#This year we'll win | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

allsassnoclass · 4 months

Note

HELL YEAH!!! can i get uhhhh #9, an I'm so proud of you kiss? pairing, fandom, etc is all up to you :) ill read it even if im not in the fandom go fkn crazy ily xoxo

hi @clumsyclifford!!! alrighty let's throw some fake college sports players in here.

jerejean: I'm so proud of you kiss

Jeremy goes to find Jean after a few minutes, weaving through the crowd of his teammates and the Foxes until he reaches the edge of their party's sphere, out in the sand where the light from the bonfire has no hope of reaching. He stumbles over Neil and Andrew, drawn hypnotically to the bright cherry of the cigarette they're sharing, but neither of them question where he's going or make any attempt at conversation. Neil simply tilts his head to the left with a knowing look, and Jeremy nods in thanks once he spots the shadowy figure sitting yards away in the darkness, looking out at the waves.

Jean doesn't look up as Jeremy approaches, chin resting on his knees as he looks distantly out at the ocean, where the horizon line blends too deep in the darkness to discern what is sea and what is sky anymore. Jeremy flops gracelessly down next to him, kicking up sand and checking to be sure Jean isn't shying away. He relaxes when he doesn't. Jean still doesn't do well with isolation, but he's an introvert at heart and needs his space. After the events of today, Jeremy isn't surprised that he retreated down the beach to be alone, but he also knows that it's the kind of alone that Jeremy is welcome to interrupt.

It makes his chest fill with warmth, being one of the people that Jean doesn't need energy to be around. It's a privilege that he doesn't take lightly, especially when so few people in Jean's life have been safe. For him to have found a group of people to love and be loved by in return is no small feat, and it's something that they've gradually cultivated together in the past year.

For a moment, Jeremy thinks about the first time he saw Jean in person outside of a court, watching the shell of a man cautiously approach him at LAX with only a few t-shirts, a tattoo, and years of abuse to his name. He would never have predicted that they'd be here now, only a few weeks shy of a year later. Jean has grown in ways too numerous to list, but Jeremy has changed, too. It's a mutual metamorphosis, made more important for the way that they've grown in harmony with each other, filling in each other's gaps while leaving room for the other person to stretch and flourish.

Of course, one other difference is that they're NCAA champions now. It isn't a new title for Jean, but Jeremy suspects that this one feels sweeter, more earned.

This is a win that Jean should feel proud of, one untainted by the shadow of black wings and bruises. A championship that has nothing to do with the number that used to be tattooed on his face and everything to do with the person he has decided to become.

"What are you thinking about?"

Jeremy tilts his head towards the quiet, lilting sound of Jean's words. His accent has lessened slightly over the year, either due to less necessity to use his French without Kevin around or being surrounded by people who never stop talking in loud California drawls, but it still colors his words like a swash of blue in a sunrise.

Jean never wants to return to France, but sometimes Jeremy wonders if he would enjoy visiting Canada or Haiti, somewhere that he could use a version of his native language without ghosts following him.

"Jeremy?"

Jeremy blinks, bringing himself back to the present rather than some unnamed future with the two of them wandering around Montreal.

"I was thinking about our win," he says when he can remember what Jean's original question was. Jean huffs, but the sound is fond. Jeremy can't see much in the darkness, but he can picture Jean's expression perfectly. He's not smiling, but he's softer, relaxed and open enough that Jeremy can read his intention.

"How does it feel to be a champion?" Jean asks.

"Amazing," Jeremy sighs, tipping his head back and remembering every hour of practice and hard-fought game that brought them here. Despite the backlash from his decision to cut down the line last year and all of the negative press surrounding Jean's transfer, they made it all the way to the championships and came out on top. It was a battle in more ways than one, but it was absolutely worth it for the look on Kevin Day's face when Cat stole the ball from him using a technique that Jean taught her, then slammed the ball down the court for Jeremy to catch and score.

The team as a whole has grown exponentially. Jeremy has never pushed himself harder, and it wasn't all sunshine and smiles on the court this year. Still, they held it together, and as turbulent throwing a former Raven into their midst was, Jeremy has never regretted the decision to bring Jean to them.

"It's sweeter because I could do it with you," Jeremy says.

