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rosachae · 2 months ago

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more than a game | lara raj x reader

⁍ song: sienna - the marías ⁍ genre: AU! fluffy, happy endings. tennisplayer!lara x physiotherapist!y/n. ultimately, just a story about two girls who are very much not over eachother. right person, wrong time-- except the right time is now. ⁍ wc: 8.3k ⁍ warnings: mentions of injury, nothing major. ⁍ synopsis:

lara broke up with y/n at the end of highschool to pursue her dreams as a professional tennis player. when she was faced with the decision, it wasn't made easily, but she convinced herself it was necessary. that was until she sustains an injury before an upcoming tournament and her new physiotherapist happens to be the very girl she left behind.

y/n had known for three days. three full days since the email arrived in her inbox, all official and sterile and life-ruining.

lara raj — pcl strain, grade I — primary physiotherapy care assigned to: y/n y/l/n.

she hadn’t slept properly since. part of her almost regretted responding to manon’s email, the manager of the girl who split her world in two the day she left. she’d tried to tell herself it would be fine, that it had been a year, that she was a professional, that her heart no longer lived in the hands of a girl who smiled like sin and kissed like salvation. but none of it held up. not when she was standing just inside the rehab suite now, stomach in knots, lungs refusing to inflate past surface level. she heard manon say her name before she even saw her.

“lara, this is y/n, your new physiotherapist.”

and there she was.

lara sat on the edge of the treatment table, long legs crossed at the ankles, her right knee gently elevated with a foam bolster. the navy skirt of her tennis kit curved along the defined line of her thigh, a shade darker than her skin. her top was cropped and sleeveless, loose in the back where it bared a long, toned stretch of muscle. her hair was swept to the side, no longer dyed red like it has been in their senior year of highschool. it was black now, natural and perfect against her complexion. strands fell loose along her cheekbones, which were as sculpted as y/n remembered. she looked unfair. poised and calm and glowing, even under the flat clinical lighting. and when her gaze found y/n, she didn’t falter.

“nice to meet you,” lara said, smooth as a drop shot.

her voice hadn’t changed. low, cool, deceptively soft. like velvet wrapped around something pointed. and she said it—nice to meet you—like they were strangers. like she hadn’t once taught y/n how to hit a forehand in the rain and kissed her under the awning when she got it right. like she hadn’t broken her heart with an apology and a plane ticket and a “you know i have to chase this.”

y/n forced her lips into something resembling a smile. she prayed it didn’t look like a grimace.

“you too,” she replied, automatically, stepping forward to shake her hand.

lara’s palm was warm, firm. confident. y/n’s was clammy, cold. of course it was.

“y/n’s got a stellar background,” manon went on, still cheerfully unaware of the emotional wreckage she’d just reassembled in one room. “sports therapy, rehabilitative training, joint mechanics—you’re in very good hands.”

lara tilted her head slightly, her gaze still lingering on y/n like she was seeing through every layer of her.

“looking forward to it,” she murmured, smiling with all the grace of someone who absolutely was not.

not genuinely, anyway. y/n knew that smile too well. she’d studied it, memorized what it meant. this was the smile lara wore when she knew she was holding the upper hand. this was the smile that had once made y/n say yes to sneaking out of a biology exam just to drive around aimlessly and listen to music with the windows down. the smile that had y/n’s heart beating rapidly in her chest, just as it had all other times before.

manon clapped her hands gently. “great. we’ll ease you in today, no pressure—just letting y/n get acquainted with your injury and the facility.”

lara nodded, cool and agreeable. “works for me.”

and then manon turned to leave, her heels tapping softly out the door. the click of it shutting behind her sounded more final than it should have. the silence that followed was thick and oddly charged.

lara shifted, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. her toned arms caught the light in just the right way, and her smirk came back, subtle this time.

“so doc,” she said, voice low, “you’re gonna be the one fixing me?”

y/n straightened her spine automatically, willing her pulse to behave. “physically,” she replied, keeping it clinical.

lara laughed. a low, amused sound that wrapped itself around y/n’s ribcage and tugged.

“you’re still funny,” lara said. “that’s nice.”

“you’re still...” y/n started, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “you strained your posterior cruciate ligament—likely from overextension during a pivot or landing. based on your imaging and the initial pain markers, we’re looking at a low-grade strain. not a tear, but if you don’t rest and stabilize it, it could worsen. you need to stay off it for the next few days before we begin any weight-bearing exercises.”

lara raised an eyebrow, like she found the lecture charming. “posterior cruciate ligament,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “so formal.”

“it’s your knee,” y/n deadpanned. “i don’t know how else to explain what’s wrong without sounding like a quack.”

lara grinned. “i missed your mouth.”

y/n choked on air. “excuse me?”

“your words,” lara amended innocently. “you’ve always been good with them.”

y/n stared at her, trying very hard not to fall into the gravity of that grin. or the memory of it. or how it used to tug at the corner of her mouth when she was about to say something that would wreck y/n’s whole afternoon. she looked down at her clipboard instead. empty. entirely unhelpful.

“sessions start tomorrow,” she said, mostly to the paper.

lara leaned back, stretching just enough to make it obvious. “can’t wait.”

y/n turned to go, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape. but before she could reach the door, lara’s voice came again. quiet, teasing, but just loud enough for her to hear.

“you still get nervous around me, huh?”

y/n didn’t answer. she didn’t need to. she kept on walking, leaving lara alone in the room.

the very second the door shut firm behind herself, she sprung into action. she tried so desperately to play it cool, to not let herself be caught internally fawning over the girl who still managed to set her soul alight. alas, it was near impossible.

her footsteps carried her very pointedly in a single direction. the door to a small office, only a couple rooms down in the rehab wing, slammed open so hard it bounced off the stopper with a hollow clang.

sophia didn’t even blink.

she was kneeling on a foam mat beside one of the treatment benches, unbothered, guiding her client— choi soobin, pro tennis player and her assigned disaster for the next six weeks—into a deep mobility stretch. one hand anchored his wrist while the other pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, nudging him deeper into position. her expression was the same one she always wore when y/n burst in like this: calm, vaguely unimpressed, and only mildly entertained.

“i’m going to die,” y/n announced, dramatic and breathless.

“hi,” sophia said flatly. “welcome.”

soobin made a small sound, halfway between a grunt and a question. “is that, like… literal or—”

“not you,” y/n snapped, waving him off like static.

he blinked and went quiet again, wise enough to stay out of it as the temperature in the room shifted to match y/n’s spiraling heartbeat.

she dropped her bag on the nearest table with a thud, like it had personally offended her. “it’s her,” she said, breathless. “lara.”

sophia didn’t react at first. just adjusted soobin’s elbow with clinical precision. “lara… raj?”

“yes, lara raj. as in the client i was assigned. as in the literal love of my life and the reason i have abandonment issues.”

sophia hummed. “you’ve known this for three days.”

“i didn’t think it’d be her her!” y/n threw her hands up. “i thought maybe it was a different lara raj. or maybe i hallucinated the email. or maybe the universe would do me one small favor and make her ugly.”

soobin opened his mouth again, cautiously. “so you guys—”

“shut up,” sophia and y/n said at the same time.

sophia pushed his shoulder forward an inch farther. he let out a wheeze and didn’t try again.

y/n started pacing in a tight, agitated loop, like if she stopped moving she might implode. “i walked in and there she was. sitting all casual, legs crossed, like she didn’t ruin my life. still tall. still glowing. still smelling like coconut shampoo.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i’m dead serious. she looked me in the eye and said, ‘nice to meet you.’ like we didn’t know each other. like i didn’t write her a poem.”

sophia winced. “you did write her a poem.”

“and she loved it.”

“it was terrible.”

