#this isn't her final design but .. .. .. . testing.. ..

[ytwokid]

PLEASE COME HOME SOON.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

So much of my impression of Reed Richards as autistic in the new Fantastic Four movie comes from Pedro Pascal's delivery. The way he chooses to say these lines makes such a difference--like "I am that smart" or "Anyone can build a crib, only I can build this" could EASILY have made him read as an a-hole, but Pedro's Reed says them with a sincerity that feels very autistic to me. He's not bragging or being snide, he's just stating the truth, and there's even a lot of gentleness in it. (And, I mean, come on, his confusion about the extra screws for the crib? "They included two extra...I have no idea why." He meant that!) His argument with Ben about how "cooking is more of an art than a math or a science" and how he failed his driver's test because of "poorly placed signage" (I love him) could have felt pedantic or prideful, but he says them with this sweet, almost abashed feeling that feels very genuine and familiar.

His reactions to Sue's pregnancy and the press post-Galactus excursion also read as autistic: he is clearly feeling a lot, but he isn't sure how to express it, so with Sue it comes out as immediately moving to problem-solving ("we'll have to design tests to account for our mutated DNA--") and with the press it shows up as reassurance-seeking: even though he's at the mic, he is constantly looking over at his family as if they could tell him what he should say. They even do end up answering some questions for him, and the most he says without a very long pause is his first comment: "I'm sorry we don't have a prepared statement" (which because of its delivery also feels very autistic).

And there's also his face, which is highlighted as very expressive in contrast to his fairly monotone voice. "I finally crossed it off the list," is said very simply and without context (true autistic information-sharing lol) but when Johnny jokes with him afterwards about taking back all the bad things he's said, Reed's face is telegraphing that he doesn't know how much of it is a joke. And at the start of the film, it's joked that his face is what gives away the pregnancy. (Not to mention Ben's joke about being surprised Reed isn't in panic-induced sweats and his reply that "I had that scheduled for later"...sir. You're not dodging the allegations)

Even in his fight with Sue the entirety of what he says is just so autistic to me. "I don't dream, I don't wonder. I let all of the worst things into my head, because it's my job to think of the bad things so that we can do them to them before they do them to us!" and Sue responds, "It's not your job, it's you." And he immediately agrees. And when Sue says "Sometimes, you being you hurts me," he can only pause and say "I don't mean to..." And Sue responds, "I know." And both of them feel so honest in how they say these lines! Reed really doesn't mean to hurt her, of course he doesn't, but he also doesn't know any other way to be, and he doesn't know how to make it hurt her less, and you can feel that he's really at a loss for what to do. Thankfully he is met with understanding, but the experience of the way you are and how you function being something that can hurt other people without your intending to or being able to help it is extremely relatable to autistic people. On top of this interaction, Reed feels like his whole family's pain is his fault, because he "should have known" that the suits "were...inadequate"--self-blame which makes him even more relatable.

And then there's the heartbreaking scene with him and Franklin where he quietly tells him, "I hope you're not like me. There's something wrong with me...always has been." It wasn't just the mutated DNA that made Reed feel wrong. He says he's always felt that way. There's nothing more autistic than that.

Anyway yeah I'm used to Reed feeling like a colder, less-emotional version of Tony Stark, but Pedro Pascal really breathes new life into this character. He is anxious and particular and warm and very, very autistic.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: reading the first fic is recommended but not necessary. i love these two so much actually, getting to write about them again was exciting <3 got carried away in the end so sorry abt that. last chunk isn't proof read so...idk

summary: SHIELD agent!reader, post avengers (2012)!nat; same universe as my previous fic 'selfish' (tagged below)

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), alcohol, major injury, seizures, hospitalization, violence, descriptions of medical procedures (brief), little bit of jealousy; as always — if i missed something, please tell me!

word count: 12.5k

→ selfish

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Fingertips burnt, hair tied back. The mess of electrodes and contact nodes has disappeared; it's turned into something much smaller, something that looks trivial but certainly packs a much-needed punch.

Combat neural link 2.0, you call it. After the original misfired and ended up getting Natasha shot, you were set on inventing a new one. An improved version, one that she could have some control over as well. 

It took eight months. You spent more nights in your lab than anywhere else. Most of the time, Natasha had to go in there and drag you out herself.

"Still tinkering?", she asks. You glance at her. "Fury called. The earth's mightiest heroes are ready to go."

Your lips form a thin line. The Avengers Initiative is a noble idea, but at the same time, it's a ticking time bomb. Six superpowered, gifted individuals, committed to the world's protection.

"Earth's mightiest heroes?"

She smiles and walks to your side. Her hands settle on your waist. "Direct quote from Stark. How's the neural link?"

Natasha's trying to distract you. She knows you've been worrying — other than SHIELD, the Avengers are public, flashy. Nothing will be contained from this moment on. The second she's in the spotlight alongside everyone else, threats will increase tenfold.

"This is prototype number 13." You hook it up to your tablet and show her the data. "Might be the final version. You feel like doing a test run later? Won't hurt, I promise."

She brushes your hair aside. In order to properly test the neural link, you made SHIELD put a link housing on you as well. So far, it's been going fine — aside from a few early attempts that resulted in the link sparking and irritating your skin.

Her lips press against your skin, right below the link housing. What the kiss lacks in quantity, it makes up for in impact. A soft heat blooms in your cheeks.

She reaches for the neural link before you can stop her. When she flips it over to check the side, you groan. 

"That's sweet", she teases. "Both of our initials?"

"Well, we've both worn it", you say reluctantly. "You're just as much a part of this as I am."

It's true. Natasha might not agree, but without her, the gadget would never be what it is now. She's the one testing its main capabilities, making sure it's ready for battle. You only check the basics.

"Prototype 13", she says, looking at you. "What was wrong with number 12?"

"The manual override was a bit laggy." You grab the neural link and store it in the small waterproof casing you designed. "This one reacts immediately. If you need to disable it, you can. You won't need me for it."

The look in her eyes softens a little. You know she trusts you. She knows you trust her. What neither of you considered was whether you trusted her to trust herself. Looks like you do.

Light spills into the room, sudden and unprompted. You look at the door and stifle a sigh — it's Fury in all his glory, eye patch and leather jacket included. You didn't even notice you were taking your sweet time with this.

"Romanoff", he says. "Should've known you'd be here. Listen, Y/L/N, we're all thrilled things are going well for the two of you, but it can't interfere with business."

"We're on the clock?", you say, pressing a quick kiss to Natasha's cheek. "Had no idea. I'll hand her over right now."

She looks at you, lips twitching. It's not like she wants to leave — but you'll be seeing each other again soon. In a few hours, when the debrief is over, when you're hopefully a step closer to finishing the combat neural link.

You don't kiss her until Fury gets the hint and steps out of your lab. Seconds later, Natasha follows. 

You'll have to get used to this. From now on, her attention will be divided into three, and whatever happens, you have no choice but to find a way to deal with it.

. . .

Nothing about this will be clean.

You're used to your routines, your lab at SHIELD. You're used to waking up at 5 in the morning, to only getting a couple hours of sleep every night. Your life isn't clean either; but it has structure. It's not messy in the way the Avengers are.

After the battle of New York, the Stark Tower was damaged. At that point, you didn't expect that place to ever have any kind of significance to you. You know better now.

"They rebuilt it?"

"There was quite some damage", Natasha says. "Looks good."

You hum, head tipped back, staring at the giant building in front of you. It's similar enough to the SHIELD headquarters, you tell yourself. Smaller in size, but not lacking in grandeur. You can't imagine spending your days here.

Natasha's not moving in full time. She still prefers your shared apartment. But as part of the team, her routine will change. You'll be spending your nights somewhere else whenever it's the more convenient choice.

Your only consolation is that you'll be allowed to join. She made sure of that.

"Now we go in?"

"If you dare", she teases, hand finding yours. You squeeze it. "I bet they're dying to see you again."

You grimace. Last time, things didn't go as planned. To an extent, it was your fault — having five strangers, all superpowered and dangerous in one way or another, take over SHIELD's helicarrier was a situation that made all of your alarm bells go off. You should be used to potential threats, but this one seemed excessive, so your instinct was to treat them like the hazard you perceived them as. 

You snapped at them. You were that exact cold version of yourself not even you like to see. Natasha was far too understanding.

"Maybe I should wait in the lobby", you say. "It's only going to take, what, a few days?"

Natasha glances at you. "Like hell you will", she says, already pulling you along. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I'm sorry, were you there last time?"

The elevator ride is smooth. Natasha turns around and steps closer, her chest almost against yours, deft fingers starting to fix your hair. You sigh but don't move. 

"We're still alive", she says, tilting her head and dragging both thumbs over your jaw. "What's with the face?"

You grimace. "What face?"

"This face." She touches your nose. "You'll scare the crap out of them."

"I don't think there's much they're scared of", you say, gently grabbing her wrist. Her smile widens a little. "You're enjoying this an awful lot."

"It's not every day I get to see you this skittish."

Your face turns from agitated to deadpan. She's lying. You, unfortunately, might be the most skittish person at SHIELD. There's one contestant who could maybe steal your spot, but not even that's certain.

It's not your fault. Not fully. After being forced to stop field work due to a bad injury, and consistently watching your girlfriend get hurt for years, your wariness seems justified enough. 

"Really?"

Natasha smirks. Her hand moves to your jaw, cupping it, and her lips press against yours. It's over before you can fully register the kiss, and by the time you come back to your senses, the elevator doors have opened.

Five superheroes stare at you. It's the least cohesive group of people you've ever seen.

"I know you", Tony says, pointing a pen at Natasha. "The other one..."

"We've met", you cut him off. You glance at your surroundings. "You know, you could improve the mechanism of the elevator. If you-"

His eyebrows shoot up. Everyone looks at you. Sensing that you're about to start something that might never end, you decide to stop talking. You can see why someone like Tony Stark wouldn't want you questioning his ability to pick the right tech.

The others do recognize you. And though they're all strangers in terms of you knowing them — you even know Ward better, and you do everything in your power to avoid talking to him —, at least one of them is familiar.

Clint. He prepared you for this days before it was set in stone. He'd walked into your lab, pulled you aside and briefed you on every person that's now in front of you.

The first time you met them, they were bouncing off each other like magnets' like poles. Everything about them seemed to clash. And hell, it was obvious. 

Over the last few months, that has changed. Fighting aliens and a Norse deity together will do that. They're not best friends by any means — you're not even sure they're friends yet — but the tension has reduced to a gentle, almost sweet simmering. 

Their presence, and the wariness that came with being unfamiliar, made everyone feel out of place. Now, it's only you who stands out. You feel miserable. You straighten up a little. It doesn't help.

They talk. Joke about things. You stand between Natasha and Banner like a shield. He's a nice guy. Polite, a little awkward, but friendly once comfortable. You don't want to have this picture of him in your head, but all you see is the 1200 lbs green, primitive-minded creature that chased Natasha through the hallways of the Helicarrier once.

Someone passes around beers, which you down like there's no tomorrow. Natasha's watching you, subtly, but you can feel it. You know her too intimately not to. Besides, she wants you to feel it. Maybe it'll make you stop.

"I wanted to show you around", Natasha says quietly, prying the bottle from your hand. "Think you'll be able to stand?"

"What? Oh-" You huff. "Yeah, yeah. It was a few beers, nothing more. I'm fine."

"No alcohol in my lab", Tony says. "You know, I got a hunch you'll be thoroughly impressed. SHIELD just doesn't do it right."

"Really?" You look at him. "I find it our labs more than sufficient. They're upgraded annually, some of our best scientists handpick every addition. They even let me equip my own. I've built my entire life in that lab. I really wouldn't be too sure if I were you."

Natasha's lips twitch. There it is — the conversation shifted. You're eager to argue, especially with someone like Tony Stark. When Bruce joins in, she knows she can let herself rest for a moment. The ice is melting.

You make it home around midnight. You enter the bathroom straight away, dropping your jackets off somewhere on your way there.

"Could've been worse", you say, undoing the first button on your button-up. "Made up for last time, didn't I?"

"They like you", she says. "You got Stark wrapped around your little finger. He was practically swooning."

You hum, stepping in front of the sink next to her. Your shirt is open all the way, revealing an old undershirt underneath. Natasha glances at the thin necklace you're wearing, one she got you for your birthday before you were even dating, and smiles.

