The three of them meant the world to her.

“Mother! Father!” Rhysand calls out to her, and before she knows it he’s hugging her.

“We did it! We made it to the top!” He beams, his father is calm, almost proud of him she could tell.

“You did as I expected of you.” He states, looking at the winged man. His mother smiles back at him.

“You did great, Rhys.” She whispers to him, pulling him in for another hug. Her boy had really done it, he had proved himself. She was confident enough in him to know he could take care of himself but now the Illiryan warriors would respect him. As she pulled away she flinched, screaming entering the town square. The group of them began to train their eyes on who was screaming. A winged female being carried by two warriors, followed by a few more. The girl looked older than average for a wing clipping. Something Rhysand’s mother knew all too well, how girls would try to stop their bleeding, mothers being arrested or even killed for hiding a daughter. Her heart ached for the girl, watching her dirty feet kick at the two men securing her, she let out another wail.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” They struggle to bind her to the post that sits in the middle of the town. Public wing clippings were common too. There was something different about this girl….Rhysand’s mother thought quizzically, she watches as her son eyes the girl, recoiling when she screams. He looks up to his mother, tugging on her sleeve like he did when he was a little child.

He had seen many wing clippings in his time here at the camps, each time painful, but there was something about this girl to him. He watched her desperation, the way she still continued to fight and try to escape. He frowned, he had recognized you, you helped your mother in the kitchens that fed the soldiers. He had always wondered how you had your wings still, your mothers clipped. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen your mother in almost a month.

“Mother, can you get father to save this one?”

She almost chokes on her breath, looking over to her husband. She goes to him, ready to give him the most pleading look she’d ever mustered. For once his father listened carefully, his ears perking up at the notion his son would want this girl saved.

You don’t know who told the camp leader. Your mother had been procuring herbs for you to hold off on your first bleeding for years, years she had kept you safe. You were almost 19 now, and Illiryan leaders were growing suspicious of you, nothing you couldn’t handle. You’d have to blame your poor biology, perhaps you would never bleed, you joked with the battle hardened general. He gave you a look of disgust and motions you out of his tent.

Your mother turns up missing after this conversation with the general and you had suspicions. Your anxiety grew with each week, your mother only ever brought you enough og the herb to supply a month. You hadn’t had any in almost a week, and you could feel your cramps. Of course the herb never took away the pain your uterus would feel, it did stop the bleeding.

You were preparing vegetables in the kitchen, new women had been brought in after your mothers disappearance to make the kitchen function. You looked at the women around you, cleaning your workspace.

“I’m feeling rather ill today.” You feign, announcing to the women of your departure. You hurry from the kitchen, lunch would be fine without you today, you had hoped that with the blood rite still going on you would be able to avoid any warriors in camp and make it back to your cottage. You wouldn’t risk flying, that would spread the smell of you all over the camp.

Snow was slowly falling, piling up on the plethora that fell the night before. You hugged your cloak tight to your body, the chill in the air causing your wings to shiver.

“Hey Y/N!” A voice rang behind you, you turned to see a soldier you were friendly with. One that you had known for years. You let out a sigh of relief and he caught up to you, you still tried to keep your distance as he trailed behind you.

“Where are you going? Shouldn’t you be at your post?” You ask, raising an eyebrow to the man, he shrugged. His hair was braided back, he looked at you and then to the wilderness around them.

“Shouldn’t you?” He asks, leaning into you, panic shoots through you, almost as if you could sense what was going to happen next you took off. The snow crunching under your slippers as you weave through the shrubbery of the forest.

“Come back Y/N! Don’t make this harder! It's just a little clip!” He charges after you, and you unfortunately can’t outrun an Illiryan warrior.

“How did you think you were going to hide the fact you were on your first bleed?” He shakes his head, bringing you over his shoulder, you were kicking, biting, clawing, anything. He brings you back to camp, and all you can do is scream as the men around him congratulate him, other men begin to help him and follow behind him as brings you to the square.

You were scared, and tired by the time you had been bound to the post. The warrior was sure to strip your top garments off so they could get a good view of your wings.

“The girl will get 20 lashes for her insolence.” The general steps up to the post, whip in hand.

“Bad biology, aye girl?” He chuckles, reaching into his back pocket he throws your mother’s necklace in front of you. The dull copper clattering onto the aged wood platform. The aged metal coated in little droplets of red. You struggle on your knees, looking at the man before you as he stalks behind you. You scream, and scream.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” You scream out, clawing at the rope that binds you.

“Now folks, watch as Y/N L/N receives a punishment fit for her smuggling and lying! A grown woman who hid and stopped her first bleed!” The general yells out, bringing the whip behind him, in one swift motion your back lights up with the most pain you’d ever felt. Worse than the beating you got as a child from the shopkeeper for stealing. A skin cutting lash rewarded to you just between your wings. You were still reeling in pain when a second blow came down onto you. You cry out yet again, and you feel your brain go hazy. Silence from behind you and the feeling of having sand thrown at you. An oddly wet sensation.

“She’ll actually be going home with my wife.” A man's voice spoke, clouded in darkness. You barely know what's going on, your ears ringing, going between struggling and being still in order to try to calm the burning sensation between your wings.

You were unaware of the attention you had just gotten from a purple eyed devil, as well as the fact his father had liquified the general behind you. You looked at the shocked crowd in front of you, warriors barring their teeth. You pant, trying to keep your eyes closed, you didn’t quite understand what just happened. You feel the ropes behind you loosen, and your hands are freed. A soft woman's hand touching your own as she goes to lift your dress back onto your shoulders. Blood drips down your back and onto your dress.

“Come on sweetheart, I’ve got you.” She speaks so softly, so lovingly, you allow her to help you up, she holds you to her side. You feel a rush of wind and clench your eyes shut, the feeling of falling while you're trying to fall asleep overtakes you.

“This is my house dear, you will stay with us.” She takes you by the hand and shows you around the house.

From that day on Rhysand’s mother took you in. showing you the Court of Dreams, tutoring you and teaching you skills you needed, she even showed you tricks she had learned while flying. She had taken great care in healing your back and you could not have been more grateful. She had given you the chance at life, a happy one at that free from the social bounds of the soldiers on the mountains. She gave you time before she allowed the boys to meet you officially, you preferred babysitting Rhysand’s sister to socializing anyhow.