“well she thought it was nice!”

sophia didn’t argue. instead, she shifted soobin into a seated hamstring stretch without warning. he yelped. she ignored it.

y/n flopped face-down onto the bench beside them. “and then she smiled. the smile.”

“not the smile.”

“the smile,” y/n groaned. “the one that made me skip calculus to get froyo. the one that made me forget what state i lived in. it’s like it’s engineered to dismantle my sense of self.”

“she’s always been terrifyingly pretty.”

“she’s prettier now. it’s criminal. i should report her.”

sophia offered no sympathy. “and you’re still in love with her.”

“i’m not,” y/n said, muffled against the bench cushion.

“sure.”

“i’m not! i’m just... disoriented. and stressed. and probably dehydrated.”

“and in love with her.”

y/n rolled over and covered her face with her hands. “i can’t do this for ten days. she’s already trying to flirt. i can feel it.”

sophia actually laughed. laughed. y/n lifted her head, betrayed.

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” sophia said. “but also? you’ve been fake-mad about her for a year. now she’s here, and you have ten uninterrupted days of forced proximity. that’s karma.”

“that’s a romcom,” y/n muttered darkly. “i don’t want a romcom. i want a sedative.”

“you want to make out with her.”

“i want peace.”

soobin groaned softly as sophia rotated his hip outward.

“breathe through it,” she said, voice sweet, hands merciless.

y/n groaned, low and dramatic, and dragged both hands down her face like she could wipe away the memory of lara’s smirk. “she called me doc.”

sophia tilted her head. “you are a doctor.”

“yeah, but not like that. she said it in the voice. you know the one. the voice she used when she used to ask if i was free after practice, and then we’d end up making out behind the bleachers for forty minutes.”

“forty?” sophia asked, skeptical.

“it felt like forty.”

“it was, like, eleven.”

“emotionally, it was forty.”

soobin made another quiet noise of protest as sophia twisted his torso into a deep spinal rotation. she kept her grip firm and her expression neutral, like she wasn’t witnessing a slow emotional meltdown three feet to her left.

“and the skirt,” y/n continued, helpless. “why does she have to sit like that? with her knee up and her arm draped all confident, like she’s in an adidas ad and knows i’m dying inside?”

“because she does know you’re dying inside.”

y/n pointed a finger at her. “traitor.”

“realist,” sophia said. “look, i love you, but you have exactly two emotional modes when it comes to lara raj: ‘still in love’ and ‘fully feral.’”

“i am not fully feral.”

sophia raised a brow.

“okay, maybe a little feral,” y/n admitted. “but only internally.”

“mm-hm.”

y/n stared up at the ceiling tiles like they held answers. “she’s going to ruin me.”

“probably,” sophia said cheerfully.

“i’ll lose my license.”

“unlikely.”

“i’ll cry in the supply closet.”

“that one’s more likely.”

y/n sat up, eyes wide. “what if she’s trying to mess with me? what if this is her revenge arc?”

“revenge for what?”

“i don’t know! leaving her unread on valentine’s day senior year? forgetting her dog’s name that one time?”

sophia laughed. “she did hold a grudge about the dog thing.”

“it was an ugly dog!”

soobin exhaled loudly as sophia released the stretch. he looked faintly shell-shocked, like he’d just lived through a natural disaster and wasn’t totally sure if it was over yet.

“we done?” he asked, hopeful.

“almost,” sophia said, moving behind him. “one more set.”

he whimpered.

“you’re doing great,” she said, like a lie.

y/n leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “i think i blacked out when she said ‘nice to meet you.’ my soul left my body. i became a ghost.”

“you are pale,” sophia agreed.

“do you think she really forgot me?”

“no.”

“do you think she pretended to forget me?”

“yes.”

“psychopath,” y/n whispered.

“welcome to women’s tennis,” sophia said.

“i’m not going to survive ten days.”

“you’re going to survive exactly ten days,” sophia corrected. “and then you’re either going to get closure, or make out in a supply closet, or cry about it for another year. all of which are valid.”

y/n looked haunted. “what if she asks me to stretch her hamstrings?”

“then you remember your degree,” sophia said. “and your ethics. and maybe bring a cold compress for your face.”

soobin pushed himself upright with great effort, limbs slow and stiff like a baby deer learning to walk. he hovered awkwardly beside the mat, blinking at both of them, looking between them like a kid caught between two divorced parents mid-argument. “i feel like i just sat through a fight i wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“you did,” sophia said, unfazed.

“it’s good for you,” y/n added, dragging a hand down her face. “builds empathy.”

he stared at them for a beat, visibly trying to process the emotional whiplash. then he sighed, long and beleaguered. “i want a different therapist.”

“file a complaint,” sophia said, already resetting the mat with clinical efficiency. “y/n will write you a poem about it.”

“it’ll be terrible,” y/n warned.

“but heartfelt,” sophia added.

soobin muttered something under his breath and walked off like a man who’d just survived a natural disaster and wasn’t sure if it would come back for round two.

the door swung shut behind soobin with a soft click, and the room fell quiet in his absence. without his awkward commentary or the false comfort of banter to fill the space, the tension settled again—this time softer, heavier. y/n sat back against the bench, arms wrapped loosely around herself like she was trying to hold something in. or keep something out.

sophia glanced over, her expression finally shifting—less amused now, more open. steady.

“you okay?” she asked, voice gentler than before.

y/n let out a slow breath. “i don’t know.”

she sounded smaller than usual. not the flustered storm that had barreled through the door earlier, but something quieter. unraveling.

sophia moved to sit beside her, their shoulders almost touching. “you want to talk about it?”

“what’s there to talk about?” y/n stared at the floor. “she left. she broke my heart. i thought i moved on. and then i saw her and it’s like—i don’t know. it’s like no time passed. like all the stuff i buried just came back.”

“of course it did,” sophia said. “it’s not a switch. you don’t flip it off and forget her.”

y/n nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “she looked right at me. and smiled like nothing happened. like we were strangers.”

“maybe she didn’t know what to say,” sophia offered. “maybe that was her version of keeping it professional.”

“or maybe she really doesn’t care anymore,” y/n said, and her voice cracked on the last word. “and i’m just the only one still carrying it.”

sophia didn’t say anything at first. just let the silence sit. let it breathe.

“you’re not,” she said eventually. “i’ve seen a lot of people try to fake it, but you don’t forget someone you loved just because a year went by. and you don’t talk about someone like this unless you still feel something.”

y/n blinked hard, swallowing. “then why didn’t she say anything? why pretend we never happened?”

“because it’s easier to pretend than admit you left someone behind,” sophia said. “especially when you don’t know if they’ll forgive you.”

that struck something. y/n’s throat tightened.

sophia bumped her shoulder gently. “you don’t have to fix anything. and you don’t owe her forgiveness. but if she’s really here—and if you’re still feeling all of this—then maybe it’s worth seeing what’s left. for closure. or clarity. or whatever it is you need.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“what if it just hurts again?” she asked softly.

“then at least you’ll know,” sophia said. “and you’ll stop wondering.”

y/n looked over at her, eyes tired but grateful. “why are you always right?”

sophia smiled. “i’m not. i just love you. and i don’t want you carrying this forever.”

y/n leaned her head against her shoulder, the weight of it finally too much to hold alone. for a few moments, they just sat like that. no jokes, no dramatics. just the kind of quiet that comes when someone understands you enough not to fill it.

“i’m scared,” y/n admitted.

“i know,” sophia said. “but you’re braver than you think.”

and y/n believed her. or at least, she wanted to. and maybe—for now—that was enough.

she had ten days to see this thing through. she could only hope lara didn’t kill her before their time was up.

the next morning came by faster than expected, and sure enough, lara was already on the table when y/n walked in, reclined back on her elbows, tossing a stress ball into the air like it had personally wronged her. her hair was pulled up, skin flushed faintly from the earlier warm-up. she looked like she owned the room. like she always did.

she grinned. “took you long enough,” she said. “was starting to think you were scared of me.”