He glances at Jean out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't duck his head bashfully, and he doesn't freeze awkwardly the way he used to when Jeremy would drop a sappy but sincere compliment months ago. He simply lets the sentiment wash over him, keeping his focus on Jeremy.

"I'm glad you are happy," he says. Jeremy reaches for his hand, fingertips dragging along his forearm and wrist until Jean turns to thread their fingers together.

"What about you?" Jeremy asks. "How does it feel to be a champion this time?"

Jean takes time to consider his answer. Jeremy listens to the distant sounds of their teammates and friends over by the fire and the gentle sounds of waves hitting the shore while he waits. A breeze gently shifts his hair, light and crisp enough that he nearly shivers.

"I didn't think it would mean this much to me," Jean says quietly. Jeremy squeezes his hand once, then relaxes, giving Jean the space he needs. "I knew that winning with the Trojans would feel different, but the Ravens won because we were expected to. You and I won because we deserved to this time. Because we fought harder and wanted it more."

"And you did it all without a red card, even though Neil was being annoying," Jeremy says.

"It felt good to beat him," Jean grins. "That was very satisfying."

No one felt like it would be a good idea to make Jean block Kevin, not with everything he's told them about scrimmages in the Nest. While he played with Neil at Evermore as well, it was never while Neil was playing striker, and Neil only features in a fraction of the traumatic memories that Jean has recounted. Jean has been doing great in his sessions with Betsy and has grown a lot in his recovery over the past year, but no one wanted to risk prompting a flashback during the championship game, when the eyes of the entire public and Ichirou Moriyama would be on him.

Jean seemed to enjoy playing against Neil, anyway. Jeremy still doesn't understand their relationship and probably never will, but it was one of Jean's best games. Neil ran him ragged, but both of them seemed satisfied with their individual performances, and Jeremy overheard Jean tell him to have a winning day while stealing the ball at one point.

It's taken a long time for Jean to be able to have fun on the court. Healing is slow and non-linear, Jeremy knows that better than most. The progress that is visible, though, is much more gratifying because of it.

Jeremy looks at Jean, tracing his outline in the blue shadows. He takes in the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the enticing tilt of his head, the self-satisfied smile that Jeremy can barely see gracing his lips in this light. He looks like he belongs on this beach, relishing in his win with dozens of people who love him only a few yards away, holding hands with someone who adores him.

It's amazing, what a difference one year can make. Jeremy's chest feels warm and full, ready to burst.

"Hey," he says, squeezing Jean's hand. Jean turns towards him with a questioning noise. Jeremy tugs on his t-shirt, coaxing him forward until he can lean up to press their lips together. Jean responds once he catches on to Jeremy's intention, relaxing against him and sliding his free hand around Jeremy's waist. Jeremy presses forward, trying to transfer as much of the feeling in his chest to Jean as he can. He curls his hand around Jean's shoulder, partially to draw him closer and partially for his own stability. Jean sighs against him, and Jeremy can't help but smile into the kiss.

When they part a few moments later, Jeremy watches the way that Jean's eyes take a moment to flutter open.

"What was that for?" Jean asks. Jeremy smiles and brushes his thumb against Jean's cheek, right over the small heart tattooed there.

"I'm really proud of you," he smiles. Jean ducks his head, leaning into Jeremy's palm. "You've come a long way."

Jean wraps his hand around Jeremy's, pressing it against his chest.

"I couldn't have done it without you, Jeremy."

Jeremy doesn't think he'll ever get used to the way his name sounds in Jean's mouth, his accent curving around it and voice soft as music.

"Still," Jeremy says. "I'm really proud of you, Jean-Yves."

Jean ducks his head again, but Jeremy can't have that. He reaches for Jean's jaw again. Jean knows him well enough to evade and kiss him instead, the perfect distraction. Jeremy is happy to let him get away with it, because that was his end goal anyway.

They stay on the beach together for a long time. When their friends eventually find them, Jeremy watches the way that Jean lights up as Cat tackles him in a hug and he playfully banters with Kevin, two things that would've been impossible a year ago. Jeremy keeps hold of his hand, both of them on top of the world with no plans on coming down.