"Was he?" You huff. "I'm just glad it wasn't a disaster. They're like explosives. One wrong move and it's a chain reaction. Collateral damage guaranteed."

"There will be collateral damage regardless." She squeezes some makeup remover onto a cotton pad and starts cleaning her face.

You watch, first absently and then getting more enthralled by it. With each swipe of the cotton pad across her skin, more of that armor falls off. You see pale skin, scars softened by time and healing, the tiredness she masks so well.

You're in love. You feel it over and over again, thumping in your chest.

Cupping her head, you kiss her temple before you can think about it twice. She raises her eyebrows at you through the mirror.

"I'm not ready."

"For?", she asks, disposing of the cotton pad.

"Having to share you with more people." You step away and grab your toothbrush. "Our time is limited as it is."

Natasha hums. She doesn't regret SHIELD. She doesn't regret the Avengers, either. They were both crucial steps in becoming who she is today. But sometimes, she wishes all responsibilities could fall off her like the jacket she left in the hallway.

"Better make it count", she teases. You glance at her, eyebrows raised, toothpaste foaming at your mouth as you scrub your teeth clean. "What do you say, genius?"

You smile, toothbrush tucked into your cheek. "Collateral damage guaranteed, is what I say."

. . .

It's a new environment. You turn around and almost grab one of Clint's trick arrows. An explosive one, too — you pull your hand back and furrow your eyebrows, eyes scanning the space you're in.

You miss the armory at the SHIELD headquarters. This one is stocked just as well, containing all the weapons and tools Natasha and the others might need, but it's different. Your trusted muscle memory doesn't work here. Everything is in a different spot than you're used to.

You shake your head and reach for the various Widow's Bites. The one you want is miniaturized, with a reduced output and disguised as jewelry. Perfect for her first gala as an Avenger. Perfect for self defense, too.

"It just keeps going, huh?"

"Safety first", you say simply. "Give me your wrists."

She holds out both her hands. Your eyes trail up her arms, to her face, before shamefully resorting back to the Widow's Bites. It's not the time. You can ogle her later. Resisting is hard, though.

The magnetic lock shuts with a quiet click. You brush your thumb over hers, then reach for her other wrist. Once the second bracelet is secured, you grab a handgun and gesture for her to lift her dress a little.

"It's a gala", she says, watching you slide a thigh holster up her leg. "Unless everything goes to hell, I'll be fine."

You shoot her a sharp look. "You used to be more careful than me."

"There's a fine line between careful and paranoid." She leans in, cupping your jaw, breath ghosting your lips. "You're stepping right over it."

Warmth coils in your stomach. Your fingers are still on her thigh, still pretending to adjust the holster. It fits around her perfectly.

"We have ten minutes", you say weakly.

"Don't want my dress all wrinkly, do we?"

You don't. The dress is equally stunning and distracting. The fabric barely brushes the floor, the slit on the side reaches the middle of her thigh. The fabric is smooth and black, and you're trying to grasp that you'll be the one to lead her down the red carpet tonight.

You shake your head and reach for the high heels you designed years ago. There are blades hidden in the heels, concealed so well that not even a trained eye could spot them. You tap your fingers against her Achilles heel, coaxing her into lifting her foot, and you slip the heel right on. 

You get up from the floor and take off your necklace. Natasha pauses when you step around her to put it on her instead. 

"What..."

"The charm", you say, closing the little clasp. "There's poison in it. Just in case."

Natasha picks up the charm. It's a tiny heart. She hates hearts. You hate them, too. One of the most significant organs in the human body, and some idiot decided to simplify it like this. 

"The only charm I could find on short notice", you add. She laughs quietly. "Your earrings are micro-comms. The audio quality is questionable, but considering it's a low risk situation, they should suffice."

"They're perfect", she assures you, fingers tangling with yours. "So are you. I don't think anyone else could handle this with half as much grace."

The tips of your ears burn. You curse your own susceptibility for her. You're way too easy. You kiss her anyway — because you want to, and because you're trying to hide how her few words made you preen. 

Armored SUVs wait for you outside the tower. Keeping Natasha's hand in yours, you sprint past paparazzi and civilians and get her into the vehicle. 

A naive part of you thinks that's it. That you've made it through the worst part, at least for now. When you get out about half an hour later, you're met with a sea of people gathered in front of the building. 

Natasha looks at you. "We could run."

"We have security", you add. 

"My poor dress."

"Running in heels isn't comfortable, either."

"Get out", Tony says through the comms, already sounding impatient. "No way SHIELD agents are scared of paparazzi."

You sigh, holding her hand tighter. The door opens. You get out and the flashes go off immediately. 

You knew this would be messy — everything about it already is. Never in her life was Natasha presented to the world like this, on a platter, exposed. Never have you stood in the middle of camera flashes and paparazzi, with microphones being shoved at both of you.

You don't let go of her. You know there will be pictures of you all over the world within minutes.

Once you make it in, it's easier. Quieter. Less threatening. Your hand slips down her side anyway, straight to her thigh. You feel the gun tucked into the holster there and exhale.

"Checking for weapons?", Tony asks. He's got Pepper on his arm, one hand clinging to his elbow. "At a gala, too. You know, I really wonder what your wedding will look like. Full body scanners everywhere."

"Private wedding", you say flatly. "No guests allowed. Where are the others?"

"Right here", Steve calls. He's patting Bruce on the back, who looks like he's one camera flash away from hulking out. You angle Natasha away from him. "You guys look great."

"You like my new suit?" Tony adjusts the lapels. "Got it on clearance. You know, splurging for the public."

"They want us inside", Clint says. You whip around when you hear his voice. "Look at that, I managed to sneak up on you."

You roll your eyes and pull Natasha closer. He seemed to come out of nowhere. Pair that with already being on edge for hours and the result is flinching at the tiniest of sounds.

She smiles, her eyes trailing across your face. "Why so jumpy?"

You shake your head. The stakes are usually much higher. Your job comes with a responsibility most people can't fathom — not only are you partially responsible for people's lives, but your girlfriend's life as well. Your main responsibility is Natasha's life. 

This gala is terrifying anyway. Making it all public — Natasha, the Avengers, your relationship — is the scariest part. From that moment on, all control slips from your fingers. 

Bullshit. You lost control months ago. Hell, you never were in control in the first place. 

Inside, it's loud. Crowded. Dozens of round tables everywhere, with white linen tablecloths and candlelight. Everyone is polished. Not a tie is out of place. You feel the faded scars on your hands, stemming from years of work in your lab, prick like needles.

It's a fundraiser slash corporate gala. The Avengers are being presented like a product — not one you can buy, but a collective idea, something that will benefit everyone. 

You're not a fan. Neither is Natasha. She swiftly grabs a champagne flute and drinks it in one go. Remembering how you had bottle after bottle of beer when meeting the team again, you're starting to think both of you have an alcohol problem.

"Ma'am", Steve says, letting Natasha get to the table first. 

You were lost in thought. Having the super soldier address your girlfriend like that makes you snap out of it, though.

You blink at him. "What?"

"Come on", Natasha says, steering you to the table. "We're not doing this tonight."

"Oh please, I wasn't going to do anything-"

"I'd love to hook you up to that lie detector right about now", she says, pulling out a chair and making you sit down on it. She keeps her hand on your shoulder and her mouth next to your ear. "You can be jealous when the world isn't watching."

It's defeat. She wins. You sink into your chair and hate yourself a little.

They make the Avengers enter the stage. One by one, then, all of them together. You stay in your seat. You keep a hand on the gun you're carrying around. 

They talk about themselves. Not a lot, not so much that any valuable information is revealed to the public. It's just enough to give people a sense of trust and, maybe, make them want to know more. Dig deeper.

Natasha's beautiful. Her eyes find you from all the way across the room. You know the world is watching, and you know it's watching her.

. . .

Nothing about this is different, you tell yourself.

You still helped her suit up for the mission. You still picked the best weapons, argued about the model, tried to give instructions despite being aware she knows better, anyway.

You're still guiding her through the mission. It doesn't happen often, but it happens, especially in situations where she uses one of your weapons. 

The combat neural link has made a comeback. It's working smoothly, activating at the right moments, only taking a split millisecond to react to the input it gets. You're proud — after that catastrophe at SHIELD's black site, you've made it your mission to figure out every weak spot of the tool. 

It worked. 14 prototypes later, Natasha's wearing a version you'd consider almost flawless.

It isn't flawless — it's still tech, after all. But the chance of the link misfiring, malfunctioning in any way, has been lowered so tremendously you barely have to worry anymore.

You watch her through a little screen. You keep an eye on the neural link status. She slips through a hallway and unlocks a door. 

Nothing is different. Aside from the five people fighting alongside her now.

It's one of SHIELD'S power facilities, located in rural Germany. Inside of it is an energy system derived from the original Tesseract. It's not cosmic energy, but it imitates it, and though everyone tried to keep this piece of information as confidential as possible, it got out.

When Fury caught wind of HYDRA scientists planning to destabilize the experimental energy core, he called the Avengers to take a look at it. You couldn't just stay behind. You packed your stuff — toolbox included — and hopped onto the jet with them. 

The mission is going well so far. The neural link is doing its job. Minimal visual distortion and maximal resilience to the increasing pressure.

If only it weren't for the time running out. 

"Hurry up", you press, eyes on the screen. You watch Natasha take down a HYDRA agent. "You've got three minutes max."

"Hey, Point Break."

You get distracted by Stark speaking into the comms. You search the screens in front of you and find him in one of the control rooms. He's analyzing the documents he found on one of the computers.

"You found something?", you ask.

"Ionic patterns. These ones resemble cosmic energy, like the one Blondie summons with that hammer of his."

Something rustles. "I don't 'summon' energy", Thor says.

"Whatever. Point is, get your ass into the core chamber."

You look at the measuring device again. Systems are glitching, telemetry is spiking. The EM levels are through the roof. Not too long, and the entire infrastructure is collapsing.

Their biggest hope is Thor. You haven't figured out the mechanics of his hammer yet — but based on what Stark is saying, it sounds promising. 

He'll be the primary stabilizer. He'll stand in the worst of the EM interference, lift his hammer, and pull the excess energy into the ground. In theory, it'll be enough to keep everything from crashing. 

"This isn't going to work", you say. "This is a Tesseract replica. Lightning works different. The electric fields need to be damn near identical."

"Ion patterns", Tony repeats. "That's all we need."

The air is humming, buzzing. The static is interfering with every system present in the van you're in. You press buttons that don't do anything anymore, check data that stopped updating. You can't do anything. 

"Manual override", Natasha says, finger on her combat neural link. "Don't want it fried."

You bite your tongue. It won't get fried, you almost said. Are you doubting me? Are you doubting what I created?

But she's right. In just seconds, the surge could cause them to abort the mission. She disables the neural link and, with great disappointment, you watch your tablet's screen go black. 

Thor moves into the middle of the EM interference. You stare at the only screen that survived, watching the energy bundle and stream into his hammer. Anchoring the surge, Mjölnir shoots the energy straight into the ground. 

No suits, no weapons or tools needed. Just a god and his hammer, controlling something that would've had all of your gadgets bursting. 

You sink into your seat, staring at the screen begrudgingly. It's envy. It's subtle, but it's there. You've spent years trying to perfect the technology Natasha's sent on missions with, but ancient magic will beat it every time. No power cell could do that.

The Norse god is beaming with pride. He keeps the energy under control until Tony stabilizes the energy core, then he gently streams it back. 

In front of you, the screens flicker back to life. Buttons light up and devices start humming. You hear your intercom rustle. 

"Status?", Natasha asks. 

"They did it", you say, clipped. "Stark's idea. It...worked. They used Mjölnir to anchor the surge."

"Mission accomplished", she mumbles, activating her neural link again. 

Days later. Only the emergency lights are on in Research and Development.The lab is dim and empty, silent aside from the gentle humming of your devices. 

A screen is lit. There's a pile of notes scribbled onto creased paper next to you. Project MJ-0 — your newest and most shameful one by far. 

You're not inventing. You're copying. And it's not even a good copy. 

You don't understand the hammer enough to make a replica of it. You know it channels electromagnetic energy, and that it's made from uru metal. It emits gravitons. Theoretical physics, which is easy enough — if it weren't for the Asgardian magic aspect. 

You can't copy magic. You try anyway, even when the system melts and power feedback loops. Even when it starts sparking. Even when you feel the envy turn into desperate anger. 