“i was,” y/n replied flatly, setting her clipboard on the counter with a little more force than necessary. “but then i remembered you’re the one who can’t walk properly.”

lara’s grin only widened. “ah. there she is.”

y/n didn’t return it. she gestured toward the table. “lie flat.”

lara obeyed, still smirking. “aren’t you going to ask how i’ve been?”

“no.”

“rude.”

y/n didn’t respond. her hands found their rhythm—methodical, careful, clinical. she started with palpation, fingers moving around the swelling, pressing gently, checking for heat, tenderness, guarding. she catalogued it all, let her body do the remembering so her mind didn’t have to.

but it did anyway.

lara’s skin was warm. familiar. same tan lines, same faint scar from that time she tripped over a ball cart during warm-ups and refused to let the trainer stitch it. same muscle under y/n’s palm that used to curl around her waist in the mornings, anchoring her in place.

y/n swallowed. kept her face neutral.

the silence stretched. it used to be comfortable, safe, even. now it just felt like a fuse waiting to burn out.

her fingers shifted slightly, pressing into the muscle just above lara’s knee, and it was muscle memory more than anything. not just the physio work—though she knew this anatomy like second nature—but all the rest of it, too. she remembered tracing these lines with her mouth. remembered lara half-asleep, limbs tangled with hers, mumbling dumb things into her neck. remembered this exact thigh wrapped around her hips, pulling her closer, always closer.

her hand stilled.

she breathed in, slow and steady, grounding herself in the sterile clinic air and the clipboard waiting across the room. not the way lara’s breath had just hitched. not the way it always used to.

y/n refocused. pressed down with more intent this time, dragging her thumb along the medial border like she was following a map she helped draw.

lara exhaled sharply, more surprise than pain, and y/n blinked hard, looking away.

it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. it wasn’t supposed to still be like this. they hadn’t even spoken after the breakup. not really. no closure, no friendship attempt, just a clean split followed by radio silence. y/n had buried it, like everything else. and yet here she was, elbow-deep in lara raj’s thigh and halfway to a breakdown.

she hated how easy it was to fall back into orbit. how close lara felt, even after everything. like no time had passed at all.

lara broke it first. “you still do that thing when you’re concentrating. the lip thing.”

y/n paused. “what thing.”

“bite the inside. right side.” lara turned her head, voice softening without losing its edge. “used to drive me crazy.”

y/n’s jaw ticked. “flex your quad for me.”

lara did. the muscle fired under her palm. automatic, precise. y/n nodded once and stepped away, scribbling something she wouldn’t be able to read later.

lara watched her. “you’re different.”

y/n flipped the page without looking up. “you’re not. still think flirting is a personality.”

“you used to like it.”

“you used to mean it.”

silence again. heavier, this time. like a bruise pressed too hard. y/n didn’t dare look at her.

after a moment: “okay,” she said quietly. “let’s start with some range of motion work. we’ll go slow. tell me if anything feels off.”

lara lifted a brow. “like your attitude?”

y/n just stared at her—the kind of look that used to be followed by a kiss or a slammed door. lara sighed and lay back again, one arm flung lazily over her head.

“fine, fine. i’ll behave.”

y/n didn’t answer, but her hands were steady as she guided the knee. internal rotation, external, slow flexion. she moved on instinct, trying not to notice the way lara kept making faces—these dramatic, exaggerated winces every time her fingers so much as grazed too close.

“are you always this dramatic?” y/n muttered, adjusting her grip on lara’s thigh.

“only when i’m being manhandled by an ex,” lara replied smoothly, eyes flicking to hers.

y/n’s mouth opened, closed. “jesus christ,” she muttered.

lara hummed. “you’ve gotten stronger. must be all those lonely nights at the gym.”

and that was it. y/n pulled just a little too hard on the next stretch.

lara yelped. “ow—okay! okay! what the hell, are you trying to tear it more?”

“you always did like it rough,” y/n said before she could stop herself. and immediately wanted to crawl into the floor.

lara laughed. loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that used to shake the sheets. y/n clenched her jaw and stared at the floor, actively resisting the urge to bang her head against the nearest resistance band hook.

“don’t make me laugh,” lara gasped, breath catching. “it makes the pain worse.”

“good.”

“you’re so mean now. it’s hot.”

y/n didn’t respond. she was too busy pressing into the medial thigh, deep tissue work that should’ve required all her focus. but all she could think about was how soft the skin felt. how close her face was to lara’s knee. how the air between them was thick with something unspoken and impossible to forget.

lara wiggled her foot. “you’re making that face again.”

“what face.”

“the one where you look like you want to punch me but also maybe kiss me.”

y/n jerked back like she’d been stung. her thumb left a sharp red streak along the inside of lara’s thigh. not intentional. not really. but it stood out. hot. bright. incriminating.

and that was exactly when the door creaked open.

manon stepped in, sunglasses perched on her head, a smoothie in one hand and a familiar glint in her eye. she stopped cold just inside the room, blinking once at the scene in front of her—lara flushed and sprawled on the table, thigh streaked with red, y/n stiff as a corpse and visibly sweating.

“jesus christ,” manon said. “do you two need a room?”

lara looked down and burst out laughing. “is that a hickey?”

“it’s not a hickey,” y/n said quickly, voice cracking like glass under pressure.

manon raised a brow. “sure it’s not. just a little physio love bite.” she held up her smoothie. “anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt your foreplay. i actually came with news.”

lara blinked, still breathless from laughing. “what news?”

“you’re in,” manon said, like it was obvious. “tournament officials accepted your wildcard. the final matches have been postponed for your recovery. you’re on the roster.”

lara sat up straighter. “you’re serious?”

manon grinned. “deadly. congrats, raj.”

the glow on lara’s face was immediate. relief. pride. something almost childlike in how it lit her up. she reached for the tablet manon had tucked under her arm and flipped to the schedule.

and just like that, the light dimmed.

her smile faltered as her eyes landed on the name next to hers in the bracket. daniela avanzini. reigning champ. already being called the next big thing by every major sports outlet.

lara didn’t say anything, but y/n saw it. the shift. the stillness. how her mouth flattened slightly, jaw locking into place.

manon didn’t seem to notice. she gave a dramatic bow and backed toward the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “celebrate later, yeah? just not on the treatment table.”

then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her.

y/n didn’t move at first. just watched lara staring at the tablet like it had personally insulted her.

“what is it?” she asked, quiet, careful. “you were just excited.”

lara didn’t answer.

y/n sighed and stepped closer, wiping her hands on a towel, voice softer now. “come on. it’s me.”

lara’s shoulders shifted, the faintest sign of tension.

“daniela avanzini,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on the screen. “first round.”

y/n’s brow furrowed. “so?”

lara let out a dry breath. “she won this whole thing last year. hasn’t lost a single match since. i wasn’t even sure i’d get in—and now i have to open against her?“

y/n watched her, then leaned against the edge of the table. “you’ve played tougher.”

lara huffed a humorless laugh. “not with one and a half knees, i haven’t.”

there was no teasing in her voice now. just exhaustion. and the creeping shadow of self-doubt y/n remembered all too well.

“you’ll be fine,” y/n said, steady. certain. “you don’t back down. not from girls like her.”

lara looked at her then, eyes searching, like she wasn’t used to hearing that anymore.

and for a second, y/n didn’t care about the past. or the tension. or the red streak still fading on lara’s thigh.

because whatever they were now, she could still read lara like a book. and right now, she needed someone to believe in her.

“you’ve got this,” y/n said. simple. firm. true.

lara’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. she nodded, slow.