#my writing #ask box prompt #jerejean #tsc #the sunshine court #aftg #will anything of mine ever beat the ''i'm so proud of you'' kiss in pas de deux? no it won't #so this is a different take on that type of kiss!#bella for context this is from the fake college sport/mafia book series #jean is owned by the mafia at this point but he's not in the directly abusive situation he used to be in #jeremy is sunshine personified. we're not touching his trauma right now #in my mind after the trojans win the championship against the foxes in jean's first year with them both teams hang out and celebrate #because jean and kevin and neil have that whole inseparable bond thing going on and it was a good game #also kevin wants to hang out with jeremy and renee wants to check on jean #jean got his tattoo covered with a heart because idk what else he would get but he needs it covered #anyway! there's some context #i'm going to need to add a section to my masterlist for non-rpf prompts #also i might try to write all of the kiss prompts on that list and stick them on ao3 eventually so we'll see if that happens with this one

14 notes · View notes

factorialsotherfandoms · 9 months

Text

Hello welcome to another installment of the XCOM QSMP au, in which we finally discover how Mike got himself kidnapped! As fair warning, the ending of this one is fucking miserable, and I still have an ending to write. You're also lucky. On ao3 this one is going to be chapterfic, but I've already written the last bit and included it in this post.

There's some also really weird shit going on with the soul link this time. Full on body swapping/sharing. The first section is a bit weird for it, but just go with it, okay? Thanks!

Oh and I did Felps' PoV of the middle bit yesterday. You can find it here

TW: self-sacrifice, suicidal thinking, open but miserable ending.

Tazercraft are exactly where, and how, they are supposed to be. Two minds, two souls, two bodies, but the lines between them are blurred. They're deep in the heart of a Federation office, searching for information on where the Hunter's base could possibly be - they've found the Assassin's, and Aypierre thinks if they hit the bases they'll find some way to take the respawning fuckers out for good, but they'll need to be quick so they don't get wise to it.

Pac drops out of a vent into the control room, and trades souls with Mike. Mike now pilots Pac's body through searching the computers, while Pac pulls Mike's body into the vents and through to the same room.

There's no need to speak, not like this, not when their thoughts are one and the same and every change in the plan is communicated as soon as it is thought.

Pac sings as he works, but he sings in his soul, ancient music replaying internally as he sways the hips of whichever body he's more inside, and where-ever Mike is that other body's foot taps along to the beat.

Another second, another sway, another shift of ideas, and they're both in their own flesh again as he scoots up into the rafters, keeping watch while his other gets to work on another of the computers. They might be puppetting their own bodies now, there's too much of them merging together to truly be Pac and Mike at all. It's Pac's body, and Mike's body, and Pac's mind and Mike's mind in perfect harmony as they swap back and forth, blurred and combined and shifting bodies as their skills are needed.

It's so nice to be like this again. In a full unit, it's good, but they have to watch out for everyone. There's no Pac getting lost in Mike and Mike getting lost in Mike until the division is meaningless and they can rest in each other when there's more people around. Because they truly do get lost in one another, and together they are more than the sum of their parts, but it's not conductive to a shootout in a backalley.

But when it's just the two of them? It's just like old times again.

Like this its just them, them, them, two people two minds two bodies two souls all blended together by years and years inside one another, catch and release catch and release, a standing wave, two harmonies fused into a single song. They've done this before, and they'll do it again - Pac and Mike, Mike and Pac, Tazer and Craft and a high security complex, one thought in two bodies and the sharp laughter of an expert at their craft.

Pac isn't Pac, he is Tazer, and Mike isn't Mike he is Craft, and together they are the greatest fear of every security detail on the planet. Paired geniuses in perfect synch and their eyes on a prize.

They dance and they move to a shared, silent beat, slipping around the guards and the workers and anything else that might be present. It's the fourth or fifth of these places they've come looking - there's time for maybe one more after this, before their supplies run dry and they either vanish into the night, or call back to base and get a pickup.

They've not found what they came for - yet - but there's plenty of other things they have learnt, things which will earn a pretty penny if they end up in the right ears.

Pac sits in the rafters, watching both with his own eyes as Mike's robotic rats scurry around each attaching themself to a different computer and draining it dry, even as Mike works on overpowering the main one.

Pac also watches through Mike's eyes as he lets software fight through seven different password screens, then navigate around.