You're spiraling quietly. You don't notice Natasha walk in, barefoot and with a jacket over her shoulder, lip still split from being punched. 

"Hey, Hachi."

You don't flinch. You're too exhausted to do so. You wipe your forehead and wince, singed fingertips stinging. 

Damn it, you were supposed to pick her up. 

"I missed it?"

"Don't beat yourself up over it." She steps closer and looks over your shoulder. "That's new."

You smell her. Sweat, blood, perfume. You want to crawl into her skin and hide from the monstrosity lying on your workbench. Instead, she's looking at it. 

"MJ-0", she reads. "Is that a hammer?"

You rub the back of your neck. Denying it is pointless. "Uh-huh, yeah. I'm just trying something."

Natasha goes quiet for a second. You swear you can hear her brain whir in sync with the machines in your lab. 

"You're not supposed to be a god", she then says. 

"I'm not trying to be", you snap. You're mean when you're tired and frustrated. "It'd be useful. You saw it, back in Germany. That energy core..."

She watches you, silent and contemplative. You stop talking. She puts her hands on your hips and her chin on your shoulder. 

"Mistake number one: trying to turn divination human", she mumbles. You exhale. "Mistake number two: not accounting for the way the material affects the electromagnetic waves. Did you adjust for permeability?"

You go silent. Natasha chuckles and kisses your neck, finally grabbing your hand to turn you around. You fold your arms around her waist and slump into her. 

"I'm tired."

"I know", she murmurs, lips against your shoulder. "2am, love. How long have you been at it?"

In order to not get yourself killed, you shrug. In reality, you've been getting an average of 3.5 hours of sleep a night. 

"A few hours. Wanted to stay longer to pick you up in the hangar, but..." You exhale. "I'm sorry."

She pulls away enough to tip your head up with her finger. She studies the dark rings under your eyes, the defiant exhaustion in your face, and sighs. 

You're hopeless. She is, too. Her mouth presses against yours, tasting faintly of blood, and you make a soft noise of relief. There's something  that won't end in a disaster at least. Something you still have control over. 

Natasha gets on her tiptoes. Her fingers slowly slide the hair tie off, mess up the strands that have grown so much in the past half year. 

Fingertips tug at buttons, at zippers. Your hands feel smooth skin, occasionally marred by old scars, and a bandage too. You tug her closer. You turn around and lift her onto your workbench. 

Legs wrap around your waist. You slip your fingers down her front until they're met with cotton. 

You're in your lab, with security cameras and guards patrolling the hallways. It's not the place for it, and you know it. You've been caught one time too many — Fury's birthday party, in the hangar after everyone else had left, curled into the couch of the seemingly empty rec room. 

Oh well. Your hand is in her underwear already. 

She moans into your mouth, hips rocking slowly. You slip a finger in, hoping nobody is going to walk past your lab, and curl it just right. 

This has always been your favorite experiment — finding out which spots, which movements, lead to the desired outcome. There are no defined variables, but in this case, it doesn't bother you. 

You add another finger, then two. Her hips buck, mouth parting from yours. She's panting quietly. Her hands are looped around your neck to keep you within kissing distance.

"Mission went well?", you mumble, going faster. Slick sounds fill the air and drown out the machines in the background.

"Yeah", she confirms, forehead dropping against yours. "No major- injuries. Fuck..."

"Paul did his job?"

She nods, unable to speak. Her hips are moving in sync with your hand. Each time she rolls her hips, the workbench squeaks quietly. 

Your thumb circles her clit. Natasha moans, clenching around your fingers when she comes. 

It's a replication study, and one that — once again — confirms your previous results. You laugh, tired and much happier than you were trying to figure out the mechanics behind that stupid hammer, and kiss her shoulder. 

. . .

"I already told you no."

"But-"

"Ms Y/L/N", Fury says, finally turning around. You've been following him through the hallway like a pathetic puppy. "You know the rule — don't bite off more than you can chew. You're one of my most competent people, but I cannot see this ending well."

You stare at him, eyes defiant. He's holding a cup of coffee. Steam rises, curling in the air, and he gives it a gentle blow.

"Now let me finish my coffee", he adds. "It's not often I get to enjoy it hot."

He turns around again. He keeps walking. You scoff, then go back to following him. Your steps are determined, heavy boots thudding in the silence of the hallways.

There's a reason you and Natasha work so well. You're stubborn — you challenge her. Unfortunately, you challenge Fury as well.

"She will manage fine without it", he says. "Have you seen her fight?"

"Yes, I've seen her fight! It's just-"

"No. Have a good night."

The door to his office slams shut in front of your nose. You stand there, taken off guard, before finally retreating. 

It's a good idea. Brilliant, even. It's risky — you're aware there are even more dangers attached than you're used to. In your mind, the benefits outweigh the risks. That's all you need to know. 

The neural link is almost optimized. Almost. You were taught not to strive for perfection. It never ends well. Your professors were particular about making sure you know that. 

Yet, you're here. At the HQ instead of in your bed. Tinkering with the stupid neural link instead of finally picking out a ring. 

You're not sure she'll say yes. Having Natasha say no would be more embarrassing than all your gadgets crashing at once. Shooting for the stars — it's what you do best. This time, she's the stars. She's what seems unreachable, impossible, despite sharing a bed with her every night.

Suddenly, the stars seem intimidating. You've survived explosions, tech bursting into flames, but a rejection from her? It might kill you. So you're sticking to the neural link.

It's not a neural link anymore, technically. It's an upgraded variant. And instead of just being the one who creates it, you're part of it this time. 

In theory, it's simple. Instead of having to stabilize the link externally, you'd be using the very thing that created the neural link — something that science cannot replicate, not fully. Something that's as risky as it is promising.

(Your brain is telling you something else, funny enough. Again, you can't see the risks outweighing the benefits.)

Routing the neural link through a second human nervous system would get rid of a tiny, yet impactful, flaw. Adjusting the device from a distance isn't fast enough. Sometimes, the system lags by milliseconds. Those milliseconds could get Natasha killed. 

The solution? You take the overflow. Every exposure she suffers — cosmic energy, EM bursts — hits you instead. When something goes wrong, you take the damage. Partially synced nervous systems, which would let you feel her pain. 

She has no clue about this yet. You've only finished the first prototype of the stabilizer. The first test run was promising, despite the overflow of energy almost making you black out for a second, and you're confident that you could get this done in less than a year.

If it weren't for Fury, of course. You walk into the changing room, take off your coat, grab your hoodie. 

The tower is empty and quiet this time of the night. 3am is that sweet spot between night owls and early birds. You get to walk out the elevator and enter a silent common area.

Your plan was to spend most of your time in your apartment. That's changed. Natasha might be on a mission, but on nights like this one — when you need a lab available 24/7 — residing in the tower is practical. 

You unpack in the room you share with Natasha. The bedsheets are smooth, looking untouched. You kick off your boots and grab one of the shirts she left here. 

Ten minutes later, you're on your way downstairs again. You hold your keycard against the scanner and the door to the lab opens silently. Bright LED lights flood the room. 

'Welcome, Ms Y/L/N', JARVIS says. As soon as you reach the workbench, it adjusts to your height. 'What lighting do you prefer tonight?'

"Dim it a little", you say absently, putting down a stack of papers and notes. "Crank up the heater too. It's freezing down here."

'As you wish.'

You feel the temperature rise to a more pleasant level. You spread out your notes and scan them, quickly figuring out which tools you'll need. JARVIS sends an automated trolley your way before you get to say it out loud. 

You hum in acknowledgment. The stabilizer is outside its case now, lying on the workbench. It looks virtually indistinguishable from the neural link — all you did was change the color, but the main aspects stayed the same. 

You work quietly. Energy overflows. Feedback regulation. Brain waves. Neural damage. An issue too big to ignore. 

It's more complicated than the neural link, but you already knew that. Synching two nervous systems, turning them into what is essentially a closed-circuit, interpersonal neural bridge with no exit point, is not something you take lightly. 

'If you don't put a limit on the energy overflow, you could-'

"No", you cut him off. "I'll figure it out."

'But ma'am-'

"JARVIS, I'm fine."

The AI system shuts up. You scoff quietly, drawing another sketch, trying to figure out which part is missing. The energy overflow — unfortunately, that is your biggest issue. Not only neural damage is a possible risk, but so are seizures and loss of consciousness. It'd affect Natasha's performance as well, which is why you need to find a way to automatically break the connection in case something goes wrong.

Death is a possibility, too. You realize it with your palms slowly coming to rest on the surface of the workbench. 

"JARVIS?", you say. The room lights up a little. "Initiate a couple simulations for me, please."

'Of course, ma'am.'

A light blue, almost neon, hologram appears in front of you. You see Natasha, and yourself, depicted as little avatars. They're labeled — output and input. Natasha's the output. Any kind of overflow she suffers flows into you instead.

You stand there and watch, a pencil between your teeth. You've chewed through the wood before, which resulted in a bunch of agents making fun of the graphite all over your teeth.

Simulation one. Mild overflow of cosmic energy. Her avatar doesn't even flicker, and neither does yours. Risk of injury is very low, risk of death is close to zero. You're satisfied.

Simulation two. A sudden burst of EM waves. Slightly above average impact, but too abrupt for the stabilizer. Her avatar flickers this time, barely, and yours flickers violently. Risk of injury is high, risk of death is low. You hum, the pencil resting between your front teeth.

Simulation three. Cosmic energy, again. This time, it's both sudden and high in impact. You watch your avatar get close to crashing, and before the simulation can end and predict the injury outcome, you swipe your hand and force it to stop.

'Do you want me to generate a summary of the results?'

You ignore JARVIS. You're still staring. The avatars are gone, and all that's left is the homepage Tony designed for his holographic system. You know what the result for that last simulation would've looked like. Risk of injury: very high, risk of death...

"I should start charging some kind of fee."

You whip around — you're in a building with five people, but somehow, you forgot to account for the probability of someone walking in on you. You quickly take the pencil out of your mouth.

"You know, I have a schedule hung up right outside", he says, walking up to the desk. He glances at your notes. "Shame nobody ever uses it. That looks neat. What is it?"

"Confidential", you say, sweeping the notes into your arms. "You're working on something? Or why are you up at the crack of dawn?"

He ignores your question. He leans against the workbench, which has adjusted to his height now, and looks at you. It hasn't been that long. He's starting to understand you, anyway, and you don't like that. "I'm not sure Romanoff would appreciate what you're doing."

You bristle. He did see the notes. At least, he saw enough to figure something out you haven't dared touch yet. Natasha would never approve of this. 

"Not sure what you're talking about", you say curtly.

"A stabilizer", he says, turning around to boot up the holographic system again. "Your neural link is brilliant. I don't say this lightly. Using a human nervous system to stabilize it sounds like a surefire way to catastrophe, though."

You raise your eyebrows, staring, not saying anything. He pauses.

"You're smart enough to know that", he adds.

Being called out by another scientist stings more than having Nick Fury, director of SHIELD but not nearly as well versed in what you do, kick your butt over it. The idea of Tony weaponizing your relationship with Natasha is on an entirely different level, though. 

"This isn't your issue to deal with."

"Are you sure?" He looks at you. "Romanoff is part of the team now. Anything that concerns her concerns me as well."

You have to remind yourself not to get into a fight. It took long enough for the two of you to get along — way too long, if you're being honest, and Natasha doesn't shy away from reminding you about that, either — and though the foundation is solid enough, you're not sure you'd want to risk even a hairline crack in it.

Aside from that, Natasha's also found herself a team here. Something like a family, maybe, though you'd always hoped you'd be enough. You aren't, and that's okay, but that also means you can't risk that feeling of companionship you've achieved.

"Fury is involved", you say. "Everything goes through him first. So don't fret too much." 

Tony hums. His back is turned towards you, a black undershirt exposing small scars and bruises. He's listening, but his attention is split. His new project has been taking up quite some space in his head. 

It's for the better, though. The likelihood of him seeing through your lie is lowered drastically.

. . .

"He has a crush on you."

"Bullshit."

"He does", you insist, rolling an apple between your palms. "What's with all the 'ma'am' bullshit? Like he's straight out of the military."

Natasha's lips twitch. It's a small room — tiny, more of a cubicle than anything else — so she's sat on the floor looking at some new ideas you've been wanting to present to her. There are all kinds of gadgets displayed on the screen in front of her, but you're keeping a secret from her. 