“yeah,” she said. “yeah. okay.”

y/n turned away and started packing up the ice packs like it was urgent. like the act of organizing something—anything—might keep her from unraveling. emotionally speaking, it kind of had to.

behind her, lara placed the tablet down and moved to stand. whatever flicker of doubt had cracked through a minute ago was gone from her face now, wiped clean and replaced with that effortless cool she always wore like armor. but y/n saw right through it. the wince as lara shifted her weight. the tightness around her mouth. the sheen of nerves still clinging to her eyes.

“so,” lara said, too breezy, like nothing at all had happened, “same time tomorrow?”

y/n didn’t answer right away. she glanced at her, the way you look at something you used to call home. lara had always been like this—sharp, stubborn, all-in. tennis was everything. it had been the start and the end of them.

still, y/n didn’t poke at it. didn’t offer comfort or push too hard. she just looked back down at her clipboard and scribbled something illegible, feigning disinterest like it was a sport.

“unfortunately,” she said.

lara bit her lip. not flirtatious this time, but soft. familiar. a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, quiet and a little worn around the edges. maybe even fond.

“can’t wait.”

perhaps y/n should’ve trusted her instincts that something wasn’t quite right in the mind of her ex girlfriend.

the pop of the tennis ball echoed across the near-empty court, sharp and rhythmic. it was hot—too hot to be out here, especially with a healing knee—but lara’s body craved the repetition. the sweat, the sting of sun in her eyes, the dry rasp of her breath. it all felt like control. like something she could grip tight before it slipped away again. it'd been five days since her therapy sessions kicked into swing, and little by little, she was going crazy. she hated stagnancy. sitting and waiting around doing nothing when the court was right there. the late afternoon heat pressed down like a weighted blanket, thick and unmoving. golden light pooled along the edges of the tennis court, casting long shadows over the clay. cicadas droned somewhere in the trees beyond the fence. it was the kind of california heat that made the ground shimmer, the kind that stole breath from lungs. but lara was still out there, hitting ball after ball like it owed her something.

her tank top was damp, clinging to her skin, dark with sweat along her back. strands of her inky black hair stuck to her neck, and the angles of her face were set tight with determination. her movements were clean, trained. forceful even/ but there was a hitch in her stride. her knee. every pivot came with a flicker of pain she refused to acknowledge. she wasn’t cleared to be playing. she knew it. megan knew it. but knowing didn’t stop her.

on the other side of the net, megan twirled her racket lazily, her white tank cropped just enough to flash the silver hoops of her belt every time she moved. where lara was coiled tension, megan was loose limbs and sleepy eyes.

“i’m starting to think you like punishing yourself,” she called out, visor askew like a lopsided crown. she stuck her tongue out in mock concentration. “either that or you just love making me run.”

lara didn’t answer. she returned the shot with a sharp forehand, sweat flying from her elbow. her chest burned. her leg throbbed. she didn’t care.

“don’t get me wrong,” megan said, jogging to catch the ball. “i’m flattered. i mean, i’ve got a nice ass and all, but if this is your way of flirting—”

lara hit the next shot harder. it cracked like a gun going off.

megan whistled. “okay, simmer down, federer. jesus.”

lara didn’t smile. didn’t even flinch. her eyes stayed locked on the ball, lashes clumped with sweat, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. her breath came shallow and fast. she could feel the tremble in her knee starting to spread, small at first, but gaining ground. still, she kept going. she had to. she wasn’t thinking about her knee. not really. she was thinking about daniela. daniela with the perfect serve, the iron discipline, the smile that never reached her eyes. the girl who might be better. faster. cleaner.

lara couldn’t afford to lose. not again.

“if you die out here,” megan called after a moment through her heavy breathing, slicing the ball with a lazy flick, “can i have your sneakers?”

lara lunged to return it. “you wouldn’t fit them.”

“rude and ableist. i’m a growing girl.”

they kept the rally going. backhand, forehand, slice, lob. lara’s form was cleaner than it should be for someone not cleared to train. but there was a stiffness in her leg, a hesitance in her recovery steps. megan noticed. megan always noticed.

“you’re thinking about daniela again,” megan sing-songed.

lara grunted as she pivoted. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. it’s written all over your moody little murder face.”

lara hit the ball harder than she needed to. “i’m fine.”

“no, you’re tense. like emotionally and also physically. i’m your friend-slash-secret therapist-slash-occasional doubles partner, and i can feel it in my soul.”

lara didn’t answer. they both knew megan was right. lara just couldn’t help but dread her upcoming match with the latina. couldn’t shake the memory of her devastating efficiency, the knowledge that she was fresh. rested. uninjured. probably sleeping eight hours a night in a cryogenic pod while lara spent hers trying not to scream into a pillow every time her knee ached.

she hated that she wasn’t sure if she could beat her anymore.

“you know it’s okay, right?” megan said, softer now, tapping the ball across gently. “to be scared. or whatever.”

lara caught it on the bounce and shot it back harder than necessary. “i’m not scared.”

“okay. cool. you’re just out here in a heatwave playing on a busted leg because… you love pain?”

lara gave her a look. “yes. it’s called character building.”

“uh-huh.” megan grinned. “okay, new theory. you’re not scared of daniela. you’re just distracted. and i think i know by who.”

lara sighed. “don’t.”

“y/n,” megan declared, grinning wider. “hot physio. broody aura. what did you do, hit her with your car?”

lara’s next shot clipped the net.

“she’s—” lara started, then stopped.

“what?” megan twirled her racket. “gonna say she’s just your physio? because i’m pretty sure i saw you make eye contact with her once and your soul tried to leave your body.”

lara rolled her eyes. “megan.”

“what? i’m allowed to look. she’s hot. if you’re not gonna go for it, i’ll take a shot.”

lara’s grip on her racket tightened. “no, you won’t.”

megan blinked. “whoa. calm down, stabby.”

“i’m not stabby.”

“you sound a little stabby.”

lara hit the ball hard. too hard. the pressure jolted up her leg like lightning. the second her foot came down, she knew. the angle was wrong. her knee buckled, and pain shot through her like a scream.

she collapsed with a sharp gasp, racket skidding across the clay.

“shit—lara!” megan rushed over, dropping to her knees beside her. “hey, hey, don’t move—”

lara clenched her jaw. “i’m—fine—”

but the pain said otherwise. it pulsed hot and urgent, and her breath was already going shallow. panic started to press in around the edges. from the corner of her eye she noticed a familiar figure darting over.

“what the hell is going on?” y/n’s voice rang out, fierce and familiar.

lara looked up just in time to see her pushing through the gate, eyes wide, clipboard forgotten somewhere behind her.

“she fell,” megan said quickly. “knee again. i think—she’s in real pain.”

y/n knelt beside her without hesitation. “lara. talk to me.”

lara’s throat felt tight. “it—it twisted.”

y/n’s hands were already assessing the joint, fast but precise. “can you put weight on it?”

“not right now.”

megan stood back. “i’ll get ice.”

y/n nodded without looking up. “bench. come on.”

between the two of them, they got lara onto the bench. y/n’s arm around her waist was steady, grounding. her touch wasn’t gentle, but something about it made lara’s chest ache.

megan returned with an ice pack, handing it off with a sheepish wince. “i’m gonna give you guys a minute.”

lara didn’t say anything. didn’t meet y/n’s eyes. she ignored megan when she gave her a brief apologetic shoulder pat before sauntering away, disappearing behind the large fence.

the silence left behind was heavier than it should’ve been.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” y/n said finally. not angry. just tired. scared in her own way.

lara closed her eyes. “i know.”

“so why are you?”

lara opened her mouth, then closed it again. the truth tasted bitter, like something she didn’t want to admit.