And there it is - photos of the complex they need, and lovely, lovely coordinates. Another team will be sent to find the way - Tazercraft are too good at getting in, other people can't always follow, and it will need a team - but they have what they came for.

And plenty of other things to barter with besides.

Mike recalls his rats, tapping them each and ordering them to reassemble themselves into a tablet. He copies the data from the main computer to said tablet - the rats both speed up the process over many devices, and spread the data between them minimise what is lost.

Mike's soul whoops with the success, and Pac's joins him with a laugh and a twist. They let themselves merge in their delight, joy radiating back and forth, before seperating again. It's time to head out - not back the way they came, in case tracks were spotted, but out none the less.

Pac pulls himself back to his feet, ready to jump down.

Mike holds his gun ready as he reaches for the door, just in case a guard lies on the other side.

The door is opened.

A trap is triggered

Tazer slams into himself

Craft slams into the floor

"Mike!" Pac screams, as the shock of Mike being hit throws his balance, and he falls to the floor.

Tazer and Craft are no more; they are Pac and Mike once again. Pac pulls himself from the floor and reaches for his gun and - shit, he left it behind again. Mike's tablet splits back into robot rats. They run up to him - all over him - clinging to his jumpsuit even as their eyes meet.

The data they have taken, escaping from the trap.

"Pac!" Mike screams back, terror reverberating along their bond.

There's a net around Mike's legs, made with concrete and vines and awful, glooping gel. He's plastered to the floor, unable to get up - unable to run.

Pac stumbles his first few steps towards him, and begins to run. He reaches his Mike's side, and tries to cut away the ropes. It won't come - it refuses to come, it won't it won't, and it's the diamonds all fucking over again.

He can't even swear at him; Mike can't even speak. Wide eyes meet wide eyes, and their bond explodes through with terror.

Standing wave, amplification; Pac takes a moment to breathe through the fear, forcing it calm, forcing it tame. Mike takes a few seconds longer to do so; by the time his name is called, Pac has his sword out and is hacking through the ropes.

It's slow going, but it goes; they get out together or not at all, just like it's always been.

There's laughter - grim laughter - from the rafters. Pac grabs Mike's gun, and points it up that way as he shields Mike with his body.

The laugh sounds again - behind them - and again - no back the other way. They twist, and watch, and when finally his back is turned Pac hears someone screaming his name.

"MIKE!" he turns back, only to see... Purple skin, glowing purple eyes, hood covering his face and his body. Custom rifle, snake tongue flicking over very human teeth as he grins.

Hunter.

Fuck.

Pac grabs onto Mike, and tries to pull him out; the Hunter laughs, and steps forwards, every step shooting panic through Pac's spine.

"Look at what the cat dragged in, just for me," the Hunter grins as he says it. "Two little /rats/."

With the final word his features turn sharp. He lashes out, psionic whip snapping Pac's face to the side as it tears through his skin.

At least Mike isn't hit.

"There's at least eight rats in here, asshole," Mike calls. "You'll have to be more specific."

/Pac, run/

/Mike I won't leave you/

/Pac!/

/Mike!/

"Really?" another step; they're both stuck in the trap, the Hunter can take what he wants, whatever he wants, and neither of them can resist. "Because I can only see the two."

/We have to get the coordinates out/

/The rats could send them/

/The radios are blocked here/

/Mike/

/Leave me. I'll be fine./

"Maybe you need glasses. I've spares in my pocket if you want to try."

"I don't think so."

/There's two billion people living in this territory, Pac, if we can get the coordinates out and someone to stop him.../

"/Fuck you/" Pac thinks, and he says, because fuck it Mike is right, but he doesn't want him to be.

He isn't seventeen any more; this is no museum, or art gallery, or even a lab. He's not holding paintings or diamonds or stolen pharmaceuticals. It's six robotic rats, and a set of coordinates, and a half of Mike's soul.

If Tazer lives, then Craft can never die.

"Already down to such foul language? Such a shame. I was told you were worth something," the Hunter sneers.

"Fuck the both of you," Pac hisses in Mike's ear. "I'll come back for you, asshole."

He will, he will, he has to, he takes his knife, throws it at the Hunter, and in the distraction Pac runs.

Behind him, Mike screams profanities fights and struggles and Pac catches the drift of hands picking him up and manic laughter through the bond - not a shot, a kidnapping, he /can/ come back at least but oh god the torture and he's left Mike be and what do they want - before Mike shutters most of it off.