You were in the kitchen, pinching the dough of the loaf of bread you were trying to perfect. You heard them before you saw them, his mother, like a mother goose, walks in with the men following her. All three of them are handsome, your cheeks flush and you brush your hands on your apron, untying it and setting it on the counter. You approach them, a nervous smile on your lips.

Rhysand could hardly believe his eyes, from the battered girl he asked his mother to save to seeing you in front of him was a complete difference. You were so…ethereal. It was different to him, he couldn’t place it. The call to save you was something he’d never had before. When your eyes met his, he melted, your eyes so full of life. The dress that his mother had made for you hugging you in such a way, the grey fabric tailored to your curves. The way a streak of flour ghosted your cheek. He just wanted to brush it away himself.

He controls himself, with his mother and his brothers by his side.

You were weary of the boys, his mother had told you how Rhysand urged her to save you, but you still couldn’t quite shake the fact they were warriors. Ones that had completed the blood-rite. It terrified you, but you didn’t let it show as you attempted to warmly greet the trio.

“Y/n.” You say with a nod, the three introduce themselves and you somehow get trapped in a conversation with the boys, his mother chiming in here and there as she pleases. The boys seemed to take a liking to you. You guys were quick to get to know one another, and they were quick to accept you. It felt nice to feel accepted by a group of winged men, not to just serve them.

They visited you at least once a week after that, coming to raid the kitchen after one of your evenings baking or even just to sit with you by the fireplace. You appreciated the company of the men when they came, and then slowly over time they came less and less.

“This is the best thing that's ever been in my mouth, unless you want a turn?” The mischievous prince of the Night court licks his lips, and sucks his thumb free of the jam of a pasty you’d made.

You nearly choke on your tea, putting the saucer down as you nudge the raven haired male's shoulder. Your cheeks turn red, the warm feeling creeping up the back of your neck

“Rhys, shut up!” You shook your head at him, looking away. God, you loathed how he flirted with you, or did you really? The idea of Rhys coming home and finding you engrossed in one of your hobbies, perhaps perfecting a new recipe. His hands slipping around your waist, fingers tips digging hungrily into the flesh, his breath hot against your neck, crawling down your shoulders and tickling your wings. You could imagine the words he would whisper ‘Y/N, my sweet dove’, his lips attaching to your neck. You go stiff, clearing your throat as you look back at Rhysand. His sweet features, you smiled at him, but he went cold. He stands up,

“Thank you for lunch Y/N.” He says and then he winnows away. You can’t help but frown as you throw yourself back in frustration. Rhysand was being so short with you lately, you couldn’t tell what you had done wrong. By the time he visits you again, the thought is weighing on you heavily. You guys walk through the court of Dreams, shopping around and just enjoying the warm air.

“Rhys, what do I keep saying wrong? I feel like every time you come to see me, you leave while in such a cold mood.” You frown, turning to look at the man. He acts surprised for a moment, as if he was actually taken aback that you would question his behavior.

“You don’t say a thing wrong, dove.” He responds, hurt that you thought you were doing something wrong. You ice over, he had never– He had never called you that actually, only in the fantasies in your head. Simply you continued on the conversation but the look of a startled woodland creature had been enough to amuse the Illiyan man.

“So… how's the war?” You ask quickly trying to move on, but Rhysand understood more quickly than you did, the way you tugged at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the woman he had wanted saved all those years ago. He thinks that's when it happened, or perhaps when he watched the way you fit in with everyone in his life, the way you would argue with him and never let him have the last words. There were so many times he could count when he was sure the bond had snapped for him. He knew how you felt but he didn’t want to do anything until he was sure the bond snapped for you too. He promised that to himself.

You understood that Rhysand’s father had split the trio up to lead their own sections in the war, and at one point they stopped coming all together.

One last visit with Azriel really put your last interaction with Rhys into place, you were unaware of the fact that the prince was looking into your mind as you guys spoke. You felt too embarrassed that Rhys hadn’t told you. Daemati were rare, and you now knew you needed to watch what you thought around the dark haired man.

Still if you chose so, when his mother went to the camps to visit when one would stop in. You however couldn’t find it in yourself to go to the cabin with his mother and sister. It terrified you to be so close to the camps. So close to where everything happened so long ago, you were sure some of the men were bound to remember.

This continued for years, you grew better at your hobbies, baking, sewing as instructed by Rhysand’s mother. She truly was such a good person.

There really was no way you could repay the family for saving you and taking you in with no questions asked.

The fateful day still came about though, Rhysands mom and sister went to the cabin as per usual for the weekend, but they never came back.

It wasn’t until Rhysand returned to the mansion, that you learned the events of what had happened. Tamlin’s father had murdered them both, and when Rhysand and his father had found out they went to the Spring court for vengeance. Rhysand’s father falls as well. He had made it back home though. That's all that kept him going, there was no warm mother to greet him anymore, just you.

When he broke the news to you, you had collapsed into him, fitful sobs escaping your lips. He felt different, the way the power radiated off of him. It comforted but also terrified you as you pressed closer into him. You broke into him, curled into him for most of the night as you both took turns crying and remembering. You both tell stories about his family, how silly his little sister was when she was away from his mother. How his mother was always watching them. You guys discuss what is to come next, as Rhysand was now the Highlord of the Night Court. You were just an Illiyan woman, and you didn’t know what he had planned yet, but he wanted you in his inner circle. You spend the night in Rhysand’s room, waking up curled into the satin sheets. You look around slowly, Rhys is sitting at the edge of the bed, he’s looking at you.

“I am going to be gone for a while. Not a very long time, but I have to meet with someone in the depths of Pythian. I will have Morrigan stop by and check on you. I promise, I’m coming home to you. You’re not losing me too. I’m not losing you.” He says as if trying to convince himself, as if he were nervous of what was going to happen next.

Still laying down you revel in the ability to just look at Rhys in the silence, he's been so busy for so many years with his training and the war. Your meetings had grown more random, and you grew to miss the raven haired male. You knew you were going to get lonely in this house, you would have to venture out into the town and actually make friends at some point.