"He is", she says, zooming into the picture of a hair tie. "What's this?"

"Turns into handcuffs. See the thing on the side?" You lean over, double tap the screen, then nod at the image. "Enlarges and hardens once wrapped around something."

"Filthy."

You grimace slightly and take the tablet from her. Close the program, shut off the device. Natasha sits cross legged and watches you get up. One step, then two, turn into slow pacing.

"It's a good gadget", she says. "Just not practical. By the time I get it around someone's wrist..."

"Yeah, yeah." You give a dismissive wave of your hand. "I know that."

Of course you do. She's aware you'll sometimes come up with things just for the sake of it. She's been spending so much time with the Avengers, too — you've got to kill time somehow.

The result is a plethora of gadgets you know will never see the light of day. You're showing them to her anyway, just in case she looks at one and sees something she never knew she was missing.

It wouldn't be the first time, either. You watch her closely during missions. You log into the computers in the data room and read the protocols. You find the bigger problems, the smaller issues, you piece them together until they make a picture you can decipher. 

Natasha isn't a fan of that. She thinks it's thoughtful, yes, and she appreciates that someone actually has her in mind instead of the mission. Your main goal isn't success — it's making everything as safe and easy for her as possible. Still, she thinks she tells you enough. At night, you'll lay in bed and listen to her give you summaries of whatever mission she went on that day, issues included. There's no need for more research.

"You've been working a lot", she remarks. You pause, back turned toward her. "When's the last time you went home?"

You slowly look at her. "I go home every night."

"No", she says. "You go to the tower. You don't go home."

No response. You stare at her, not blinking, not saying anything. She raises her eyebrows, trying to keep her face neutral.

"There's dust on the pillows."

"It's only been a week", you try to defend yourself. So what if you've been spending extra time at the tower? It has a lab. Your apartment doesn't. "It's not like you're home a lot, either."

"You're drowning yourself in work, Y/N."

"For good reason", you say, voice rising. "Do you think I like worrying about you? No! It helps to know I'm doing something."

"There's no need to raise your voice", she says simply. "It's an observation, isn't it? You're familiar with those. You don't go home anymore. You work too much."

You refuse to look at her. She steps closer, hand hovering just in front of her body, fingertips stretched out. Then, she pulls away just before she can touch you. 

Many things are cause for the alarm bells going off inside her head — your constant absence. The dozens of hours spent in Tony's lab you've managed to accumulate already. Your refusal to tell her much. You never updated her on your work a lot, but whenever she asked, you delivered. 

"What's going on with you?"

"Nothing", you say weakly. "It's just been a lot, okay? With you joining the Avengers and whatnot."

Her expression doesn't change. "I know that. It's affected you, too."

"It has."

"Do you want out?"

You look up, at her face, and she tilts her head. What an outrageous question — she knows it, too. Yet, she's not backtracking on her question. 

"No!" You frown. "I don't. Are you kidding?"

"Good", she says. Her hand reaches out again, and instead of pulling back, it grabs yours. "I'll still need you to take more breaks."

"As if", you scoff. 

"You look like Banner after one of his episodes."

Heat floods your face. Natasha smirks, her free hand reaching up to adjust the hair framing your face.

"Hope that's motivation enough", she says. You don't even notice how she's started to lead you out of the room. "So, what have you been working on that it's sucking away your time like this?"

There's the question you've been dreading. She knows you're working — and whatever your next project is, it must be of great value to you. Otherwise, you wouldn't continue to throw yourself into it headfirst. 

"Can it be a surprise?", you ask, holding open a door for her. 

"I'm not fond of surprises."

"It's a surprise", you insist. "It'll be worth it."

She furrows her eyebrows, not quite believing you but not willing to argue, either. The hallway stretching out in front of you is long and bustling with agents, too, so that discourages her from asking more questions. 

You send her off with a kiss. Natasha doesn't lean into it as much as you're used to, but you shift the blame onto something else. Anything else. 

The moment you're back in your lab, you start gathering files and sketches and data. You clear the hard drive, look for all the prototypes lying around. You know how to do your research — but so does Natasha, and she's much better at it, too. 

If it only weren't for Tony. You could blow the entire place up, and he'd still know enough to get you neck deep in trouble. 

. . .

"Either you tell her, or I will."

It's been weeks. Not much has changed, aside from the small leaps of progress you've been making on the stabilizer. The current version is almost ready for its first on field test. 

You barely look up from your coffee. You didn't sleep well — everything is weighing heavy on your mind, everything, from the conversation with Natasha to the last simulation you ran with the stabilizer. It's early morning now, and you're curled into the couch with Tony continuing to stress you out. 

You shift, fingers tugging at the plaid pajama pants you're wearing. They aren't yours. You grabbed the wrong pair while reaching into the clean laundry. 

"I really don't want to do this right now."

"What a coincidence, neither do I." He brings his cup to his mouth and takes a long sip. "It's inevitable, though. As inevitable as either of you dying if you don't get your shit together, Y/L/N."

"Who's dying?"

You whip around. Steve's in the doorway, holding the almost empty coffee pot you left behind. You sink into the cushions again, not even glancing at Tony. 

"No one", you mutter. 

"Us, maybe", Tony says. "Gear up, Rogers. We're headed to a nice little fortress."

"Someone drank all the coffee. I'm not leaving without a coffee."

"Today?", you ask. "Really?"

Both of them look at you. You know they wouldn't believe you if you told them you had plans. All your plans involve either Natasha or a lab, and since the former will be along for the ride, you will, too. 

"I have plans", you add. 

"Lab's closed", Tony says, getting up. "What's the face for? Don't tell me you have actual plans."

"A reservation", you say, voice sharper now. "Tonight. Asshole."

He lifts his hands. "Don't shoot me, agent. Romanoff is joining us, so I'll assume that interferes with your plans?"

There it is — the confirmation he knows more about you than you'd like. You bite your tongue, trying to keep yourself from muttering insults at him, when — speak of the devil — Natasha rounds the corner to walk straight into what looks like an interrogation. 

She must've just gotten out of the shower. She's toweling her hair dry, the top on her damp in a few places. She keeps her face neutral enough in order to not scare you off. You look up, holding eye contact as she makes her way to your side.

"Romanoff", Tony says. "You have plans?"

"Plans?", she asks. You cup her hip. "I'm not interested in lunch with you, Stark."

He shoots a smirk at you. "See? No plans."

"I was meaning to ask", you say, again stopping yourself from cursing at him. "You have a knack for ruining things, don't you."

"It'd be tragic if she couldn't join our mission due to a dinner reservation is all", he says. "Ordered by the boss himself."

That catches her attention. She looks up, her thighs resting against the armrest of the chair you're in. 

"Were you going to tell me about either?"

"I just said I was about to ask", you argue. Natasha turns around, a small smirk on her face, and briefly cups your chin. She turns back to Tony. 

You slump into the armchair. It's hopeless, you're realizing. Your plans will fall flat, and you'll spend your day in a fortress in some forest.

"What's it about?"

"We're undercover", he reveals. "Big fortress in Germany, somewhere near Berlin. A posh little gala, rotating around the world. They do this multiple times a year, it's full of upper class morons."

"Intriguing."

"Dangerous", you mutter. His way of describing this irritates you. 'Upper class moron' is a term that fits him just as well. 

"They've been drawing attention to themselves for a while now", he continues. "Unstable energy sources meet tech black market. Illegal experiments too, it seems. SHIELD has gathered enough information to warrant us snooping a little. So, your pick — it's either this or another boring chicken piccata."

Dangerous — and messy. You knew the second they proposed this great idea, something they sold as a mission to save the world, that it'd all go to hell eventually. Six super powered humans in one team, dedicated to the earth's protection. 

Of course, Natasha is in the middle of it all. She had to be. No other agent comes close to her, or her abilities. 

"I like chicken piccata", you mumble. Natasha reaches behind her to squeeze your arm. 

"We'll postpone the reservation", she says. "Stark has connections, and he's very happy to help us out."

"I am?"

You lift your head enough to look at him. He sighs dramatically, knocks back the rest of his coffee, and then gives a begrudging roll of his eyes. 

"I am very happy to help you out", he says. "Ecstatic. Can we go now?"

You exchange a look with Natasha. Ten minutes later, you're back in Stark's armory, surrounded by trick arrows and Chitauri guns they snatched during the Battle of New York. 

Only this time, you're not talking. Your brain is running at light speed. Scenarios fill your head, options, possibilities. Unstable energy sources and tech black market, that's what Tony said. It's exactly what you've been specializing in recently, with the neural link and the stabilizer, but that doesn't manage to reassure you.

Natasha has no idea the stabilizer exists, of course. That doesn't mean it can't be useful. It's in your left pocket, in its little case, waiting. You turn around to reach for her Glocks. 

Cold fingers brush at your neck. You don't flinch. Part of you anticipated her to touch the link housing you made them put in you. The skin surrounding it is still irritated from the last test you ran with the stabilizer. 

"You should let Banner take a look at this."

"I have a doctor", you dismiss.

"Bruce is good at what he does", she says, scanning the shelves. "What do you think, genius?"

"Widow's Bites, concealed. Comms, concealed. Your Glocks can go here", you tap her upper thigh, "and I'll get you some sort of energy manipulation tool. Can't forget the neural link."

"Of course", she teases. 

"You'll be thanking me later", you say. She runs her thumb along your jaw. "Be careful, alright? We have a dinner reservation to get to."

She squeezes your chin, but she doesn't spare you any words of reassurance. Natasha tends not to do that — nothing she does is predictable, and she'd rather not promise something she can't keep. 

The moment you step out of the Quinjet, you reach into your pocket to plug in the stabilizer. 

. . .

A marble floor stretches out beneath her high heels. The champagne flute in her hand was almost forced on her, a short man with a prominent nose insisting she 'only try a little bit.'

She's out of place here. The others are, too — except for Tony, who's managed to both criticize and approve of the details whilst also calling it all boring. 

"Boring", he repeats into the comms. You're stuck in your van, of course. You're also stuck listening to him go on and on about interior design choices. 

"There's a man to your left who just mentioned the Tesseract energy system in SHIELD's power facility", you tell him. "Might want to check that out."

"You think they'll just tell me?" He sighs, the champagne in his hand swirling.

"No", you snap. "That's your job. Tricking him into telling you. Fuck, Stark, if you-"

Natasha's comms flicker back to life. You silently thank the gods and press the button that connects you to her again.

"Language", she teases. You sink against the control panel in front of you. "I'm on the east side of the building, located near the staircase. It leads to an array of doors. Looks intriguing."

You check the security cameras you hacked into. An unpatched software — a mistake many wouldn't notice, but one that made it much easier for you to access the live feed. You find Natasha in the very location she described to you. 

The stairs lead to a sort of gallery and the multiple doors she mentioned. The spacing between them is equal. There are no signs, no indications of what the difference between the rooms they lead to is. Only one thing separates one from the other, and that's the pictures hung up on each of them. 

 "I wouldn't go up there", you warn her. 

"Take it easy", she says, strolling past the staircase. "Can you see what's in the pictures?"

You squint your eyes. "None of them make sense. You know that Garden of Eden painting we saw in that one book? These are similar. Just...animals. Looks very harmonious."

"They're all different?"

"All different."

Tony's comm lights up. You excuse yourself and switch back to him. 

"About the Tesseract energy system..."

You pause. He clears his throat, and you find him on one of the security camera feeds right as he stops in the middle of the room. 

"We came right on time."

"What do you mean?", you stress.

"This isn't just a party", he says, quietly adding: "A boring one at that. No, they're about to cut off Berlin's entire power supply. They'll redirect it to their own energy system. It's a copy of a copy, imitating cosmic energy, which, just like Fury said, is incredibly unstable. They don't have the information necessary to make any of it safe. One wrong move and..."

The thoughts start streaming again. You stand there, eyes on the screen, hands pressed firmly to the narrow ledge beneath the control panel. The Tesseract-derived energy system itself isn't stable enough to consider it a safe source. A copy of a copy — you've seen it before. It didn't end well. 

"We all blow up."

"Pretty much."

You nod, running calculations in your head. The screen spits out the intel Tony and all the others have gathered. The host of the party is a powerful man, a prominent figure in the tech black market and the very person who's been planning this for a while now. Berlin was a deliberate choice, as the Tesseract energy system made rounds in secret forums soon after SHIELD brought it to life. Of course this would be their target.