Pac clings to him as he runs, feet pounding on old concrete. All around him he can hear the echoes giving chase, but he has to get out, he has to - get the coordinates away, get out, get help, come back and save Mike!

And-!

And Pac's grip on Mike drops and, fuck, he's been teleported. Somewhere away.

He could be... He could be /anywhere/ Pac doesn't even know if he's still on /Earth/.

Fuck Mike, fuck Mike in paticular; once all they had was themselves and each other, and all was well in the world no matter where they were. And now Mike is gone - gone, gone, in cruel hands, to be tormented and tortured and Pac tries to reach out but he's too far, too far, distant and hurting and all Pac can hear is his screams.

Pac keeps running.

The Federation's hounds are gaining on him.

He can't stop the tears, when they come, they come and keep coming and never seem to end.

Left and right and up and out and then he's in the city ruins but they keep coming and coming and coming. They're slower out here - the ruins are his domain, child of crime and the streets as he once was. He rips himself through blown-out windowframes, yanks long-broken shelves down behind him, scutters and leaps and crawls and twists through the ruins.

Mike is faint, but alive, pained, but alive, screaming, but alive, their bond weak but throbbing like an open wound as whatever is done to Mike is done.

Pac does his best to send hope, and surely only manages terror, and keeps running.

---

Pac cannot run forever.

Eventually, he collapses in the shelter of a ruin. The sound of the guards, the aliens, and whatever else are distant. He's not lost them - not exactly, they know his general direction, just not where /he/ is.

The robotic mice scramble out of his pockets, rebuilding themselves into a single entity again. It's almost tablet shaped, but not quite - the important part is their small screens align to make one larger one. Pac pulls out his radio, and navigates through the files.

He's not as quick as Mike, not at things like this - the rats belong to Mike, Pac's just also keyed in to use them. Pac knows the construction but less so the coding of the masterpiece; he rests it on his keeps and starts sobbing all over again, at what might be the last piece of Mike-Mike-Mike he ever holds.

Without the presence of mind to be complicated about it, Pac just hopes the settings on his radio are fine. He shoves the batteries back in, and turns it on, and begins to read off the coordinates on screen. He isn't sure how well he does - he's sobbing and it's all be can do to cling to his legs and the radio and not rock, not risk dislodging the unstable wall right behind him.

He recognises the voice that answers, but that is all. The words make no sense, so he keeps chanting, chanting, chanting what he can see on screen. Coordinates for the Hunter's base, coordinates to where the fucker lives, too close to be where he took Mike but distant all the same. Pac repeats it and repeats it and barely hears the words from the other end of the line.

He hears his name and... A request for clarification. Pac stumbles his way through, stuttered and confused, does his best to say, to explain. There's swearing and the tears bubble into a laugh because - yes - shit shit shit is very very correct.

And then the voice asks about Mike, and Pac's crying all over again. He tries his best to say, but he clings to the bond, and doesn't think he ever could.

The line goes quiet - is that the end? Did he do what he needed to?

Can he let himself be caught, now, get them to bring him back to Mike?

Will they finally-

A wall nearby is blown up.

Pac shrieks.

It startles him enough to end the tears.

No, no, they wouldn't be so kind as to bring him to Mike. If he wants Mike... If he wants Mike, he has to bring himself to him.

He's lost his knife, but he still has Mike's gun.

Pac reloads it quickly, and aims through the window - just in time. A Federation guard notices him, raises a hand to it's comms.

There's a bullet through it's skull before it can press them, and then another few for good measure.

"Pac!!!" The radio crackles back to life.

Pac finally, finally recognises Felps' voice and, oh god, for how long has he been screaming for Pac to listen.

There's terror in Felps' voice, and Pac wonders if his eyes are blown just as wide as his own.

"Just..." Pac gasps for breath, still unsteady. "Just a guard. Just a guard."

"Pac, you need to run." Felps' tone is dire, serious, and it makes shudders up Pac's spine. "Please, Pac?"

Having passed the message on, Pac can feel the adrenaline crashing. Every bruise and every break from the fall, every strained muscle, every wound where gunfire just missed him - or hit less sensitive flesh. The skin around his prosthetic smarts, and he knows he's pushed it too far.