“Thank you, Rhys. I really mean it. For everything you and your family have done for me. I really thought my life was going to be living in that village for the rest of my life, married off to one of the men. I wouldn’t have a choice, I would have to carry his child, and pray to the cauldron that its a boy and not a baby girl. I don’t know why you gave me a chance, I’ll never forget it.” You smile, you sit up and stretch out, you are able to stretch your wings out as well, taking a large breath and letting it out as a sigh. You could find strength in the power that Rhys’ mother left you, the freedom.

“You don’t have to thank me. You deserved more than that. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you as they brought you into the square. I had seen you around before, never got the courage to talk to you, but I knew how sweet you were. I remember the extra portions you would give the boys and I. You are kind and cunning. I watched them try… I watched them try to take what little freedom you had and I couldn’t bear to see you in that pain.” The words flowed through Rhys, unable to stop himself.

“Something in me just snapped.” He gives you a half smile and stands from the bed, he runs his hands through his hair. He was already dressed, definitely in a hurry for sure.

You stand as well, still wearing the dress from yesterday, your hair slightly tousled.

“I really have to go dove, I don’t want to keep these people waiting.” He gives you another sad smile, opening his arms. You step forward into his embrace, his arms holding you strongly. You take a deep inhale, taking in Rhysand’s scent. A gentle salty sea breeze, mixed with a creamy lemon smell. Kind of like a tart? You could get lost in his embrace, it was the first time in many years you weren’t rushing downstairs to try to help with breakfast for everyone.

You find yourself stroking his arm, pulling away you meet his gaze. Your head felt heavy, it felt like you could barely keep your own head from toppling off your neck, the warm feeling spreading across your back. You keep your eyes on Rhysand and he looks at you quizzically. You felt like you were frozen in place by his gaze, and then you felt the tug on your heart. All at once something happened to you, the way you were looking at each other, the way you felt. Every emotion swirled in the air and crashed down on you, and pulled you closer to him.

“Rhys, I think-”

He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead.

“I know.”

He says and the entire planet feels like it freezes. You knew what you felt for him, what he had felt for you. You realized he probably felt it far before you did.

“I’m sorry.” You sigh

“Don’t be.” He grins, cupping your cheek as he leans down to kiss you. The kiss is slow, soft, and passionate, as if you could sense his relief in the way that you connected with him. You both were at peace, it would be hard, but you would have each other. He pulls away first.

“I’ll see you. I owe you a meal the next time we meet.” You marveled at the idea of cooking for him, for him to accept you.

“Of course. I will make it home to you. My precious dove.” He turns and looks at the window and looks down at the city. He pauses for a moment before pulling away, he hugs you and kisses your forehead before he's gone in a blink of an eye. You were always jealous he could do that. You giggled to yourself and crawled back into Rhys bed. The smell of your mate almost setting the room on fire. Your mate. He was your mate, and you were his. It excited you to no end, you weren’t sure of the concepts of mates beforehand, but looking at him you knew everything was going to be okay.

Although, Rhysand wouldn’t come home for another 50 years, and you were completely unaware of that fact as you drifted off to sleep.

[imagine-it-was-us]

greasy spoon || Lewis Hamilton

Inspiration: Sam Fender Greasy spoon

Author's note: This one is thick and heavy. Also, just to add - "Greasy spoon" can not only be interpreted like the story about the victim of dv, it's open ended and can surely being tied to other struggles. Us women should just stick together and look out for each other.

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x coworker

Warnings: mentions of dv, anxiety, threats. Please read at your own risk.

Summary: Lewis starts to notice the little things – late nights, a flinch at an unexpected touch, a guarded smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jen is composed, meticulous, always in control – until the cracks begin to show. As concern grows, he faces a question he isn’t sure he has the right to ask: how well do we really know the people we work with?

Word count: 3.6k+

The first time Lewis noticed that something was out of the ordinary as she flinched when a wrench slipped out of the mechanic’s hand and landed next to her feet. The sharp clang of the wrench echoed off the garage walls, a common symphony in the bustling Ferrari workspace. It was loud and it was completely fine to feel threatened when a tool was flying your way. But there was something about how her reaction seemed to linger as if she still felt in danger even after the mechanic apologized and was gone after that. The racer and her, logistics coordinator, were casually discussing about the next stop of the GP which was Japan, as she was trying to acquire information about his needs for the accommodation.

Lewis was still new to the team behind Ferrari and being an empath he sometimes still struggled to understand the emotions behind the faces. The first time he arrived at the facility in the preparations for the season, everyone seemed to be on the tip toes. After all, him joining the team came with a sense of expectation and was a big deal so he didn’t make a big deal about people feeling nervous around him. But it was in his best interest to create a strong sense of calm around him, as the tranquil environment helped him keep his mind as sharp as possible. Lewis had been with the team long enough to see the tension fade. Most of the staff had relaxed around him. 

She hadn’t.

And he wasn’t sure if she was starstruck or there was something else. He always thought the latter, because according to other members of the staff, she was here for more than five years and was exceptionally professional, always performing well. She was here when Sebastian Vettel was around and she basically saw Charles Leclerc grow up. Other teams also knew her for the craft, so it is safe to say that the buzz of the other driver shouldn’t be shaking her to her core. Yet somehow her hands still shock slightly after the “wrench situation” no matter how hard she was gripping her binder to possibly cover it up and get a grip.

“You’re good?” Lewis casually asked after finishing a work related conversation. It was nothing unusual for him to chat the crew up.

“Yeah, my sleeping schedule is a bit messed up, still not getting used to these Asia-Pacific timelines,” she brushed it off. 

Valid excuse. Logical. But something about the way she said it felt... rehearsed. Lewis nodded, deciding not to push. By all means, they were just coworkers, so who he was to nag her.

______

The Japan GP was the first major success for the team, marking Ferrari’s long-awaited return to dominance with a spectacular 1-2 podium. Suzuka Circuit had always been a favorite among drivers, but tonight, it felt like a stage for something even bigger - momentum, confidence, and perhaps, the start of something special. For the first time since donning the red race suit, Lewis felt truly at home behind the wheel of the red sports car. It had responded to him like an extension of himself, and as he stood beneath the podium, champagne soaking into his suit, the roar of the Tifosi in the stands made it all sink in.

There was an electric buzz in the air, the kind that only victory could bring. Confetti fluttered through the paddock like falling cherry blossoms, cameras flashed relentlessly, and the scent of tire smoke still lingered, mingling with the crisp night air. Spirits were high, and the decision was made almost instantly - tonight, the main team would go out to celebrate. Victories, after all, were meant to be savored.