"What's their goal?"

"Use the power to kickstart the reactor in the basement. Everything else is unclear."

"It makes no sense", you say, scanning the text and images on the screen in front of you. "Why throw a party? There are so many guests here, I don't think they're all involved in this. If something happens, they're risking the lives of over a hundred people."

Collateral damage — the term pops up in your head the second you stop talking. You scan the security live feeds again to find all the Avengers, and sure enough, none of them are alone. Not anymore.

It's right as you spot the men lurking near them that Natasha's comm lights up. 

"We're being followed."

"I just realized that", you say. "How long has it been?"

"Fraction of a minute", she says. Makes sense, you realize. She told you the second it started happening, because that's how long it takes for her to notice these things. "What's the verdict?"

Your finger blindly presses the button that connects everyone's comms. Six voices talk over each other, then, they all go quiet. 

"We're running out of time", you finally say. "We're talking magic space anomaly, amplified by Berlin's entire power supply. Based on what we know, the reactor is incredibly unstable. When weaponized, it can cause tremendous damage."

They all start talking over each other again. You manage to catch snippets of what they say. 

"Redirect Berlin's power supply..."

"Find the host and everyone involved before they reach the reactor."

"Too late. Someone is down there, waiting for a signal."

"We need to destabilize it", Steve says. 

"That's not enough. It can be restarted even after destabilization. You need to destroy it."

You watch Tony make his way past other guests. The live feed is a little grainy, but you catch the men staring at him anyway. He twirls through a crowd of people and edges past an older lady. 

"Y/L/N?", he says. "You might be useful down here."

"She's staying inside the van", Natasha says. "Barton, multiple contacts closing in on your position. Two behind you."

"Saw them."

"Moving", Steve says. "Don't blow cover yet. Banner?"

"Science backup", Tony mumbles. "Or hulks out. His choice."

It's turned into chaos. You're trying to give commands, keep it under control, but who are you kidding? — It's the Avengers. You knew they'd be unpredictable, unruly. They're messy. It's who they are. 

Instead, you're stuck staring at two dozen screens and listening to six superheroes mutter mission jargon like they're composing some sort of dictionary. You watch Natasha descend into the basement and silently panic. 

She's getting closer to the reactor now. Every inch — every fraction of an inch — could decide everything. If the reactor goes into overdrive, its environment will get destabilized. Seizures, cardiac arrests, death. You see every scenario clear as day. 

"Not too close", you warn her. She doesn't hear you over the other voices talking into her comms. 

"Will it reassure you if I don't get too close?", Tony asks, hiding in a corner to put on his Iron Man suit. "No pet names, though. Wouldn't want to push it."

You bite your tongue. He hums into his comms and makes his way to the reactor room. One hand lifted, his repulsor blasts the lock right off. 

"Nothing this baby can't blow up."

"Not the smartest idea doing that right next to an unstable reactor", you mutter. "Make sure you don't blow up Berlin on accident."

"Ever been here? Wouldn't be on accident."

"Alright you two", Natasha interrupts. "Hate to cut this short, but there are three men headed down the hallway."

"Engaging", Steve says. "Y/N, do you have access to the reactor?"

You shake your head. You've been trying to access it for the past half hour, but unlike the live security feed, it's secured properly. Good for them, bad for you. 

The only thing you can access is the amount of energy — cosmic, unstable — leaking into the environment. It's not a lot so far, barely enough to be picked up by the measuring device you had Banner put up inside the building, but you also didn't think you'd be able to measure it at all at this stage. 

The level is rising at a linear speed. You know the critical point. Once that is hit, the energy leak will influence its environments negatively. It'll be subtle at first, but if you don't shut down the reactor and destroy it, the level will keep rising until everyone in a 10 mile radius is dead. 

Tony's inside the reactor room. Right as he's about to reach the huge structure, something shoots at him from the side. He whips around, palms up, and propels it away from him. 

"Status update", you press. "What was that noise?"

Cursing, grunting, and the sound of metal clashing. You frantically search the screens until you find Tony in the reactor room, fighting another man in some sort of powered suit. 

"Shit!", you curse. 

"Code Red!", he says, groaning when he gets slammed backwards. "What is this suit, Jesus Christ-"

Tony gets catapulted straight out of the room. You curse again, pressing buttons and joining Steve in giving orders, but it's not going anywhere. Everything is going sideways, their cover is blown, you're dealing with something far bigger than you originally assumed — and now, the host has entered the reactor room.

It's Natasha who informs you. She's in the hallway right outside the room, hand on her Glock and her voice so quiet you barely hear her.

"He's in there", she says. "Status?"

"EM spike incoming", you reply, nervously watching her over the screen. "You're on your own, Nat. It's too risky. Disengage."

"On her own? Excuse me, I..." Tony wheezes. "I'm right here!"

"Oh please, he swatted you out of that room like a fly!"

"Play nice, honey", Natasha mumbles. "Eyes on target. Moving."

Your eyes flit across the screen until you find Bruce. He was your last hope — send him in with Natasha, help her, shut down the reactor and destroy it. He could've hulked out, too, and gotten rid of the host.

He has hulked out. He's still upstairs though, fighting against an army of security guards.

Thor is your next thought. During your last mission in Berlin, he used his hammer to pull excess energy into the ground. But the God of Thunder is outside the fortress, no comms in his ears, trying to sneak the innocent guests out and keep the others from escaping.

A mess, a mess, a mess. Your brain keeps repeating the same thing over and over again. What ends up breaking that loop is the alarm that goes off. It's the measuring device inside the building. The level of cosmic energy seeping into the environment has crossed the critical threshold.

Steve, maybe. How much does he know about cosmic energy and reactors? Not enough. It's a no.

Clint is a no as well. You try to send him in, anyway, but he's fighting off a couple of new guys. You recognize them as the servers carrying around trays of champagne and caviar.

You. The thought is unprompted and sudden. You're in charge of the van, but Natasha's inside the room now, trying to fight her way past the host and to the reactor.

You have no choice, you (somewhat reasonably) conclude. You jump out of the van, boots thudding against thick earthy ground, and start running. You're a mile away from the fortress, only your trusted tablet in hand.

"Y/N has left the van", Tony informs everyone, panting. "I got a notification from JARVIS. Hey Y/N, do you remember the plan?"

"Your plan is bullshit", you spit. "Have you made it into the reactor room?"

"Not quite. I am on the roof."

"Y/N, stay outside", Clint says. "We're getting it under control."

You want to laugh. The numbers on your tablet are very clear — the threshold has been crossed, the level is rising at a rapid pace. Natasha's right next to the reactor, in the middle of the upcoming surge. You're panicking. How could they get it under control?

Natasha's still fighting the host. He removed the reactor's safety limits, and the energy is on its way to building past safe capacity. 

She's in the eye of the storm. You're circling the fortress, your quest to enter as desperate as it is impossible. Too many people, not enough entry points. 

You can feel the energy spike. Even from outside, which should be outside the main danger zone, you feel it. The hairs on the back of your neck are all upright, your body is buzzing, the comms are crackling in your ear. 

Another rise in energy, and at this point, you're sure Natasha is bound to take a hit. Unless the reactor is shut off within the next minute, she'll suffer an overflow. 

She feels it, too. It's much more intense for her. She can barely think through the thrumming in her head. 

The stabilizer. It's your only option (is it?), your only way of keeping her safe. It's what it was made for. You press your fingers to the back of your neck and activate it. 

A click. The relief Natasha feels is immediate. She ducks away from the host just in time, barely escaping the pipe swinging at her head, but though the pressure in her body has vanished, something isn't right. The reactor is still running at full speed, after all, and the level of cosmic energy is about to spike. 

"Y/N", she suddenly says. You barely hear her through the crackling, through the pain that's taken over your body. "Y/N? Answer me."

It can't be a coincidence, and she knows it. You have some sort of involvement. You, your gadgets, the neural link at the back of her neck. She reaches for it and, without thinking too much, overrides it. 

It flips again. You straighten up, arms shaky, and swear silently. The overload feels more subtle again. You remember the manual override you implemented in the newest version of the neural link, something you thought would be a good addition. To you, it seems like the very thing that'll get Natasha killed. 

She cut the connection. You override the override, forcing her neural link back online. 

It happens right as the spike hits. Your body stiffens, every muscle locking, and your vision goes black.

. . . 

"We could've done it."

"Tony..."

"No, don't interrupt me. You don't get to interrupt me. What was she doing out there?"

You wake slow and drowsy. You're in pain. They filled you up with morphine and sedatives, put you in a sterile hospital room — and though you're exhausted in every way possible, the realization dawns on you. 

You survived. Something went wrong, yes, but you're alive. Alive enough to glance at the button they put in your palm, but not strong enough to press it. You try, but your hand is too numb to do anything, so you give up. 

You can hear the voices coming from the hallway, too. You have no idea where you are, but you know it isn't the medbay at SHIELD. If it were, you'd have at least one familiar nurse dancing around your bed and asking dumb questions. 

"Would you let it go? It's been two days. She did the wrong thing, we all know that. Just be glad she didn't die out there."

You want to reach for your comms to turn up the volume. You can't hear them. Your hand doesn't make it to your ear, but you also remember no one would let you keep your comms at the hospital. 

It wouldn't matter, anyway. The voices are gone. You're stuck in a silent hospital room, in a body that won't listen to you. You want to close your eyes again, but the door opens, and in walks the woman you've been dreading to see. 

First, she freezes. She didn't expect to see you awake. Then, she walks to your bed, stops right next to you. You glance up at her. 

"You could've died."

"I..."

"You almost died. I thought I had a choice. You took that away and almost died", she says quietly. "You promised me a manual override, Y/N. You never said you also implemented a backdoor for you to use."

You swallow, fingers weakly grasping at the blanket. "It's protocol."

"It's not", she says. "It's to keep some sort of control. But that's not how things work."

You shake your head. It was the only way. Natasha knows exactly what you're thinking, and she doesn't like it one bit. 

"The spike", you say, voice hoarse. 

"The spike wouldn't have happened in the first place if you hadn't intervened", she says. "Thor was grounding excess energy. The level was dropping. Your stabilizer disrupted the entire process, and it nearly killed you as well."

Your eyes shut — Thor. How could he possibly do it? But then you remember the hammer, the stupid hammer you couldn't even begin to recreate, and your head sinks into the pillow. 

"And the stabilizer...?"

She pulls out a fried little rectangle. You barely recognize it. A huff leaves you when you do — all this work only for it to end up like this. 

"You collapsed and started seizing", she begins to rattle down a list of things. "You had an irregular heartbeat. Banner had to go and use a defibrillator on you. They did a CT, an MRI, blood tests. They put you in a medically induced coma because you were at risk for another seizure. They have no idea how you're still alive. They said you shouldn't be alive."

You give her a weak look. Natasha stares down at you, not budging, but something in her eyes changes. They don't soften, no, but she feels pity and anger mix. You're alive — she's not going to mourn what she didn't lose. She once did, years ago when you got injured on the field, and it's something she won't do again. 

She reaches into her pocket again. What drops into your palm is small, round, and just as fried as the stabilizer. 

"They found this in your pocket."

Natasha sees the relief enter your system the moment you feel it. Your shoulders drop a little, the pain fades into the background, and you stare at the ring. 

Picking out a ring took weeks of your precious time, and the idea of choosing one — getting stuck with one — you don't love seemed daunting. You could never love a ring someone else made. No function, no personality, nothing to make it worth something. 

So, you designed your own. Of course, you made it functional as well. 

"It worked?", you ask, looking at her. She stares at the rings under your eyes and frowns. 

"What?"

You tap the ring, and her eyes snap back to your palm. "The ring. It's an energy absorber. It worked."

Her face does soften this time. It's brief, but it's there, and it's proof you did something right. 

"You made it."

"For you", you clarify. You close your eyes. "But you weren't supposed to see it yet."

Her lips twitch. She sighs and grabs the ring to take another look. It looks normal enough, but that's the thing — if it looks normal, and if it comes from you, it likely isn't normal. 

"It worked?", she repeats. "You almost died."