“because i’m not ready to lose,” she said, voice low. “not again. not this. it’s all i have left.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“you have more than this game,” y/n said softly, kneeling in front of her. the ice pack in her hand melted slowly, droplets slipping over her fingers as she pressed it gently to lara’s knee. “more than this court.”

lara exhaled through her nose, sharp and shaky. “you don’t get it,” she murmured. “tennis is all i’ve ever been good at. it’s the only place that made sense when everything else didn’t.”

y/n stayed quiet for a beat, watching her. the pain on lara’s face wasn’t just from the fall. it was the kind that had been building for years. “it doesn’t have to be,” she said. “you’re more than your ranking. your record. your injury. you’re… you’re smart. stubborn. annoying.”

lara huffed a breath, something almost like a laugh.

“and you’ve got people,” y/n added. “people who want you to be okay. not just back on the court. actually okay.”

lara’s eyes met hers then, dark, tired, and a little wide. like something in her had cracked without warning. “even you?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “especially me.”

the silence that followed was thick. a cicada buzzed somewhere just past the fence. a breeze picked up, lazy and warm. neither of them moved.

“have you…” lara started, then trailed off, eyes flicking away.

y/n tilted her head. “what?”

lara’s voice came quieter this time. “have you been with anyone since me?”

y/n blinked. “why?”

lara shrugged, but it was brittle, all edge. “just wondering.”

y/n watched her for a second. “no.”

lara’s gaze shot back to hers. “really?”

“yeah. really.”

lara nodded slowly, jaw tight. she looked away again, toward the net where the ball still rested like a forgotten thought. “i haven’t either.”

y/n didn’t say anything.

lara’s voice dropped even lower. “because no one was you.”

the air caught in y/n’s throat.

lara didn’t smile. didn’t flirt. didn’t try to hide behind the usual smirk or offhand comment. she just sat there, sweaty and bruised, a little broken and not bothering to pretend otherwise.

“i didn’t know how to move on,” she added, almost to herself. “still don’t.”

y/n reached for her hand without thinking. their fingers brushed, hesitant at first. then stayed.

they didn’t say anything else after that.

the planned ten days were over within a blink. neither of them mentioned the words lara uttered that day. the remaining days they had were spent in full recovery, much to the desi girls' chagrin. she was back to her usual coy smiles and flirty compliments, but y/n could’ve sworn there was something deeper hiding beneath the surface. a warmth she hadn’t seen since they dated, a warmth she often stayed up late at night thinking of. a warmth she craved for so long, and perhaps, one she never got over. spending time with lara had her heart soothing over, mending slowly without even realizing it. she missed her. and of course, sophia was right.

y/n was still deeply, madly in love with lara raj.

y/n was torn from her thoughts when a loud jeer sounded through the staff room. the room was cramped, humid, and vaguely haunted by the smell of instant coffee and sports tape. above the lockers, a slightly tilted flat-screen tv streamed the tournament feed in all its 720p glory. y/n sat cross-legged on a bench beside sophia and manon, the two girls having grown quite fond of each other over the past ten days they’d spent in the same social orbits. y/n kept her arms folded, her expression tight: trying to look calm and collected and pulling off exactly neither.

soobin’s match had just wrapped. he’d played clean and sharp, held his own against a higher seed, made it all the way to the semis—but came up short in the last set. the staff room let out a collective, sympathetic groan as the final point landed.

“still proud of him,” sophia said, chewing a protein bar aggressively. “personally, i think i would’ve done better. maybe that’s just the competitor in me. bad bitches always come out on top.”

manon blinked. “you cried when i beat your ass at mario kart two days ago.”

sophia narrowed her eyes. “shut your mouth.”

y/n wasn’t listening. her gaze was fixed on the screen as the bracket updated. next match: lara raj vs. daniela avanzini. center court. her stomach tightened.

manon noticed the way y/n’s face twisted. turning away from the filippina, she lowered her voice in clear concern. “you good?”

“peachy,” y/n said flatly. “just watching my ex-girlfriend walk into battle against the most terrifying forehand in women’s tennis. no big deal.”

manon blinked. turned. “wait, what?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “we dated.”

“what?!”

sophia rolled her eyes and offered manon the rest of her protein bar. “catch up, girl.”

manon’s face was somewhere between scandalized and impressed. “why did no one tell me?!”

“we figured the dramatic mid-tournament reveal would be more cinematic,” y/n said dryly.

manon threw her hands up. “i’ve been in the dark for ten days!”

y/n stood before the banter could pull her under. she smoothed her staff polo, then immediately regretted it. it didn’t help anything.

“i’m gonna go check on her,” she mumbled.

sophia gave a thumbs up. manon looked like she had several follow-up questions but wisely zipped it.

the hallway was unusually quiet—like even the building itself had gone still, holding its breath for what came next. y/n slipped through the back corridors with practiced ease, dodging staff carts and volunteers with clipboards, letting instinct guide her more than memory. she didn’t have to think about where lara would be. she just knew. past the physio bay, past the equipment closets and storage crates of unopened gatorade. just before the tunnel to center court—there.

lara stood exactly where y/n expected: framed in the stark fluorescent light spilling from overhead, tucked just out of sight from the cameras and chaos waiting at the other end. she was alone, headphones hanging loose around her neck, not playing anything anymore. her racquet leaned gently against the wall beside her. her knee, freshly wrapped in compression tape so smooth it looked like glass, bent and straightened in a slow, careful rhythm, like she was testing its limits without daring to push too far.

she looked good. better, even. lighter on her feet, her posture more relaxed than it had been a week ago. physically, at least, she was ready.

but her hands were fidgeting. her shoulders tight with tension. her brow furrowed in that way that always came when she was thinking too much, feeling too much. y/n stopped just before she reached her. didn’t say anything at first.

lara noticed her anyway.

she looked up, and for a moment, all the nerves on her face paused. like the sight of y/n alone was enough to break the spiral.

“hey,” lara said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“hey,” y/n echoed, softer. she let herself linger on the sight of her, how strong she looked, how scared she clearly still was underneath it all. “figured i’d find you here.”

lara gave a weak smile. “it’s almost time.”

y/n stepped closer, careful not to intrude too quickly. “how’re you feeling?”

lara nodded, too fast. “i’m good.”

y/n arched a brow. “you’re literally vibrating.”

lara’s jaw worked, like she wanted to argue and didn’t have the energy.

“i keep thinking,” she said, gaze fixed past the tunnel, “about everything that can go wrong. like—what if i slip again? what if it gives out? what if i choke in front of all those people?”

her voice was too steady for how fast she was blinking. y/n took another step forward, now close enough to touch her, but didn’t. not yet.

“you’ve already done the hardest part,” she said gently. “you got back up. the rest is just tennis.��

lara gave a short, quiet laugh—dry and almost bitter. “just tennis.”

“you know what i mean.”

lara looked down at her hands, flexed them once, then let them fall.

“sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” she said. “i’m not enough.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she reached out, slow, and brushed her fingers against the hem of lara’s sleeve, straightening it with care that didn’t need words.

“you are,” she said. “you always have been.”

lara finally looked at her. eyes shining, jaw tight.

y/n held her gaze. “and if you forget that out there, just look for me.”

a long beat. the kind that said everything too big to speak aloud. then the announcer’s voice boomed from the court, muffled but unmistakable.

lara flinched like it physically tugged her. her name echoed into the tunnel, followed by a swell of crowd noise.

she exhaled shakily.

“time to go,” she said.

y/n nodded.

lara hesitated—just for a second—then took a step forward and rested her forehead briefly against y/n’s, barely touching.