Later that night, the private bar pulsed with warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world of pit strategy and data sheets. Ferrari red blended with relaxed, casual wear, but the conversation never strayed too far from racing - talks of aerodynamics mixed seamlessly with jokes about the team's superstitions. Glasses clinked, shoulders relaxed, and for once, the team allowed themselves to bask in the afterglow of success.

Lewis, nursing a drink as he leaned against the bar, scanned the room. It was rare to see everyone so unguarded, and he took a moment to soak it all in. Then, a thought struck him.

“Have you seen Jen?” he asked, turning to Enrico, one of the technical engineers, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.

“Jen from logistics?” Enrico asked and after the nod, encouraging him to carry on, he just lightly shook his head. “Oh no, she rarely, if ever, joins these kinds of spontaneous events. She’s really into her time being planned down to every second, maybe that’s why we never rarely have issues with logistics, it always works like clockwork.”

Enrico's answer was casual but when he said rubbed Lewis in the wrong way. It wasn’t that she was absent – plenty of team members skipped nights out – but the way Enrico spoke about her, like she existed only within the structure of her job, distant from the camaraderie of the team. She’d been with Ferrari for years, yet it seemed like no one really knew her.

“I mean what does one do in a foreign country on Sunday night?” he tried to make the question sound as light as possible, not trying to be seen as prying.

“I don’t know, she rarely talks about her life outside Formula 1. Maybe her fiancé has joined her for the GP. Maybe she is just tired after the whole spare parts being held up in customs shenanigans,” Enrico once again shrugged, unbothered.

Lewis nodded along, pretending to let the conversation drift, but the unease lingered. The thought of her spending the night alone – or worse, not being alone but being isolated in another way – bothered him more than he expected. He’d seen how the F1 world could consume people, turn their entire existence into travel schedules and race weekends. But this felt like something else. Something heavier.

He took another sip of his drink, eyes flickering back to the door, wondering if maybe, just maybe, she’d change her mind and walk in.

She never did.

___________

The next few GP were for getting to know her and looking for more subtle clues. Few things caught Lewis' eyes not soon after. 

One of which – the fact that she seemed to be more relaxed around the female employees. She wasn’t the smiliest and the most expressive person nonetheless but she at least didn’t seem to tense up or catch her breath whenever female colleagues would chat her up or approach asking technical questions. Same couldn’t be said about male employees. And it wasn’t about being starstruck or even the power play, where she would worry about the impression she is leaving. Any male surrounding her seemed to tense her up in a subtle, yet noticeable way. You just had to pay attention.

While doing just that, Lewis realized another suggestive giveaway. She rarely, if ever, wore a short-sleeved shirt – even when it was unbearably warm outside or the sun had been shining since early morning. She always opted for a long-sleeved shirt or sweatshirt, occasionally pushing the sleeves up to her elbows but never beyond that. Instead of shedding a layer to cool off, she would pat her forehead with a damp tissue to wipe away the pooling sweat. Whenever someone commented on it, she would brush it off with a lighthearted excuse – saying she had forgotten a T-shirt at the hotel or that the short-sleeved one underneath was dirty.

The last thing that caught Lewis' eyes was the perfectionism she seemed to be pushing for. Of course, it was applaudable to have a literal logistics guru within the team, who resolved any issue that might arise even at the last minute. But to some point it seemed to be concerning that she would rather pull an all nighter looking for the way to make things work perfectly rather than accepting the defeat, even though the cause of the issue had nothing to do with her or the lack of her interference. It was like she was afraid of failing those around her, of making the mistake. 

During one of those late nights in Imona, Lewis was doing a late call with sponsors in the US so he stayed in the facilities a little bit longer than the rest of the team. When he finished the call, she was still there, sitting by her computer and staring at the screen, her gaze zoned out. As Lewis didn’t want to startle her, he made his footsteps heavier than usual just so she would hear him coming from afar.

“Not in any rush to get home?” the driver asked while keeping a fair amount of distance between them. For the last couple months then Lewis started analyzing Jen, he was always trying to keep the relationship brief, not pushing her to talk more than she wanted. Their interactions were short, yet she seemed to trust him a little bit more every time they talked. Maybe it was down to the trust, that was slowly but surely building up. Or maybe it was due to the fact that Lewis had observed her enough to know what actions to avoid and how to approach her without causing unnecessary anxiety. Or maybe a little mixture of both. 

She shifted the gaze from the screen to him once he spoke. There was no flinching this time.

“Yeah, this limited edition gear was supposed to arrive like a few hours ago and it hasn’t turned up so I’m just trying to figure out where it got stuck,” another perfectly plausible explanation left her mouth.

“Couldn’t you do it from home? Or just pass it to someone else. Heard that you live quite close to the track, you could be enjoying your own peace for once” Lewis continued casually, yet his intention was to test another theory of his.

Jen’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her screen remained unchanged. Lewis noticed the briefest hesitation. Normally, her excuses came effortlessly, polished and ready. This time, there was a pause, like she was flipping through a mental catalog of explanations and coming up empty.

She swallowed and finally said. “Yeah, I guess I could… but, you know, I’m already here.” A forced chuckle. “Might as well get it done.”

Lewis didn’t reply right away. He just watched her for a moment, letting the weight of the silence settle between them. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze, her eyes had drifted back to the screen, but she wasn’t reading whatever was on it. She was just waiting for him to move on, to let it drop.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a slow step closer, still careful to keep a respectable distance. No sudden movements. No pressure. Just enough to make her know he wasn’t just going to let this slide like everyone else had.

And it wasn’t because he wanted anything from her. This wasn’t about attraction or some misplaced hero complex. Lewis had seen what abuse did to people. How it wrecked someone until they barely recognized themselves. And if his gut was right, that was exactly what was happening to Jen. He wasn’t trying to break up a relationship to have her for himself. He wasn’t trying to play the savior. This was just human decency. She was a friend, a damn good coworker, and if she was in trouble, he wasn’t about to look the other way.

“You know,” he started, his tone casual but steady, “back when I was in Mercedes, there was this girl on the team. One of the marketing team. She was real professional, always the last to leave the paddock. Everyone just thought she was extra dedicated. Turns out, she wasn’t staying late because of work. She was staying late because home wasn’t safe,” Lewis said simply, letting the words hang in the air. 