"It's not designed to withstand energy levels of that magnitude", you argue. "The fact it absorbs cosmic energy is already a huge step. I'll have to make a new one though, maybe tweak a few things, but-"

"Like hell you will", she cuts you off. "You're staying out of the lab for the next few months. Any lab. Fury knows about that, so don't even try to find a loophole."

You sigh, too tired to argue. You'll argue eventually, when you aren't dizzy and hooked to multiple medical devices anymore. IV fluids, something that measures your heartbeat and blood pressure and whatnot — plus, you're tired. Exhausted. And you don't want to disappoint Natasha more than you already have. 

"I want you to get rid of the stabilizer", she then says. Your jaw drops. "I don't want you to keep secrets under the guise of protecting me. Especially not if it'll get you hurt."

"It was necessary."

"Fury trusts you with everything", she says, "and even he shot that down. Stark said no. Do you know how stupid an idea has to be for him to say no to it?"

Your mouth shuts. She reaches out and brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead. 

"And if I don't listen?"

"Then I'll say no", she says simply. "Got it?"

You look at her, trying to battle through the mess inside your head. The Avengers may be messy, but so are you now, apparently. 

You manage to stare back for a solid few seconds before your eyes shut involuntarily. There's no way of challenging her right now. Natasha can't believe it, but she almost misses it. 

Her lips press against your temple, and her body curls up next to yours. It's a little hesitant for your liking, but her palm presses the ring against your chest, and you quickly forget about it. 

Shoot for the stars — it's what you do best. More often than not, it works out for you. 

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

Get My Way - LN

@aerie717 & @ayatotiddies prompt request #11 - "No I want to hear you say it. Say it and I might give you what you want."

Summary: Y/n is used to getting her own way and Lando quite enjoys testing how far she's willing to go for that to happen.

Themes/warnings: Smut 18+, free-use, dom/sub & sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics, sexual acts for reward

Word count: 1k

Y/n looks at Lando with an angry pout on her expression while Lando smirks in amusement.

"Lando." Y/n whines while Lando's thumb ghost over her clit that is throbbing on the edge but he's neglecting to let her be pushed past that.

In truth, Lando wants something from y/n this time and he's unwilling to give her what she wants until she agrees to giving him what he wants from her.

"No I want to hear you say it. Say it and I might give you what you want." Lando states knowing that y/n is in an internal battle because she hates giving up anything to get what she wants.

He's alright got her tied up and restrained, completely exposed for his access.

"No? Alright, we'll just leave you here." Lando smiles making her choke on her voice with desperation.

"Ok, whenever you want." Y/n whines not really enjoying the idea of surrendering control to Lando. Part of liking to get what she wants includes having the control to get what she wants.

"Good girl." Lando smirks finally pressing against her clit, toying it around for only a few seconds before his hands soaked and her back is arched with the wave of her orgasm finally washing over her.

Y/n is still spasming when Lando's dick pushes into her and a moan passes her lips from the sudden intrusion. Lando shares a moan at the feeling of her muscles contracting around him as he begins thrusting in and out of her while y/n pulls on the restrains around her wrists. Her whole body craving and chasing another high, stretching to accommodate his size and the rapid movements.

Lando's hand comes up to her neck, restricting her breathing slightly though not completely cutting her off.

His thrusts pick up as he feels her stomach start to tense at the build up of another orgasm that she doesn't fight for even a second as it hits her and she moans, her throat vibrating against Lando's hand before he spills into her with a moan of her name.

-

"Are you busy?" Y/n asks making Lando look away from his gaming set up.

"I was. Why?" Lando states since he's sorting out some Quadrant designs and figuring out times to fit in meetings around time in Woking and focusing on F1.

"Could I borrow your credit card?" Y/n asks flashing her teeth at him in a grin making Lando raise his hand and pull her lower lip down a little before she swallows back knowing she isn't about to have an easy ride like she'd hoped.

"I'd love to feel your mouth for a bit." Lando states earning a huff since she definitely thought catching him while he's busy meant that she'd be able to take his card and buy the new bag that she wants. She sighs moving down under his desk beginning to pull his already hard dick from his joggers. "What do you want to buy this time?"

"A bag. One that always gets sold out quickly." Y/n mumbles making a point of the fact that she's missed out on buying it once before.

"Then you better do a good job to make this quick so you can buy it." Lando smirks while y/n withholds her sigh, eyes with a flicker of annoyance that he's making her wait for it.

Y/n takes Lando's length down her throat, poking her tonsils as she holds a hand around what she can't fit in without force. Unsurprisingly y/n feels herself getting wet from her own actions and the feeling of how hard Lando is in her touch.

But eventually his cum shoots down her throat with her not failing to swallow it all before she shifts back breathing heavily.

"Here. Buy the bag and whatever else you'd like." Lando smiles holding out his car between two fingers.

Y/n smiles climbing out and taking the card before kissing him knowing he'd never let her step away without it and despite appearances she does actually love the man.

-

Lando looks at the young woman, jaw tweaking as he clenches his teeth together in impatience. After another moment he moves over grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her silently to the nearest bathroom.

"You made your point." Lando huffs knowing this is exactly what y/n wanted from him. Riling him up and dragging her out of there like a cave man to leave her leaking with his cum for the rest of the day and he has full intentions to do exactly that.

"Lando." Y/n whines as he pushes her up against the door after he's slammed it closed.

"You always get what you want somehow don't you?" Lando states ripping off her underwear with a rough tug making the elastic snap away before he tucks it into her pocket.

He's thrust into her knowing that she's already dripping, the excitement stirred by her own actions and knowing the anticipation of what was coming as a result of them making him slide into her without an inch of friction. A couple thrusts in and she's even splashing him as she moves to meet him each time.

They both seem to drag it out as long as possible before y/n finally moans, shameless to the fact anyone could hear them before she feels Lando spill into her, holding herself deep enough that his hand on her stomach can feel himself poking through her stomach.

"Satisfied?" Lando questions making her whimper but nod a little, feeling some beads of sweat make the material of her dress stick to her skin as he pulls out and lets it fall down as she feels gravity doing work with the copious amount of cum he's left in her already begin to slowly ooze out of her. "You can walk around with that on your thighs since that's what you wanted."

"Thank you." Y/n mumbles breathlessly before smiling sheepishly. "Do I really have to?"

"If you ever want to have an orgasm again you do."

[littlebommetje]

the intruder

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | ao3

Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about Sylus's POV and his continued invitation to 'join him' now that you've returned to your human form. To be continued in part 5. word count: 5,385.

contains: fluff and banter.

Sylus's bedroom is dim, the thick velvet blackout curtains holding back the sleepless N109 zone night, the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed further layers of protection for his sensitive eyes. When he wakes, sweaty but refreshed from a good night's sleep—so rare more than a year ago, but these days, the norm instead of the exception—slow consciousness brings him the awareness of an unfamiliar weight pressing down onto him. It doesn't even occur to him, anymore, to move in order to throw open either set of curtains. It doesn't occur to him to listen to the needs of his body and go to the toilet, or check his phone or tablet.

But this morning, the reason for his utter stillness is something he had almost given up hope in ever happening.

Why would he ever consider moving, when finally, finally, after over a year of patience, restraint, and questioning his own sanity, he finally has everything he's waited for in his arms.

He isn't lying, when he says that he expected no less than the magnificently beautiful creature now glaring, defiant eyes bright, from where she is draped over his body in his bed. Her skin is delicious along his own—soft, silk, glorious. Her chest presses against his own, and he must pointedly ignore its curves, the softness between her legs where his thigh is wedged.

Luckily, Sylus Qin is a master of restraint. He is not surprised by his body's reaction to his kitten's human form. Her personality in her feline form is intriguing enough to have had his full attention for over a year now. And though her feline form is adorable, sleek and wild, her human form is simply a masterwork of perfect proportions, a sculpture in lively motion. As if she was designed to his exact specifications by a master artisan, without his ever knowing that he had such preferences before seeing her in the flesh.

He lets himself look his fill in the silence that follows his genuine declaration that seeing her other form was worth the wait. Lustrous hair, with two black, furred-feline ears shifting agitatedly from those beautiful locks, the little tufts of fur at each tip as tantalizing to him as a feather toy to a cat. It's as if she's straining to hear every single sound in the building while she contemplates the meaning of what he just said. Her eyes, luminous even in the dark like the little predator she is, are narrowed and calculating as they observe his face. He must once again restrain his excitement, the excitement of being seen in a way that he is rarely, if ever seen, and never before by her in particular. Her human eyes are shrewd in an entirely different manner than her cat eyes as they gleam, watching him in the dark. She flares the nostrils of her perfect nose as if desperate to read a scent that she can no longer detect. It must be jarring for her to experience the limitation of human senses after being in her animal form for so long. It will likely take her awhile to adjust. Of course, her human mind makes up for the loss of the acute senses required for animal survival, but Sylus knows from experience that the longer one remains in one's animal form, the more time it often takes to re-adapt to the gifts and restrictions of the human body. Her mouth, her soft lips are slightly parted as her breathing grows more shallow, further testing his restraint.

But he is no animal, after all. She finally feels safe enough to shift, and he's not going to ruin it with his own base instincts in response to her proximity, her beauty, the affection he already feels for her after a year spent watching and waiting for her to reveal herself to him.

Her indignant glare following his request to call him Sylus since she has been a little voyeur in his home for the past year fades, her lovely brows furrowing, lips tightening.

He doesn't have to be an animal to sense the dawning comprehension, and with it, the fear now surging through her.

"What do you mean, worth the wait?" she whispers, vocal cords rasping with lack of use. He wonders how long exactly it has actually been since she shifted. "Did you… Did you know?"

Sylus Qin, if nothing else, is a very thorough man. It's a point of pride. His enemies may call it arrogance. But is it really arrogance, if it's true? And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that mattered.

Admittedly, he didn't know. Not for sure. But he's a thorough man, and when he went into business with his kitten's former captor, he had gathered a file with sufficient detail on that cockroach to know that he was likely illegally keeping two cat hybrid evolvers prisoner. The illegality was hardly surprising, considering the nature of both his and Sylus's business. The cruelty of this particular flavor of illegality, however, was distasteful. Unfortunately, the cretin's skill, sufficient to draw Sylus's attention for a business relationship in the first place, meant he was skilled enough to evade Sylus's curiosity-driven efforts to concretely confirm the truth of the rumors.

Ultimately, it was simply a stroke of luck that the fool decided to try to extort Sylus first, giving him all the excuse he needed to torpedo the business relationship that he had only ever considered temporary to begin with, as he worked his way back through the idiot's contacts in order to cut the useless middle man loose. When the simpleton finally invited Sylus into his own territory, and Sylus saw the cat, crouched tense and miserable in her 'owner's' lap, he was both infuriated and pleased. He wouldn't have to go hunting for her after obliterating the pathetic, human-shaped excrement subjugating her to such cruelty. The final meeting with the imbecile was a stroke of efficiency. He could wind down the useless business relationship and satisfy his curiosity—he hadn't met many other hybrids aside from the twins. Freeing her was just another way to rub salt into the wound before dealing her captor the final blow.

That was all it was. Curiosity. A little spite, driven by a personal distaste for seeing gorgeous, unique, wild things handled and caged by men undeserving of their lethal beauty.

He had no expectations, when he removed her collar. It was the collar, really, that convinced him that she was indeed the rumored, priceless hybrid in this shambling moron's clutches. Why would an ordinary housecat require a shock collar with an evol-suppressing protocore embedded in its unwieldy clasp?

He had no expectations, when she sat staring at him with those uncannily intelligent golden eyes instead of running as far and as fast as her little legs could take her, now that she was free.

He had no expectations as he propped open the base's basement exit door with an open can of tuna, nor when he casually left one of his own custom-made Berluti biker boots to prop open the emergency exit leading directly into his penthouse in the base.

He had no expectations as he plucked a raw steak from the fridge, originally destined to be cooked by his personal chef, and began grilling it himself.

His heart didn't knock against his ribs in the same way she didn't knock on his door when a little shadow slipped into the kitchen, nor did a deep satisfaction soak warmly into his chest like fine wine as the little shadow crept under the chaise lounge at the end of the living area and fell right asleep without further ado.

It was just curiosity, after all.

But then the first night passed. And the second. And though he did his best to convey that he knew, that he knew and that she was finally safe, his little kitten remained a kitten. His reputation took hit after hit as he told himself that it was for her sake, and not his own, that he refused to be parted from her if at all possible as he conducted his business within his empire. She ignored his provocations, never giving any truly convincing indication that his little kitten was in fact a human being.