“thank you,” she whispered.

and then she was gone.

the match was chaos. not the kind that spiraled out of control, but the kind that demanded everything. every nerve, every drop of focus, every breath held and released in rhythm with the ball.

y/n didn’t take a seat.

she stood in the tunnel, half-hidden in shadow, just past where the athletes emerged. not quite on court, not quite behind it. close enough to hear every thwack of the racquet, every screech of shoes on the baseline, every collective inhale from the crowd.

lara started strong. sharper than she had in weeks. her footwork was tight, her backhand crisp, her serve landing just where it needed to. she was reading daniela well. all of the angles, predicting the pace. but then came the second set.

one bad step on a wide return sent her skidding, her sneakers dragging across clay. she didn’t fall hard, but y/n’s heart still jolted into her throat. she gripped the wall instinctively, knuckles white, watching lara freeze for a half-second before she pulled herself up like it hadn’t happened.

that was the turning point.

lara adjusted. gritted her teeth. she stopped trying to out-power daniela and started out-thinking her instead—mixing in drop shots, surprising her with deep lobs, keeping her off rhythm. tie breaks. long deuces. brutal rallies that felt like little wars.

y/n stood still through it all, not blinking, not breathing.

lara looked exhausted. flushed and damp, her wrap peeking through the edge of her skirt, her swing a little slower with each game, but she never backed off. never once glanced toward the tunnel.

not until championship point.

y/n knew the pattern by now. she could see it coming in lara’s posture, the way she bounced on her toes one last time before the serve. the way daniela’s return came just a fraction too high.

lara pounced. a forehand down the line. fast. unforgiving. it clipped the baseline and vanished past the reach of her opponent.

silence. then the crowd roared. the stadium exploded, cheering, whistling, thunderous applause like a wave crashing over the court. confetti started falling from somewhere. a reporter yelled her name. cameras swung wildly to catch her face.

lara had won. she’d done it. on court, lara stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide like she didn’t fully believe it either. a tournament official jogged over and placed the trophy into her hands. silver and shining and somehow too small for what it meant. it was only the first round, yes, but she knocked out the toughest opponent she’d have to face for the rest of the tourney.

lara barely looked at the small trophy before she turned. and for the first time in the whole match—hell, maybe the whole year—she wasn’t searching for the ball, or the next point, or the fear of what might break again. she was looking for her.

before y/n could even react, lara was already moving. she slipped past the officials with barely a glance, dodged a reporter, ducked under the boom of a camera that tried to follow. someone caught her by the arm, and she shook them off without a word. then she was there. standing in front of y/n in the tunnel. flushed from the match, eyes glassy with disbelief and adrenaline. breath caught halfway in her throat. for a moment, she didn’t say anything. just looked at her—really looked. like y/n was the only thing anchoring her to the ground. then, with a trembling breath, she reached out.

her hands found y/n’s face gently, like she was afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast. her thumbs brushed over her cheeks, soft as breath, and then she kissed her. slow. tender. nothing rushed or showy, no crashing hunger. just this quiet, aching certainty that said i missed you. i see you. it’s always been you.

y/n didn’t move right away.

not because she didn’t want to, but because the softness of it, the sincerity of it, cut straight through her. lara raj—newly crowned champion dethroner, one step closer to taking it all, headline material, national broadcast darling—was kissing her like none of that mattered. like she’d won the biggest trophy of her life and still turned around to find the one thing that made it real.

when they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. lara was still catching her breath.

y/n blinked, dazed. “what the hell was that?”

lara’s laugh was quiet, shaky. “closure. maybe.”

y/n raised a brow. “that felt suspiciously like the opposite of closure.”

lara smiled again—crooked and small and impossibly full of love. she didn’t pull back.

“i used to think the game was everything,” she whispered. “that if i won enough, if i kept proving myself, maybe one day i’d feel… whole.”

y/n said nothing. her heart was too loud in her ears. lara’s thumb traced the line of her jaw.

“but you—” she swallowed. “being with you made me feel like i already was. i didn’t need to chase anything. i’m so sorry i walked away. i thought i had to choose. but there’s nothing—nothing—in this world i want more than you.”

y/n’s eyes burned. she didn’t say anything. just wrapped her arms around lara’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her again—deeper this time, but still just as sure.

lara didn’t care a single shred about the outcome of her match, she realized. standing with y/n in that moment made all the sense in the world.

it felt like coming home.

288 notes · View notes

koiukiy-o · 2 months ago

Text

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 006. the phenomenologist.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: they exchange emails. i repeat. they exchange. emails!!! potential double update because the next part is 80% finished, hehe <3 i also wrote this chapter when i was on painkillers (and i still man) so if i sound like a DUMBASS in some parts i. it was not on purpose i swear. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Lunchtime rush has taken over the cafeteria. You sit tucked into a corner with Kira and Ilias, your tray pushed halfway aside, your drink sweating onto the wood between you.

Kira’s been nursing her tea for the past ten minutes, eyes half-closed, listening more than speaking. Her food sits untouched. Ilias, meanwhile, is attacking his fries like they insulted his ancestors. There’s a kind of intensity to it—surgical, almost reverent.

“Did they change the oil in these?” he mutters. “They taste like shit.”

You glance at him. “Then stop eating them?”

“Don’t tell me how to process pain.”

Kira snorts.

A clatter near the door draws your attention—trays, muffled apologies, the scuffle of shoes against tile. You glance over. Mydei and Phainon stand just inside, scanning the crowded room with the mild disappointment of people who’ve made peace with the fact that they’re not going to find a quiet spot.

There are no empty tables left.

Mydei catches your eye first. His gaze holds yours, half a question in it. Before you can think better of it, you lift your hand slightly in a wave and gesture to the open space on the bench beside you.

“There’s space here,” you say.

Phainon perks up like a dog hearing its leash jingle. He nudges Mydei forward with the edge of his tray, clearly done pretending to be patient.

“You’re sure?” Mydei asks, already sliding toward the end of the bench without waiting for a response.

Kira shifts slightly to make room, offering Mydei a small smile. “You’re not usually out here.”

You glance between them. “You guys know each other?”

“We share a class,” Phainon says, almost too quickly. “Philosophy.”

“Oh,” you say. “That sounds… interesting.”

Kira stifles a laugh, shrugging. “It’s not that bad. Once you get past the dread.”

“We had to spend an entire week arguing whether perception is a primary act or a constructed one,” Mydei adds, glancing up. “Phainon wrote his midterms in poetic verse.”

“He rhymed ‘intentionality’ with ‘banality,’” Kira says.

“And you gave it a B,” he points out.

“She peer-reviewed it,” Mydei says, jerking her chin toward Kira.

You blink. “Wait—students grade each other?”

Kira nods, twirling the packet between her fingers. “Sometimes. It’s part of the methodology. Subjectivity and all that.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No, ontology sounds fake,” Phainon says without missing a beat.

“They sit behind me,” Kira says, “and keep having whispered debates over whether Merleau-Ponty would’ve survived group work.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Phainon says, solemn.

Mydei picks at the corner of his sandwich. “He might’ve thrived.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t mind them talking behind you?”

Kira shrugs. “I correct them when they’re wrong.”

“He finds it sport,” Mydei murmurs, flicking his straw wrapper at Phainon.

“I would die for neither of them,” Kira adds after a moment, “but I would cite them.”

“High praise,” Phainon murmurs, looking genuinely touched.

There’s a beat of quiet, the kind that usually signals someone’s about to break into a joke—except Ilias doesn’t. He’s staring at Kira like she’s hung up the moon, eyes soft, brow faintly furrowed in something like awe.

You glance at him, then back at her. She’s busy poking at the ice in her drink, oblivious.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re hypnotized.”

“I am not,” he says, way too quickly.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m… admiring her academic rigor,” he adds weakly.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ilias groans and hides behind the menu. Kira, still completely unaware, crunches a piece of ice and asks if anyone wants to split dessert.

You're about to say yes, please, when a shadow falls across the table.

A flicker of awareness down your spine. Some instinctive ripple that tenses your shoulders before your mind even catches up.

You feel it before you see him.

Your head turns—too fast, on reflex. Eyes already landing on the figure passing between tables.

Professor Anaxagoras.