He wasn’t looking directly at her now, giving her space to absorb it without feeling cornered. “Took a while for anyone to figure it out. She was good at hiding it. Always had a reason, an excuse that no one questioned. But the truth was, that every time she walked out those doors, it was like… she was walking into something worse.”

Jen exhaled, slow and measured. Her knuckles were white where she clutched the edge of her desk. She wasn’t running this time. She was listening.

Lewis continued, his voice soft. “Took a long time before she let anyone help her. You get so used to it, you start thinking it’s normal. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s your fault.” He shook his head. “But it’s never normal. And it’s never your fault.”

For the first time since this conversation started, Jen looked at him properly. And this time, Lewis didn’t see that rehearsed professionalism she always wore like armor. This time, she just looked tired, like whatever was happening was catching up with her. 

He let out a small breath, offering her the space to say something if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he simply added, “You don’t have to talk. Not if you’re not ready. But if you ever need an excuse, an out, a safe place, just know that I see you and I got you.”

Jen’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, she gave the smallest nod that one could miss with a blink of the eye. A crack in the walls that had been up for the longest time. 

____

After Monaco, another victorious day for the Ferrari at Charles homeground, there was a brief sigh of relief amongst the team. But Silvertone was just a few Grand Prix away, and the tension of another home race was settling over the team. Everyone was feeling the weight of expectation. Yet Lewis had started to notice that Jen was carrying something heavier.

During European GPs, her makeup had been heavier, layered just a little too perfectly in places that didn’t need it. She was also thinner than before – noticeably by now, to the point where her uniform looked a little looser on her. 

And then there were the bruises.

Lewis hadn’t been looking for them and it wasn’t like she hasn’t been doing everything in her power to cover them up, but once, in the middle of a conversation, she had reached up absentmindedly to tuck her hair behind her ear, and the cuff of her sleeve had shifted just enough. A faint mark—yellowing, almost healed, but still there.

And still, she went about her days, pretending everything was fine.

It was the final stretch before Silverstone. The logistics team was wrapping up last-minute adjustments, and most of the staff were already talking about heading back to the hotel to rest before their flights later that evening. The sun was still high, casting sharp shadows across the paddock.

Lewis had been in and out of the meetings all morning, finishing all the last briefings after the Austrian GP. He was making his way back to the garage when he heard her voice. At first, it was nothing unusual. A phone call. Work-related, maybe. But as he went around the corner, he saw her standing further away from everyone, white knuckles clenching the phone. Whatever was being said on the other end, caused her an excessive amount of anxiety, as he has never seen a person shaken to its core like that.

She was trying to cut into the monologue on the other end, but she didn’t even finish the sentence and flinched, moving a phone a few centimeters away from the ear. That’s when she lifted her eyes and saw Lewis standing dead in his feet, staring at her from a few meters away, as if he was waiting for a signal to act. And for the first time since the driver had started paying attention, she wasn’t trying to run away or to brush it off, deny it.

Jen finally hung up, her fingers lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary, her shoulders stiff with tension. For a moment, she was frozen, caught between the remains of the call and the realization that someone had seen everything.

Her jaw clenched, her breath hitched. He expected an excuse, something quick and dismissive, but it never came.

Instead, her shoulders slumped. And in the quietest, most exhausted voice, she whispered:

“I can’t go to him tonight.”

Lewis didn’t hesitate.

“Come with me.”

He didn’t say where. Didn’t push for anything else. Just left the offer open, solid and steady, giving her the space to take it. This time, she did.

Lewis got her into his driver’s room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Jen didn’t sit right away. She stood stiffly near the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold something in – hold herself together.

Lewis didn’t push. He grabbed a chair, turning it toward her, giving her the space to come to him when she was ready. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I forgot to clean his shirt.”

Lewis frowned. “What?”

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, shaking her head. “His shirt. For a business meeting. I was supposed to make sure it was ironed and ready, but after yesterday’s GP I got home late, and I forgot.”

The weight of those words settled between them. Lewis clenched his jaw, his chest tightening – not at her, but at the fact that she thought this was the problem. That she had been conditioned to believe she had done something so unforgivable.

“He said that he is going to kill me, because I embarrassed him. Lewis, I don’t even know, the words have been on loop in my head since the call and it feels like he wasn’t lying this time.” 

The words landed heavy. They weren’t dramatic. Weren’t exaggerated. Just true. Like she hadn’t even let herself fully process them until she said them out loud.

Lewis exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he spoke. Then, carefully, he leaned forward.

“Jen,” he said, voice firm but careful, “you are not going back to him.”

She sat down slowly, hands still gripping her arms. After hearing Lewis, her immediate reaction was to defend him, like she has always done. “He wasn’t always like this.”

Lewis stayed quiet. He wasn’t here to rush her, wasn’t here to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just let her talk. 

“In the beginning, he was… rough, but not with me. Never with me,” she murmured. “It was like… I knew he had a temper, but I thought I’d never be the target of it. He just seemed to be rather clingy, wanting to spend every waking minute with me.” A bitter smile flickered across her lips. “Then, after I agreed to marry him, something changed. Like I belonged to him now. And that meant he could say whatever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted.”

Even though her attempt of softening the situation rubbed him the wrong way, Lewis knew better than to react. Probably for years she was fed the narrative that people around that piece of garbage deserved what they’ve got. And then naturally, when his attitude shifted towards her, she thought that it was exactly what she had deserved.

Jen swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “It started small. Just comments. Controlling things, like who I talked to, how I dressed, how I spent my time. And then, when I refused to quit my job, he got… worse.”

Lewis didn’t move. But his fingers pressed against his knee, tight enough that his knuckles ached.

“The first time he hit me was a few months ago. Remember our brief interaction before Japan? I was hit earlier that day, almost first thing in the morning,” she admitted, voice barely audible. She thought it was shameful. “I had already thought about leaving, but he found out. He made sure I knew that I couldn’t.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I barely keep in touch with my friends and family anymore. I was never allowed to make any new meaningful connections too. I don’t know how, but he made sure of that, too.”

She lifted her gaze then, meeting Lewis’s. “Nobody knows. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Lewis’s chest felt tight, the weight of her words sinking in. But this wasn’t about his anger, his frustration, or how much he wanted to hunt this man down himself.