But just as he truly despaired, wondering if the rumors about him and his grip on his own sanity were correct, he passed the heavy wooden doors of his home gallery and noticed that they were slightly ajar, just wide enough for a kitten to slip through. He paused, moving silent as a raptor, glancing through the doors.

His art gallery is not extravagantly large, but it does have a vaulted ceiling with murals in a Renaissance style depicting mythological beasts in flight across a night sky. The midnight marble floors depict the points of golden compasses in repeating patterns, gleaming under the spotlights highlighting his most favored paintings in his possession. Benches with crimson velvet cushions dot the expansive space, waiting for him to sit in quiet contemplation before whatever art he's in the mood to admire at any given moment. As with his weapons, and his jewelry, antiques and cars, he loves collecting fine art. Art, a manifestation of human creativity, a reminder that not all humanity is worthless on nights when he wonders why he doesn't simply pull down the sky, raze everything to the ground, and move on from this wretched planet. Art, a reason to pause the apocalypse.

That night, he spotted her sitting with unnatural stillness in front of one of the particularly dramatic painting in his collection. Still silent, he melted along the wall in the shadows behind her to observe her unnoticed, just a little black form sitting precisely on the northern point of one compass-star, gazing up with her wide golden eyes, tail flicking, flicking, flicking across the stone. She admired the behemoth of a painting, depicting a battlefield in which a tyrant is being beheaded with a guillotine by the successful revolting forces. A woman, hair wild, cloak billowing in the wind of an oncoming storm, pulls the cord with a ferocious grin on her face.

It was one of his favorite paintings too.

Then, one evening, he quietly watched her very deliberately knock a heavy art history coffee table book onto the floor and then bat at the pages with studied determination to turn each one, and then would stare at the page for several minutes before moving to the next one.

And sometimes, she'd make the most heart-wrenching, excruciating sound in her little throat, a sort of high keening mewl—and in those moments, he would recall the intel in his files indicating that the walking amoeba he had eradicated was supposed to have had two cat hybrids.

He told himself it was out of curiosity when he ordered the twins to look into that particular matter.

But the nights passed, and then the months, until it was over a year later, and she still showed no interest—or capacity—in shifting.

Until tonight.

Sylus is a thorough man. He had his suspicions. And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that matters.

But as his laughter fades, and that terrified, hollow panic creeps over his kitten's face as she asks him, "Did you know?" he finally understands for the first time what it means to care about someone else's thoughts in a way that matters.

As she begins to shake again, he's slammed with the understanding of what it feels like to be willing to do anything—anything and everything—to keep that fear from ever dimming those bright eyes again.

Mr Qin's—

no, Sylus's, bedroom is dim, but even in your human form, you can see him clearly in the dark. His eyes, steady and focused, glint like a nocturnal predator's in the shadows. The only sounds are the shift of Mephisto's wings on his perch beyond the curtained bed, the fading of Sylus's laughter, and the agony of your racing heart.

It was worth the wait.

What does that mean?

Your mind sharpens, awakening after too many years in a simple animal state. The pools of your feelings, the puddles of your comprehension, deepen, deepen, opening below down into the yawning depths, underwater caves, tunneling into a bottomless void.

All at once, you must see the truth that your kitten heart dismissed, driven by the illusion of safety, his gentle hands, his easy acceptance of your presence at his side, in his life, in his bed.

He knew? All this time? He knew and he said nothing?

It was worth the wait.

Is that why he left his base wide open the night he killed your owner? Because let's face it, that man owned you. He crushed you and Caleb under his boots by twisting the bond you shared, keeping you each in line with threats to the other. Caleb would absorb anything on your behalf. But you? You didn't conform to the rules, even when you knew the risk. You kept fighting instead of resigning yourself to the reality that you were just a caged animal, fit only to fulfill the whims of a bad man.

It was worth the wait.

And what did you do?

The first taste of freedom, and you followed another bad man home.

He knew. He knew, and he said nothing.

Why didn't he say anything?

Is that why he spoiled you, petted you, carried you everywhere with him? Not because of friendly affection, genuine care, but to keep you always under his supervision, lying in wait for you to shift?

It was worth the wait.

Self hatred you haven't felt in years—not really, with your muted cat's emotions, your instincts overriding complex emotions contrary to survival—for why would a wild cat have need of the feeling of guilt? Of self-recrimination? A cat acts according to its nature, unapologetically.

But you, your faulty, human self—you should be groveling before the universe for your existence every day you still draw breath.

And if not the universe—then at least to Caleb.

You went from one villain's lap to another, without even a question. What an insult to your brother's sacrifice.

You hate yourself, and you're terrified of the cost of your accidental shift.

You should have seen it coming. But you wanted to believe that such simple bliss could last forever.

You needed to rest, so, so badly, after the long years, scared and lonely and enraged in your owner's cruel cage.

But all that's over now.

You have to hear him say it.

He knew.

And then you have to figure out what he wants.

What's the price you'll pay this time?

"Did you know?" you grind out, throat still so raw with disuse. More of an accusation than a question. You should be cautious. Roll over, show your belly. Or, now that you're naked against him in human form, rub your chest lasciviously against his, roll your hips a little, hope that he'll feel generous if he thinks you'll do your utmost to please him.

But you've never known how to play it safe.

As he just stares at you, those maddening, glowing eyes narrowing a little in thought, you lose your patience.

"Did you fucking know? This entire time? Without saying a word?"

Heat, under your skin. Nausea, in your belly. Animal sensations in your human body. Your lips are trembling as your nervous system can't decide whether you want to scream in rage or cry in despair.

"Such accusations from a little intruder who waltzed in and made herself at home," he marvels, unruffled by your meltdown right on top of him. He continues cupping your cheeks, stroking his thumbs along your skin. You hate yourself for not wanting to jerk away from his gentle touch. But he's touched you so tenderly for over a year now—how can you be blamed for having grown dependent on its soothing reassurance? "I didn't know know for sure." He shrugs, big, bare shoulders lifting a fraction. Shoulders you've spent the last year curling around like a scarf. "But I hoped."

Now you do pull away.

He hoped?

What was he hoping for?

What does he want from you? How will he hurt you now that he knows what you are?

You pull away, away from his hands caressing you, the silk sheets slithering down your back, pooling around your waist. Straddling him, bare before him, you steady yourself by placing your hands on his massive chest. It's not much, but it's better than sliding along the length of him, skin to skin, slightly slick with sweat. You can always just shift back. You can shift back, claw him, and flee. If all else fails, you'll use your evol. Something you haven't risked in… a long time, even before the collar.

"What do you want?" You tense, preparing for violence. For last resorts.

"To piss."

You tilt your head, utterly confused.

"I see your ears twitching, so I know you heard me, Kitten. Care to stop crushing me under your massive weight?"

Indignant, you slide off his lap, plopping onto the bed next to him. "A rhino couldn't crush you, let alone me whether in human or cat form."

"Is that so? Tell that to my bladder. It took you so long to wake up I thought I'd be forced into watersports without the proper preliminaries, as is polite." Rolling to the side, he gracefully rises to his feet, throwing open the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed and heading to the bathroom. The blackout curtains pull themselves back at the touch of his fingertips against the wall next to the bathroom door before he disappears.

You stare after him, alone in your puddle of sheets, absolutely confused. "I'm not into watersports!" is all you can think to yell after him.

"No? Just voyeurism then?" His voice, drifting from the bathroom, is filled with mirth.

"If you didn't want company while you were—"

"Who said anything about not wanting company while I'm pissing, or anything else for that matter? The door's wide open. According to your rules, that's an engraved invitation, so what are you waiting for?"

Hesitating, you sit very still, not understanding what game he's playing.

The resounding sound of a big man peeing ricochets out of the bathroom, followed by the flushing of the toilet. Water begins to run.

You don't know what game he is playing, but you're determined to find out.

Curiosity and the cat and all that blah blah blah, with all that entails for you and the unwise decisions you've made your whole life.

After all, what's the worst that can happen?

Caleb's already dead.

You follow him.

It's strange—your bare, delicate, human feet against the cool marble floor. Your height, your slightly dulled senses, your human body in space. You'll adjust quickly, but it's still strange, after so long. Silently, you pad across the room and march into the bathroom like you own it. He basically handed you an engraved invitation, after all.

Steam billows from the walk-in shower and then scent of some fancy, citrus, bergamot shower gel wafts through the air, pungent even to your human nose.

Planting your ass on one of the fancy benches he has scattered about the unnecessarily large bathroom, you stare at his massive ass partially visible through the steam. It's so round. It's so big. You should have bitten it while you were a cat. You want to bite it now.

Your tail puffs at the thought.

Sylus 's off-tune humming envelopes you like the steam, and it takes you a second to realize it's What's new, Pussycat?

How did you never realize how obnoxious he is while you were a cat?

You wait, but he says nothing. He's using the same tactics on you that he does during negotiations. Some spiteful part of you wants to wait him out, force him to speak first, to lose. But fuck it, you're no businessman and you've never had much patience to begin with. "What do you really want?"

"How long has it been since you've taken a shower?" Ignoring your question, he lathers his hair, a dark pewter now that it's wet.

"What, do I smell?" you demand, scoffing. Impossible. You keep your fur very clean, and always have, thank you very much.

"Yes."

Bristling, you pull your bare feet up on the bench, wrapping your arms around your knees, your tail wrapping around your ankles. "I do not—"

"You smell incredible. But let me rephrase: how long has it been since you were in human form, and thus had a shower?"

With every question and response, with every unexpected reaction to your questions, your fear, your demands, Sylus Qin sends you reeling faster and further, the disorientation of your unexpected shift and his unpredictable responses making you question your sanity. You're confused, deflated, disarmed.

You should be cautious. You should persist in divining his true intentions, give nothing away, get out of here as quickly as possible.

But where will you go?

Caleb is dead. Your owner is dead. You have no education, no job, no source of income.

And now that he knows you're not actually a cat, there's no way he'll let you stay and live out the rest of your days peacefully as his pet like you had dreamed of doing for the past year.

You're so scared, and lost. You've been so scared and lost for so, so long.

You tell yourself that all you can do is give him what he wants, and see what he'll do once he gets it. You refuse to consider the possibility that he had tamed you, long ago.

"What year is it?"

Pausing with his hands in his hair, he turns his head, his profile severe and achingly beautiful. He tells you the year.

When you don't immediately answer, he thrusts his head under the water, rinses the shampoo out of his darkened hair, and then turns to fully face you.

He really is just like a sculpture, except unlike the statue of David, his dick is huge. You stare at it, at the soft silver hair surrounding it and arrowing up to his navel, instead of meeting his eyes. Your mouth waters.

"How long have you been living shifted as a cat, Kitten?"

"Ten years."

Your lips are shaking again, eyes hot, throat thick.

Ten years.

Almost a third of your entire life.

As the fall of the shower's water shushes any other sounds and the quiet stretches, you lift your eyes to Sylus's. His right eye flares hot. "I should have taken my time with him."

Once again, you're left confused. "What?"

He looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows, before glancing back at you, eyes now their customary soft ruby glow. "Time for a shower then. Care to join me?"

He's asked this so many times over the past year. You always thought it was a private joke, a silly man doting on his pet and asking her questions he already knew the answer to, an answer she could never actually give.

"You knew, but you said nothing."

As he runs his long middle finger thoughtfully over his lower lip, you can't help but watch its trajectory across the wet softness of his mouth. "No. I suspected, and you're lying to us both if you didn't notice the very loud hints that I've spent the last year trailing behind me like bait."

"You bait a trap. So what now?" You clear your own throat now. "Now that I've finally walked into your trap."

The water pounds over his shoulders, streams over his broad chest, the slick fur around his nipples. He looks both stronger and more vulnerable, naked and wet like this. Glorious. It hurts you to look at him, knowing that he's looking at the real you now, naked and vulnerable in turn, and not your disarming, soft little cat form.

He stands, hands easy at his sides, as if to drive home the point that he's unarmed. At least physically. The heart beating in his chest may be his most powerful weapon, though. At least against yours. "What do you think I want?"

You look away, unable to bear how much you care about him, even as a human, when you know nothing about him. Not really. Just how he takes his coffee, his preferred wine, his soft-hard hands, his favorite records, the scent of his sweat right after he's done boxing, his tuneless humming, his ruthless efficiency in killing and signing contracts.