Your heart kicks once, too high in your chest. He’s not in his usual long coat. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, collar slightly open, and the book in his arm looks worn at the edges. The woman walking beside him—elegant, composed, and unknown to you—matches his stride like they’ve been walking in step for years.

She moves like a dream you only half-remember—gliding by his side, wrapped in soft earth-toned fabric that shimmers faintly when the light catches it, like morning mist through tree branches. Her voice, low and melodic, curls around her shoulders, spilling down her back in lazy waves, pinned with something that’s shaped suspiciously like gold-tipped antlers, and her scent—something like old paper and wildflowers—lingers long after she’s gone. There’s a stillness to her, a gravity that pulls your attention without ever asking for it. She doesn’t need to raise her voice or call for silence—she could just look up, and the room would fall into reverent hush. And when her mouth moves, you almost forget that she—

Ilias lets out a low whistle under his breath, not loud, but pointed. “Damn.” Kira glares at him.

You don’t respond. Can’t, for a moment.

Anaxagoras walks past without pausing, the conversation between him and the woman low and self-contained. You catch a word or two—nothing sharp, nothing you could hold on to.

“Who was that?” Kira murmurs, eyes still following their backs.

Phainon, who hadn’t seemed particularly alert, straightens faintly. “Cerces,” he says, tone low but certain. “She used to guest lecture. Phenomenology.”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “She was supposed to take a position here last year. Didn’t.”

It starts like a pinprick, something almost too small to name.

You glance toward the table where they’ve just sat—tucked near the back, partially shielded by a wooden column.

She’s speaking, but her tone is too quiet, and Anaxagoras doesn’t look like he’s listening, so much as… enduring.

A slight shifting in your chest, a tensing in your jaw. Your gaze drifts—too often, too long—toward the corner table where Anaxagoras sits with her. Cerces.

Kira murmurs. “Are they… friends?”

“Not unless you count hostility as a form of bonding,” Mydei says without looking up.

“They hate each other?” Ilias asks.

“They disagree on principle,” Mydei replies. “She called his lecture on spatial memory ‘a diluted myth disguised as hypothesis’ once.”

Phainon lifts his head slightly, blinking at the table. “Is that not flirting?”

You give him a look.

Ilias snorts at your reaction.

Phainon shrugs, resting his head on his arms again. “Just saying.”

Anaxagoras isn’t smiling. Cerces never does, apparently.

You glance back over to the corner booth, where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, barely exchanging words but clearly in some sort of intense standoff. She speaks with measured precision, and Anaxagoras listens—almost too intently.

Like he’s hanging on her every word.

For some reason, you can’t stop looking. You’re not sure why, but something about it bothers you. Anaxagoras, as unreachable as he is, sitting with someone else like that—it doesn’t sit well.

(Why doesn’t it sit well?)

You don’t even notice how your gaze hardens until Ilias speaks up.

“I thought you were the only one he bantered with,” he says suggestively, though there’s a sharp edge to his voice. It’s off-hand, but the tone feels pointed.

You snap your attention back to him, eyes flicking to Ilias, then to Kira, and finally to Mydei, who’s still half-focused on his andwich. It’s not what he says—it’s how it feels, like he’s digging his finger into a gaping wound in your chest.

“What?” you say, the word coming out a little more defensive than you’d like. "What do you mean?"

Ilias raises an eyebrow, eyes gleaming with a bit of mischief, but he looks like he’s holding back a comment. “Oh, nothing. Just that—well, I thought it was kind of your thing with him, y’know?”

Logically, of course, it’s not just you. It never was. Anaxagoras is a professor, and a professional one at that. He interacts with plenty of people. You were never the only one. But why does it bother you so much now? Why does seeing him there with Cerces feel like something you were supposed to have? Hell, you’ve only been his student for a couple weeks.

Then, from behind you, Phainon’s voice breaks the silence, casually chiming in. “You know, you and Anaxagoras would be a good match.”

Your head snaps around to him, eyes wide, caught completely off guard. You try to catch your breath, but your heart suddenly seems to be beating a little too fast. What did he mean by that? The words feel heavy in your chest, but you can’t quite explain why. You shake your head, trying to brush it off, but you can’t stop the small pang of unease that bubbles up.

Mydei, sitting beside Phainon, glances at him sharply, narrowing his eyes, but the clueless guy keeps munching on his food, completely unaware.

Ilias brightens. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Kira, meanwhile, shifts in her seat, a thoughtful smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “I can see it, actually,” she says, leaning toward you and giving you a look that’s half-encouraging, half-teasing. “You two would have that whole academic rivalry thing going on. Very couple energy.”

Her smirk grows as she watches you react. The comment is light, but you can feel the sting of it.

And of course, Ilias adds to it. His grin is too wide, too knowing. “Late-night debates and discussions on the meaning of the universe... sounds like a dream weekend to me.”

Your pulse picks up speed at the thought, and suddenly, you’re on edge, wondering why this is even a thing now. Your mind races with thoughts that you can’t quiet: why is it bothering you? Why is it bothering you this much?

Is it bothering you?

You shift in your seat, trying to keep your face neutral, but the flush creeping up your neck betrays you. “It’s not like that,” you mutter, your words defensive, even to your own ears. You don’t know why you feel so worked up.

Ilias notices the shift in your tone, the subtle defensiveness in your voice. His grin widens, and he leans forward, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s stirred up.

You’re too aware of the heat rising in your face. “I’m not—” you snap, perhaps a little too sharply. “You’re being illogical. We’re students, he’s a professor. Our professor. And he’s not even my type—”

Ilias, clearly enjoying this, leans back in his seat with a dramatic flourish, one hand raised as if making a grand announcement. “You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I think I’ve figured it out.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Figured what out?”

“You.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air for just a moment, before leaning in closer, his grin mischievous. “I don’t think it’s Professor Anaxagoras himself. Oh no, no, no. You’ve fallen victim to something far worse.”

You cross your arms, giving him an exasperated look, but choosing to play along. “And that is?”

“You’ve fallen for his mind,” Ilias says, lowering his voice as if he’s revealing some deep, untold secret. “That black hole of academia. The more you resist, the more it pulls you in. You, my friend, are powerless against the seductive pull of his— of his lectures!” He pauses for dramatic effect, letting the silence linger. “It’s inevitable. You’re already caught in his gravitational field.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face, but it’s hard when he looks so pleased with himself. “Ilias, you really need to stop watching sci-fi movies. You’re starting to sound like—”

He ignores you, continuing on in full dramatic flair. “I’m telling you, it’s like you’re destined for this. Like some tragic hero—fated to fall for the untouchable professor.”

You squint at him. “Ilias—”

“Star-crossed lovers, of course that’s what you are.” He raises his hand dramatically, as if making a proclamation. “The one who must suffer in silence, tortured by their own growing attraction while the object of their affection remains completely oblivious!”

You stare at him, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Okay, Romeo, calm down. I’m not falling for anyone, especially not Anaxagoras. He’s our professor.”

“Oh, please,” Ilias scoffs, flipping his fries around on his plate. “That’s the classic denial phase. It’s always like this. First, it’s ‘He’s a professor, this isn’t real,’ and then it’s ‘Oh no, I’m just interested in his intellectual prowess.’ And the next thing you know, you’re writing him anonymous love ;letters about the meaning of life.”

You choke on your drink. “What?!”

Ilias leans back smugly, clearly relishing your reaction. “That’s the part I’m really looking forward to,” he says, completely unbothered by the chaos he’s creating. “The dramatic confessions of forbidden love. You’ll be at the front of the lecture hall, staring at him with those eyes—the ones you don’t even realize you’re doing—until one day, you slip and—bam!—an accidental ‘—Because I love you!’ in the middle of a class discussion.”

You nearly spit your drink out at the absurdity of it all. “Oh my God, Ilias, shut up. That is not—”

“Oh, it will happen,” he says confidently, nodding like he’s just cracked the code of your life. “I can see it now. ‘Professor Anaxagoras, I can’t live without your...philosophical insights...’"