This was about her.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said simply. “You aren’t alone.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time since she stepped into this room, her shoulders relaxed – just the slightest bit.

_____

Lewis didn’t waste time. Within hours after their conversation, arrangements had been made. Her accommodations in Silverstone were locked down, security was informed, and he had called in a few quiet favors to ensure she’d be safe. He handled it the way he handled pressure in the car – with precision.

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t give her a speech about how she deserved better or how she was stronger than this. She already knew all of that. She had been surviving on her own for months.

She just needed help. And he wasn’t about to let her down. It was about making sure that when she finally took the step to get away, she had somewhere safe to land. And if that meant stepping up? Then he would. No question about it.

Jen didn’t say much, but when later that night their plane touched down in the UK, she let out a breath like she was finally exhaling after holding it in for years.

For now, it wasn’t over. But for the first time, it felt like she had a way out.

[witchhatexchange]

Hello! I am happy to announce that Donation Period is now open! It will stay open until June 1st midnight EST.

(see here for charities)

this is how it works!

1. donate $5 USD (or equivalent in your currency)

2. submit the proof

3. fill the form!

here is the form:

places you can donate to:

care for gaza

palestine children’s relief fund

life for gaza

direct aid for gaza

https://www.gofundme.com/f/Children-Gaza-women

anera

for gofundme you can pick any gfm you want however if you are struggling with it there is a website that does the choosing for you!

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Stede Bonnet and the Subversive Shirt

In season one, despite the colours, lace, and detailing, Stede’s dress is mostly conformist in cut and style. His shirts are high-buttoned, cravated, and do not show much flesh below his chin. Coupled with the pantaloon and waistcoat, Stede’s wearing the clothes of traditional masculine presentation of his era.

There are times Stede’s clothing becomes less formal. During the sword practice with Ed in 106, Stede’s shirt is open and the cravat loosened. Again, in 107 we see Stede in his open nightclothes wandering on deck. During evening story hour, his jacket is removed. Stede usually seems more relaxed during these moments too.

Stede’s style changes properly on the second leaving of Bridgetown. What Stede is wearing openly as he drags the boat to sea is a rather romantic poet-pirate look with billowing shirt and sash. The look has links with future nineteenth-century Romantic freethinkers, championing individualism, revolution and liberty - including sexual liberation.

The open-neck shirt was popularised by Byron and Shelley a hundred years later. It was a deliberate choice of styling in opposition to enforced gender presentation and monogamous heteronormativity. The fashion of the times, similar to the 1700s, was high collars and neck-wrapping in order to force the holding of the male head in a stately and erect manner. It’s all about rigidity…

For an English gentleman of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, to have his shirt open and loose in public, was a sign of effeminacy. It was women who showed their décolletage in society, who were allowed a softer presentation; this new style hinted strongly at sexual and gender nonconformity. Women were viewed as more animalistic, men as cultured. Cultured people cover up. Softness, looseness - these are aspects of female sexuality, a bit bestial. And women are also a little bit insane. Why would any man, especially a man of status, want to present as feminine and lesser? And what does it say about patriarchy if some men actively choose to relinquish their privileged status by presenting more effeminately? It’s dangerous.

By today’s standards, Byron was pansexual and polyamorous. Shelley’s sexuality is less clear, but he was viewed as a subversive atheist and disinherited. Both might consider themselves nonbinary today. Shelley especially seems to have had a strong gnc presentation. Both left England for more liberal Europe.

I feel the costume department must’ve made a very deliberate and informed choice regarding Stede’s shirts post season one, but I don’t feel it’s the one some people think it is. I know part of DJenks stated aim was to ‘make Rhys Darby as sexy as possible’, but it’s not about appearing more masc. just because he’s showing more flesh. It’s about appearing more Stede. Stede is expressing a new-found confidence in his sexual identity and gender expression, by choosing a more freer, less structured, less traditionally masculine way of dressing, associated rather presciently with future Romantic liberalism. It seems poets and pirates have more in common than we realise. And both were considered dangerous for questioning the system.

However, Stede is also an individual in flux and he circles back to a part of his former self. The Red Suit is a sort of hybrid male/female costume. The cuffs, detailing and shirt itself are femme. But there are elements of traditional masculinity which are quite toxic. The epaulettes reinforce the inverted masculine triangular shape. Anyone who grew up in the 1980s will remember their mothers feeling forced to wear exaggerated shoulder-padding as they entered male-dominated workspaces. They also enforce military rank. Stede thinks he needs this imagery to ‘be the Captain’. He doesn’t. The exaggerated coattails are also absolutely synonymous with upper class male power. It’s masculinity as performance and power-play. Stede needs to let all of this cursed patriarchal nonsense go.

As so often’s the case in OFMD, external struggle, this time with the crew over the Red Suit, could also be a manifestation of Stede’s internal conflict and shifting identity. It’s a final letting go of patriarchal ideas, especially around captaincy. The crew certainly don’t want it. Stede is (more than) adequate just as he is. At the end of all the pushing and pulling, Stede keeps the most relevant bit of the outfit - the shirt. It’s the least restrictive part, the more feminine and therefore, the more subversive on a male body. It’s a sartorial representation of a changing Stede.

The three shirts worn in series two are deliberately opened-collared and low-cut, showing more and more of Stede’s chest. This is a traditional feminine aesthetic which historically on a man, at least in the anglosphere, was considered subversive and dangerous. And Stede couples his shirts with a different sort of masculinity, a leather trouser. Class-wise, this is a traditional working man’s garment. Through his new choice of clothing, Stede is rejecting entirely his previous role within patriarchal hegemony, both the imposed status and imposed gender norms.

This was in my drafts a while but inspired to try and pull it together by @celluloidbroomcloset posts here and here

[pynkgothicka]

Ｂｅａｓｔ Ｍｉｇｕｅｌ ｏ＇Ｈａｒａ

Synopsis - After you sister leaves you to hang with your boss, both his and your lives becoming a waking nightmare

Pairing - Yandere! Miguel o’Hara x Fem! Reader

Featuring - Jessica Drew but the black version cause I luv black women

Tags and Warnings - Stalking, Kidnapping, Violence towards reader

Authors Note - I LUV HIM SM MY GOD. I HADDD TO WRITE SOMETHING. Also I believe this contains slight spoilers??? I think???