You know him in all the ways that don't matter.

"To use me."

He laughs, low and intrigued. "Are you useful?"

You glance back at him. Maybe he doesn't know how you're useful. You refused to perform for your owner, after all. And he put the evol suppressor collar on and left it, after he resigned himself to never earning your trust. Maybe Sylus is so easy-going because he has no idea what you're really capable of.

"Not at all."

He smirks, eyes flashing red only for an instant, only an imagined beast circling the firelight. "Then what use have I for a useless cat, other than to spoil her rotten?"

You watch him, a beast yourself. "None at all, I suppose," you agree, carefully. "What now, then?"

"Come join me."

You tilt your head again, confused.

"Join you?"

He lifts his hand, bicep bulging, water dripping, and beckons you with a flick of his fingers.

"Join me in the shower, since you've spent the last year refusing my offers, and we can talk about what's next."

Through the hot steam, Sylus watches every single emotion flit across his kitten's face with increasing fascination. Having been so long in cat form, it's no wonder that you have lost the art of schooling your expressions, shielding your emotions from anyone with eyes to see. He wants to teach you again, or for the first time, if you never learned, because he wants to be the only one who gets to see the unveiled beauty of your confusion, indignation, sorrow, cunning and now, outrage.

Black tufted, velvety cat ears swivel, flatten against your lovely hair. Bright eyes narrowed, fists clenched, the appealing, bared curves of your body tense—fight or flight, you clearly haven't decided yet. Sylus forces his eyes to keep moving, not lingering on your pretty nipples, the dip of your belly button, the shadow between your legs. Instead, he admires your tail, long and fluffy, puffed wide as it whips behind you in agitation.

You're so mad at him, and it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. He wants to eat you.

He's very, very pleased with himself. The fear is nowhere to be seen, and you haven't run yet. His tactics, since the beginning up till now by acting like nothing was extraordinary about your shifting to your hauntingly beautiful human form, continue to pay off. You walked into his life of your own accord, and the only way he'll accept your continued presence by his side is if you continue to choose to stay with him, as a human and not just as his pet.

He thought it was just curiosity at first.

Simple intrigue. A puzzle to be solved, a riddle to unravel. A novelty to turn in his hands for his amusement until she slipped away again, on silent paws into the neon night.

But now, seeing the truth of you?

If nothing else, Sylus is an honest man. More honest than most, in fact.

And he's honest with himself as he admits that perhaps, it's never just been curiosity.

Maybe, fate already had plans for him the moment his eyes met your golden gaze, and for once, such plans weren't cruel.

He wants to eat you. He wants to keep you.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

But he's never been one to sit back and let fate decide the course of his life. He'll take its machinations into his own hands now that the gears are in motion, tinkering with an engineer's agility to ensure that it runs exactly how he wants.

"I'm not doing anything until you give me a serious answer! What now?" you demand, and Sylus can perfectly picture the bristle of your raised hackles if you were still in your cat form.

Sighing, he turns, twists the handle of the faucet, and the water stops abruptly, the silence a relief after its steady pounding. It was worth the attempt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. He pads to the towel rack, chooses the smallest one that can still wrap around his waist, and proceeds to dry himself with it. "Whatever you want."

He can't help the twitch of his lips as your tail continues to whip wildly in agitation.

Agitation, but not fear. As long as you're confused, or indignant, or mad at him, you're not scared. That's enough for him, for now.

"What do you mean, whatever I want?" Ducking your head, resting your chin on your knees, your voice is heavy with suspicion and doubt.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? What's not clear about that, Kitten?" He wraps the towel around his waist so that his muscular thigh will be revealed with each step.

He likes it when you stare at his body and the tips of your human ears turn pink, and the saliva pools in your mouth so much so that you have to swallow. He feels the same way, looking at the curve of your hips, your rounded shoulder, your parted lips. All the places he wants to bite, and they're not even typically understood to be erogenous zones.

"You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He turns abruptly, disliking the smallness of your voice.

Striding over to where you sit curled over your knees on a little vanity stool, he takes another gamble. He gives in to the desire to run his fingers through your lustrous hair, rubbing gently at the base of your kitten's ear. "Let you leave? Who was the intruder who barged her way into my home in the first place? You've always been free to go. Why would that change just because you're not just a cat?" As you don't pull away, he pushes his luck, "Then what, do you think I'm broke, and can't keep a human in the same state of luxury that I can keep a kitten?"

His heart hitches, starts again, as you lean into, instead of away from his touch.

Snorting, you mutter. "You should be guillotined, your wealth is so obscene. The least you can do is re-distribute it to me." Glaring up at him, your defiant gaze is a gunshot straight to his heart. "Even if I wasn't invited, I'm not leaving. You can't make me leave."

Over a year in the waiting. One short morning fraught with possible missteps, possibly undoing it all. Sylus Qin will never tire of the taste of triumph. Of successful schemes. Of plays with giant payoffs.

"Okay." He gazes down at you, satisfaction surging through his tense muscles, relaxing as you meet his gaze with renewed confidence.

The shower drips, but the steam is slowly dissipating. You're crystal clear in his hungry gaze.

You don't shy away from whatever you see on his face. "Okay. So what now? Like, right now?"

"What do you want?" he shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

"I have a choice?"

He scoffs. "Again, when have you not had a choice?"

"Fine, I get it."

"Do you?" he mocks, laughing.

Over the giant bathtub, your bright eyes track the city beyond the windows as it glitters, beckons as the condensation from the shower fades.

"I guess I need some clothes."

Eyes flicking to the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass against the bench, the idea of you hiding yourself from him is… displeasing. "No one said that."

You laugh. "I said that."

It's the first time he's heard you laugh.

The reality, once again, exceeds his wildest expectations.

"As you wish, sweetheart."

Oops i lied about finishing it in this part. I'm going to try to finish it in the next part. and no, i will not be addressing sylus's hypercapitalist war profiteering in any signficant way, because i've written other fics that address that. but yes, i am posting this after wine time on a friday afternoon, so please excuse the typos, I edited it more than once but i only see glaring mistakes after sharing stories publicly. if you have thoughts to share, i love to see them in comments and tags! if you leave tags, i will assume you don't want a response so if you want one, just @ me and i will come out of your walls thanking you for every thought you shared.

I hope this tag list is better than the last. tumblr is a confusing labyrinth of dysfunction:

@midiplier @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai @theeidare @crimsonmarabou @heavensmyths @spring214 @emily-1259 @sleepinginthenycpubliclibrary @dana-nite @mysterios-hoe @placeofsupercooltopics @pixiu-palindrome @magpie-the-forest-gremlin @mitsukichiis @stxrrielle @lil-cinn

[optimysticals]

Ace Pride Rings

A nice black ring for you middle finger. Simple right?

Not as easy as you might think. Because you have to work with lots of different needs, like:

Something that will stay black

Something that is actually hypoallergenic for everyone

Something that won't break the 1st time you smack your hand on a door frame

Something that can be cleaned without ruining it

Something that will last

Something accessibly priced

All that means you can't have a ring that is:

Plated

Patina'd

Metal

A ring shaped piece of stone

A ring shape piece of wood

Silicone

Plus you want to be able to offer a wide variety of sizes because my middle finger and your middle finger probably aren't the same size, and it shouldn't stop someone from having a pride ring just because they wear a size 4 or a size 15.

This all contributes to why we haven't had "traditional" Black Ace Pride Rings ... UNTIL NOW!

You read that right and I hope you share this far and wide.

We've been working on an Ace Pride Ring for 2 (3?) years (what is time) and we've finally got it.

Our 1st prototype was given to a friend to stress test, and stress it she did. 2 kids, working on airplanes, cosplay, making bread, traveling the world. She specifically did not remove it when working with household cleaning supplies to see how it held up. I'm not sure how many times her youngest gremlin stole it. (plus her's was made with a slightly softer accent material, which is even cooler)

And it pretty much looks exactly like the day I gave it to her. The core of the ring is pristine. I am THRILLED.

So all of that is to say we will be offering 3 versions of our NEW Ace Pride Ring.

Version 1:

This is our simple basic black ring. It is solid ceramic. The color goes all the way though so even if you did manage to scratch it, it would still be black.

But isn't ceramic delicate? Not this stuff. I'm going to try and find the video of the guy taking a hammer to one of these rings for like 10 minutes. It's sturdy AF. You need diamond tools to cut, engrave, or shape it.

These are 6mm wide bands with very slightly softened square edges and a soft inside curve. They are light but not so light that they don't register.

These are made for us in Canada and come in whole and 1/2 sizes from 4 to 15.

These will retail for $42

(size inclusive pricing means that it doesn't matter what size you wear, it's the same price)

Version 2:

These are slightly fancier black rings. These have a solid black ceramic core that comes up the sides to make a channel that is set with 3mm of crushed black tourmaline.

This is a big part of what we've been stress testing. We really wanted to make sure the stone accent would hold up. And it does beautifully.

The black tourmaline gives a really nice black color to the center of the ring while also giving it a little bit of texture and interest. The stone is smooth, but because of the crushed nature, you can see some of those bits of stone were they butt up against each other.

These are also 6mm wide and have the same slightly curved soft inside as the plain black band and on the outside top edge a light bevel.

We are deciding on if the stone on these should be polished or matte, both look cool but for ease of my brain I only want to offer one finish. The ceramic will stay polished either way.

The cores are made for us in Canada and are available in whole and 1/2 sizes from 4 to 16. We do the inlay here in our PDX studio.

These will retail for $68

(size inclusive pricing too!)

Version 3:

This is the one I'm making myself. (yep, I'm Ace)

This is the fancy black Pride Ring. It's just like Version 2 except the inlay is crushed black opal.

The opal is a lab-grown, so it's really sturdy, and this kind of lab-opal is actually designed for inlay work. It's colorfast and it is super easy to take care of.

We use this lab opal in both our Misty Path pendant and Ring of Gate, as well as having used it in several custom ring projects.

The opal color is black with hints of red and green. It has a beautiful sparkle when you get it into the light.

This one we figure probably isn't for everyone, because it does have color to it, so it's less traditional. But also we know there are Ace-folks who want that representation and also want some pop to it.

Just like the Black Tourmaline ring the ceramic core on this is made for us in Canada and available in whole and 1/2 sizes from 4 to 16. We of course do the inlay here in our PDX studio.

These will retail for $88

(and size inclusive pricing because that's how we do)

What's Next & How Do You Get One?

We have an initial inventory of plain bands and cores that we can turn into either of the stone versions. But since we don't know what sizes folks will want we decided to do an initial Pre-Order Batch. This starts today 10-26-25 and goes through Monday 11-10-25.

You can Pre-Order on our website or in person at GeekGirlCon.

(((((Pre-Order Here))))))

After the Pre-Orders close we will order all additional cores we need for orders plus hopefully bulk up what we have on hand so that we can fill online orders quickly.

The goal will be to have all Pre-Orders shipped by 12-15-25, but as the cores are coming from Canada there is always a delay chance. (our last order of cores got here in 2 days).

Once all the Pre-Orders are getting packed up for shipping we will re-list the Ace Rings on the website for regular sales.

Full transparency: there is a chance that the Black Tourmaline and Black Opal versions will increase in price after the Pre-Orders.

Want To Help Spread Queer Joy?

We want the Asexual community to know that these rings exist and that we're making them.

You can help us get the word out by rebageling this post or its updates and sending your friends the link to the Pre-Orders.

Our business has always thrived most when our friends, fans, and customers have shared our work and gotten passionate about what we're making, and this is a time we're actively asking you to help us make that happen.

[lithicflakes]

When you have the time, think u could cook up a human design for SCP 1471/MaL0?

This doodle isn't her final design probably, just a little test run. (I'm always a little fucky with the first time drawing a character)

I opted to keep her a bit more scrappy, and I definitely could push the design more. Her name is still the same, a human could be named Malo. She probably works at a tech repair shop, or a tech sales shop (possibly alongside 079... hmmmm...) Outside of work, she stalks, harasses, and doxxes people she hates online for shits and giggles. When she's not living in a screen, she's eerily wandering the woods. She's a wolf girl at heart, probably grew up reading Warrior Cats and WOF as well, and owns several wolf-themed items (shirts, plushes, jewelry...)

She needs more development still but she's got the bare bones

[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