He's pretty sure his left wrist is broken, but he can prop the gun on his forearm, so he'll live.

He's also tired, he's so fucking tired.

That might be harder.

And Mike...

Pac does the opposite of what Felps asks, slumping against a broken wall, "But..."

He doesn't know what to say.

"For me?"

The request from the radio is soft, gentle, almost lost in the static. Pac /whines/ in response, but uses his good arm to push himself from the wall. He clips the radio to one strap across his chest, and the rat-screen to his belt.

Grabs the gun, blinks through the wave of black threatening his vision.

He's always been weak to be asked to do things for others.

He's always been weak to be asked to do things for /Mike/, but he's been weak to Felps for a damn long time too.

"Okay," he whispers, pretty sure it won't be heard. "For you."

Pac stumbles more than runs, unsure where to head except /on/. Away from the corpse, away from the facility, away from everything that's going on. Vaguely he's aware that he's following his soulbond, staggering closer and closer to Mike despite knowing he's too far, that he'll never reach him like this.

Worry brushes him along the bond, sharp worry, and Pac can but hysterically giggle; Mike is captured, surely being tortured or at least waiting for it, and yet he has time to worry about Pac?

He won't say no, though; Pac rests his mind against the worry and lets it switch off. He stops listening, stops hearing, just one foot, one foot, one foot, stumbling along like he was asked to.

"Pac, don't leave me," the radio asks of him. "I need you."

It's a low blow; Pac barely even registers as more words are said to him. Mike needs him out, to stage a rescue. Felps needs him... Pac isn't sure what Felps needs of him, but he'll give it all the same. Carve his heart from his chest and hand it over on a platter, if it will help.

Mike gets first refusal, after that... After that it could be anything.

He misses Mike.

Pac begins crying all over again, continuing to stumble on.

And on.

Until his body gives out beneath him, and he clatters into a heap. He can hear Felps calling for him, begging him, screaming for him; Pac can do nothing. He exists in a haze of pain and grief, still sobbing but now unable to lift his head from the concrete.

The sounds of the Federation have gone quiet now, at least.

...

Pac almost wishes for their company, rather than be so alone again.

---[chapter?]---

When the world fades back in, it's to arms belonging to worried eyes scooping him up from the concrete. But they're not the eyes Pac wants - not Mike's eyes - so he doesn't listen to what matching lips have to say. He's carried from the dust to a helicopter, handled carefully as he's strapped into place. Listlessly his eyes follow strong hands, at least until they come near his face.

It taps his cheek, and Pac leans into the warm, and realises he is still - somehow - crying.

"Pac?" a low voice asks.

"Hi Fit," he whispers back, voice dead and broken and full of water.

"Take it easy," Fit replies, brushing his cheek. "Let's get you home. Do you need anything?"

"Mike," he says, without even thinking.

Fit's face breaks, his fingers twitching, "I'm sorry, Pac... I can't... I'm sorry."

Pac knows that, but he needs Mike, he needs Mike like a tree needs the rain.

There isn't anything else; he shuts his eyes, focusing on Fit's warm hand on his cheek and the now dull bond with Mike - he's sleeping, Pac can tell, actually sleeping, with dreams.

He hopes they're good dreams.

His aren't going to be.

---

The next time Pac fades back in, there's saline solution being dripped into his veins. Fit is gone, but Felps is there - holding both of Pac's hands, and leaving none of them for a pacing Forever.

"We told Fit to get some sleep," is the first thing anyone says that Pac actually understands.

Pac thinks he's supposed to care.

He isn't sure he does.

"Where's Mike?" he asks them, he ask them because it's the only thing that matters.

He watches Felps and Forever share a desperate, despairing look.

"We don't know," Forever is the one to bite the bullet and answer. "I'm sorry Pac, I'm so sorry... We've got people out searching. Do you know...?"

"He teleported," Pac whispers. "Hunter... Teleported... I want Mike. I want Mike."

He feels like an idiot - he knows that's the one thing in the world neither of them can give him. Felps even drops his hands, reaching around instead to hug him tightly and shake against Pac's skin.

Pac is shaking too.

Forever joins the hug, trying to soothe Pac and Felps both.

It only serves to make Pac cry all over again.

14 notes · View notes