A friendly reminder that all my works are dark fanfiction! Please if you do not like that do not read them! This is your final warning before hitting the keep reading button!!

“Jess! Are you sure it's okay that I'm here? I'm not really spider-like.” You followed behind your sister, her afro swinging as she walked. You fiddled with the band she gave you in order to keep you from glitching out.

It was all so casual, and almost everyone greeted her. The architecture was other worldy, almost only to benefit the inhabitants. Speaking of, there was many, too many to count. 2D, 3D, Male, Female, Pigs, Horses, Cats, almost anything imaginable.

While you looked at it all in amazement, they all looked at you, and gave you dirty and worried looks. At least thats what it looked like under their masks.

“Oh Miguel won't like this…”

“I didn't know they allowed just anyone up here?”

“I mean Peter B brings his daughter so I guess it's a pass."

“I just know Miguel doesn't like anything new. He might bare his fangs or something. You know that guy and sacre tactics.”

You shuddered at the way they spoke of this Miguel guy. But you kept following behind Jessica until she came to a huge hatch, in which opened up on her walking up.

“Miguel!”

“What do you need Jessica, aren't you supposed to be on a mission?”

“I do, but I need you to do a favor!” Jessica yelled, shoving your shoulder to push you ahead. “My sister is visiting from college in my dimension. I need someone to watch over her and I trust you'll do that without letting her get hurt.”

You finally looked up seeing a sharp jawed man looking down at you. His spider suit glew a dark blue with bright red highlights. His brown hair was pushed back, framing his face perfectly. Not only that, but he was huge, built like a giant.

He came down from his workspace, now closer to you than ever. His chest was too your face and you had to look up too look at him. He seemingly almost over analyzed you, eyes trialing up and down your form. “Fine. Just go handle the situation.”

Jessica raised a brow and crossed her arms. “Fine? Just fine? You usually aren't just okay with this type of stuff. You sur-”

“Your questioning my decisions?” Miguel said his stature becoming stiff, seemingly fed up with her constant questioning.

“No… just wondering. Don't have too much fun you two.” Jessica said giving you a small hug before walking off. As the hatch door closed, Miguel's hand went to your back, ushering you to walk with him.

“I'll give you a chair so you can stay within my sight. I don't want to lose you.” You nodded, watching as he turned away from you, going back to his work. A chair was pushed your direction, and when you finally got to sitting down the cushioned seat almost swallowed you whole. You could take a nap if you wanted too, it was just that comfortable. And you almost did, until you were pulled from your rest with a deep voice.

“Did she tell you, or did you piece it together?”

“Huh?"

“Jessica. Did you just figure out she was Spider-Woman?”

Miguel's hands just kept working, his focus divided between talking to you and his work. “To be honest, I just figured it out. When I asked her if what I thought was true, she just seemed relieved and told me everything.”

Miguel seemed surprised at this making a strange humming noise. “You two must be very close huh?”

“Yeah. I wouldn't trade the world for the bond me and her share. I'm glad she trusted me enough to tell me about that side of her life. From what she told me, Spiderman doesn't usually tell people about what he does. It's refreshing you know… I'm sorry am I rambling too much?”

“No. Your fine, I'm actually enjoying the company. I'm in here by myself most of the time. It's nice to hear another voice.” You gave him a small smile in which he returned, smirking at you. He stopped working and his screens switched off. “What do you do for fun?”

“Me? Fun? Uhh I don't know. I'm a college student with just about 0 connections. I guess reading?” You finally chased for a reply.

“LYLA get someone to bring me a book from the library. Hell bring two.” Miguel said, finally an AI woman popping up. She teased him a bit before finally having someone bring you two books. Miguel then sat down next too you beginning to open one of the books he brought.

“Your willing to read with me?”

“Yeah. I need to get my mind off of things anyway.”

🩸

Once Jessica had picked you up, Miguel felt weird. He knew you were attractive. Like very attractive. But that wasn't normal for him. He usually didn't see attraction in people.

Something else he also knew was that when he was around you he felt comfortable. He had no worries and you took them all away. It was a feeling he could only recall when he was with his “daughter.” He'd let you snuggle up close too him, physical touch being something he hadn't felt in a while.

“LYLA. I need you to pull any information on Jessica Drew's sister. It can be from any dimension, I just need to know everything.” Miguel basically ordered the ai. She popped up in front of him, with that same smug look she always gave when questioning his any of his decisions.

“Why would you need that?! It's not like she's ever going to get bitten by a radioactive spider.” LYLA said bringing up a huge collection of information she'd found on you in a heartbeat. “But hey I'll indulge this. Let's see, she's almost always college student, future looks like a journalist, ooh she's judgemental! And just about always single. Seems like her connection to Jessica Drew is always the sisterly role.”

Miguel fell more and more in love the more LYLA talked. “Send all that too my computer.”

“Gotcha! Hopefully this will help you.” LYLA said dissipating away. Miguel stared at the picture of you on one of the screens.

He had to have you. At any means necessary.

🩸

You'd finally saved up for a apartment to where you could stay without the need for dorm mates.

Being a journalism major meant you needed all the focus you could get. And you couldn't find that when around all those people. So you left.

Usually you wrote uplifting pieces for your sister as her and the press don't usually get along well. Even though your pretty sure she knows you wrote majority of her good stories, you also know she'd smile seeing that people appreciated her work.

As you were turned around and began slicing open a box to unpack in your room, a voice boomed from your window. “Hi sweetheart.” From across your room stood a towering Miguel o’Hara. He crawled his way into your room, shutting the window behind him.

“Umm hi Miguel. Are you looking for Jess? She's not here i-” Miguel cut you off.

“I'm not looking for her. I was actually looking for you. I came to talk to you about something.” Miguel started moving closer, slowly stepping towards you. He ducked past your light fixture, finally truly Intimidating you. Something about the way he was coming towards you frightened you. His size almost made it worse.

“Oh. Well of course. You can talk to me about anything.” You trailed off putting your knife to the side, giving Miguel your undivided attention

“I want you to come live with me. At the headquarters. No one has to know. Not even your sister.” He said causally. He was right on you, making you trip and buckle to fall on your bed. You looked up at him, pushing yourself further into the bed.

“That's, crazy Miguel. I can't that, I'm a college student! I don't even know you enough for that!”

"But I know you. I've studied you. Every possibility of you. I know more about you than you know yourself!" You let out a small gasp. This man had been essentially stalking you.

"Miguel. That makes it even worse, the last answer is no. And.... And I need you to go."

“You just don't get it do you?” Miguel's hand hit the wall, claws digging and dragging in the drywall. “I don't think you understand I'm not asking you to do anything. This is me telling you.”

And with that you kicked against him, trying to immobile him at any means possible. You had to find Jessica.

But he grabbed your wrist, trying to drag you to your window. He hoisted you up to his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Let go! Let go of me, Jess! Jess please!!” You began to scream out for your sister seeing if maybe, just maybe she was around to help you.

But she wasn't.

No one was.

You started to beat on Miguel's back. He was now out of your window and climbing up the side of your apartment, heading to the roof. “You better stop fighting, this is destiny. Our destiny.” When he finally made it to the roof he put you down and a hexagonal portal appeared as he messed around with his arm band. You began to heave on impact with the hot concrete. Miguel then turned back towards you, watching in amusement as you dragged yourself slowly to get away from him.

“What are you doing?!” Miguel's head snapped as he stared at LYLA who now stood in front of him at full height. “Your pulling the exact same thing you tried before this, before you made the society! Made me!”

"You don't understand. You will never understand."

"I understand more than you will ever know. You need to stop. And you need to stop now!"

You took this as a opening to crawl your way to the nearest side of the building. You could hear Miguel snarl and yell at Layla. But you tried to pay no mind to that as you looked down over the right edge of the building. You saw a metal of the top apartments stairway.

Fuck this would hurt.

Your body hit the metal with a loud bang, the adrenaline wore off as you finally felt all the bruises and gashes you gotten. “Fuck, my god. Jess… Spider-Woman! Plea-” You felt a hand on the back of your neck. Claws dug in to the front, slightly nicking at your neck.

“Where are you going?”

Miguel picked up your body like you weighed nothing. He then carried and slammed you against the nearby wall. When trying to move your hand to tap on the glass pane, Miguel's other hand grabbed at your wrist, immobilizing you. “Miguel please don't do this! Jessica, she's going to look for me I know it jus-”

“Shh My Love… this won't hurt a bit.” Miguel barred his fangs at you opening wide and moving to your neck. And before you could protest he bit deep into it, venom seeping into your veins. You felt woozy, and realized you couldn't move an inch. Just how he wanted you.

“It's all going to be okay Mi Vida. I know exactly what you need... A family. And not just any family. A family with me."

[manikas-whims]

how Xavier from Love and Deepspace will react when he finds out you're on your period..

Xavier realizes its the first time you haven't arrived at work on time. It concerns him deeply and he decides to call you on the phone.

You pick up the phone from the nightstand, receive the call and speak groggily due to the ache in your limbs.

“Xa..vier? What is it?”

On the other end, his eyes narrow in concern. “You don’t sound alright.”

“Ohhh its just..my stomach and thighs ache.. especially thighs..” Your eyes are watery as you speak. All this ache is making it harder for you to even have a simple phone conversation.

“But I'm okay..its just that time of the month, you know!” You attempt to make your best imitation of a chuckle to ensure everything is good.

Yet the line has already been disconnected.

At the workspace, Jenna watches Xavier already pulling on his white leather jacket and running out of the building.

[minutes later]

You hear your phone buzz again. Without even bothering to check the caller ID, you answer it with slight annoyance. “Who’s speaking!?”

The voice on the other end is familiar and calm as ever. Not reacting negatively to your words, Xavier says. “It’s me. I'm here at your place. Do you think you can open the door?”

You know he's only trying to be kind but you grumble anyways. You can't help it. “Xavier I’m not that weak! No girl is!”

You don't bother changing clothes and remain in your oversized shirt as it's more comfortable that way. And with little difficulty and a lot of ache in your body, you open the door to prove your point, staring up at him with your weary eyes.

He simply shuts the door as he walks in and hands you a package. “I bought some pads, and heat packs for your belly. Just in case you needed extra.”

You blink slowly, all the rage ignited by your period slowly fading in the face of his honesty.

“Come on, ” He beckons, heading upstairs towards your bedroom. “Or would you prefer I carry you?”

Mortified at the idea of being treated like a little girl, you stomp after him back to your room.

There, he guides you to lay down and sits at the edge of the bed, by your legs.

“Rest. I’ll be here for you. Always.”

Usually you would've tried teasing him but you don't wanna strain your body by speaking anymore. So you simply give in to the tempting softness of the mattress and close your eyes.

A moment later, you feel something glide along your leg, all the way up to your thigh before gently yet firmly grasping it.

Your face heats up, flushing a light shade of pink as you realize they're fingers. The same long fingers which you've seen Xavier wrap around his sword during your missions together.

Now for some reason, those very same fingers are holding your thigh. You feel the muscles in your leg tensing. So does he, and looks at you.

“Xavier you— what are you doing?” You squeak out, a hand over your eyes cause its just too embarrassing to look directly at him.

His hand doesn't even budge. “I’ve heard that during menses, women's thighs ache a lot. I was just trying to give yours’ a massage.”

Then he raises a brow, a lopsided smile curving upon his lips. “What did you think I was up to?”

“Ehhh!!” You shake your head, far more embarrassed now (if that was even possible).

“Nothing! I was just shocked when you suddenly touched me.”

He nods in understanding. “Pardon me for not asking permission before touching you.”

Now you shake your head even more, the aching muscles completely forgotten due to how embarrassed you feel for even daring to imagine something naughty at such a time.

“It's okay.” You mumble softly. “And I’m sorry for getting mad at you.”

He responds with a proper smile.

Then, his fingers begin pressing into your thigh, gently massaging along the entire leg.

“Now rest.” He commands and you close your eyes for there's no reason to deny his aid. You feel the tense muscles in your legs gradually relaxing, his care lulling you into a state of slumber.

And just as you feel sleep blessing your form, you mumble. “Xavier?”

“Mm?” He replies.

“Thanks for this. And for coming to see me.”

“No problem.”

Its been a while since I wrote any Character x Reader HCs so please bear with my errors. i love feedback so don't hesitate!

AND THANK YOU FOR READING ♡

Rafayel and Zayne version coming soon!

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