Your face burns even more now, and you throw a napkin at him. “You are insufferable.”

Ilias catches it mid-air and theatrically wipes his brow, pretending to be exhausted by the sheer drama of his own predictions. “Oh, I know. But it’s all part of my genius,” he says smugly. “You’ll thank me when you end up in a tangled, academic love triangle involving forgotten artifacts and ancient texts.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “Not gonna happen.”

“You say that now,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ll be here when it all goes down. You’ll come crawling to me for advice on how to handle the tension.”

You eyes automatically glance over at the table where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, and without meaning to, your stomach tightens just a little.

Ilias notices the shift in your expression immediately, his grin widening again. “Oh! What’s this? A little moment of clarity? I can feel it! Your heart’s racing, isn’t it?”

“No,” you mutter, looking away quickly, but the playful glint in his eyes makes you want to strangle him.

“You can’t hide it forever, my friend,” he says, tapping his finger against the table. “The romance is coming. The fated love between the professor and the student, like something out of a tragic novel. And when it happens? Oh, I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”

Kira, who’s been quietly listening to the whole exchange, smiles at Ilias in that quiet, amused way she does. For a moment, her eyes are soft, entranced by his antics.

Ilias doesn’t notice, of course. He’s too busy reveling in the thought of his own brilliance. “And when you’re finally ready to confess, I’ll be there. Right behind you, cheering you on. I’ll be your emotional support coach. Don’t worry.”

You groan, slumping forward. “Please stop.”

“Fine, fine.” Ilias leans back, clearly not done but pretending to be. “But you know the truth, deep down.” He lowers his voice to a whisper again. “You’re already halfway there. And when the sparks fly... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You fight to keep the smile off your face, but it’s impossible. “You’re unbelievable.”

Phainon, who’s been slumped halfway over his tray like a cat napping in a sunbeam, lifts his head at last, amused. He says lazily, “Ilias managed to build an entire three-act tragedy in the time it took me to finish my sandwich. I’m surprised.”

“Don’t encourage him,” you say flatly.

Phainon ignores you. “So what’s the title? Ode to a Lecture Hall Affair? Or A Treatise on Yearning, Featuring Poor Life Choices?”

“I like that second one,” Mydei says, without looking up. “Could be a bestseller if it comes with footnotes.”

Ilias snaps his fingers at both of them. “Finally. Some cultured taste.”

“You’re literally projecting an academic romance onto the person least likely to pursue such a thing.” Mydei deadpans, still not looking up.

“That’s how all the best ones start,” Ilias says with a wink. “Tragic self-denial. Emotional repression. That’s the good stuff. You think I want this story to be healthy?”

Phainon tilts his head at you, tone suddenly a little too calm. “So. Do you like Naxie?”

You nearly choke. “What?! No— …N- Naxie?”

“Mm,” Phainon hums, as if making a mental note, completely ignoring the question in your tone. “That sounded like a lie.”

You sit up straighter, voice too quick. “It’s not a lie. I don’t have feelings for him.”

Ilias finally looks up with a beaming smile. “You only get that loud when you're trying to convince someone, and in this case, it is yourself!”

“I am not loud,” you snap. “And I am not trying to convince myself of anything. There is nothing to convince myself of.”

“You’re so flustered right now it’s almost poetic,” Ilias says, grinning ear to ear. “Like watching tower of logic collapse in real time. It’s beautiful.”

Mydei hums thoughtfully. “I wonder what Anaxagoras would say if he heard this.”

You freeze, throwing your head back to look at his table.

Kira bites back a laugh. Ilias gasps dramatically.

“Oh please,” he says, clutching his chest like he’s just been shot. “If he heard this? He’d probably just blink in ancient Greek and then spend fifteen minutes dissecting the philosophical implications of desire as a failed mode of cognition.”

Phainon wheezes, practically howls at that, “And- and he’d do the thing,” he adds, his voice breathless, “Where he raises an eyebrow and smirks at you and then pauses for exactly four seconds.”

Kira giggles quietly. Ilias points like he’s struck gold, practically screams— “Exactly! The pause! The man weaponizes silence like it’s part of the syllabus.”

As if on cue, from the other side of the room, Anaxagoras shifts slightly in his seat—one subtle glance cast toward your table, recognizing the voice. Not long. Just a flicker of movement, but it’s enough. His eyes land on Ilias—still half-mid-monologue—then slide to you.

He nods in acknowledgement.

You nod back.

He smirks.

And looks away.

Cerces doesn’t glance over. She sits serene and unaffected, like her presence was never meant to interact with the world around her.

You’re too aware of the sharp prickle under your skin. You feel wrecked, utterly wrecked, even after he looks away.

Ilias notices. Of course he does.

Your eyes widen at his face, and you contemplate dragging his drama-ridden soul into the nearest chalk circle and trapping him there with nothing but an introductory ethics textbook and a looping recording of Anaxagoras’ driest lecture on epistemological drift.

Or maybe you'd just pin him to a whiteboard and force him to define “romantic projection” in front of the class while Kira holds up increasingly incriminating flashcards titled Things You’ve Said Out Loud.

“You’re not even subtle,” you mutter, eyeing him like you’re mentally selecting a power drill.

Ilias grins, unbothered. “Subtlety is for people who don’t have prophetic insight.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrects, reaching for another fry with the smugness of someone who just cast a match into a very flammable bush.

You make a low noise, possibly a groan, possibly the sound of his spirit exiting his body. “If you keep talking,” you say without lifting your head, “I will hex your shoes to squeak every third step.”

“I’ll do it,” Mydei says.

Ilias throws his hands up. “You’re all just mad because I’m right.”

You glare at him. “I’m mad because you’re loud.”

Ilias points at you like he’s presenting a final thesis. “And yet—flushed cheeks. Shifty glances. Heightened vocal pitch.” He sets his hands down with finality, attitude dripping in his gaze. “The data is there. I’m merely analyzing it.”

Kira sips from her drink with the serene expression of someone watching a documentary on slow-burning disasters. “I think you should be very afraid,” she tells him lightly, smiling. “I think they’re planning your downfall.”

“Please,” Ilias says, waving a hand. “If they wanted me gone, I’d already be framed for something weirdly specific.” He raises his voice for the rest of the table, almost announcing, “Don’t be surprised if I wake up one morning and am suddenly framed for impersonating a tenured professor in order to smuggle a haunted relic into the archives!”

Before Ilias can spiral into another dramatic reenactment of his imaginary academic crimes, a quiet hush rolls over the table.

You look up.

Professor Anaxagoras.

He stands just behind Ilias, hands folded neatly behind his back, a ghost of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth like he’d been standing there long enough to hear something he shouldn’t have. His gaze flicks briefly over the group, then settles on you—warm, sharp, and startlingly direct.

“I must admit,” he says lightly, voice like dry parchment curling in a fireplace, “that’s disturbingly plausible.”

Kira makes a sound—half choke, half squeak—and Ilias nearly drops his drink. Mydei straightens just slightly. Phainon blinks up at Anaxagoras like he’s not entirely convinced he’s real.

You forget how to breathe.

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow at you in mild inquiry. “When are you turning in your application?”

Your confusion must show, because his brow lifts just a fraction higher, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He waits.

You blink. “I’m not applying. Professor.”

It’s quiet for a beat too long.

His eyes widen—only slightly, but enough to notice. Then something more subtle shifts in his expression, as if the air around him has rearranged itself. He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing just a fraction. Then—unexpectedly—he smiles.

Not the cold, amused smile he offers to half-baked arguments in lecture, or the small polite one he reserves for administrative nonsense.

This one feels different. Quiet. Introspective. Like you’ve said something that has genuinely surprised him.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” he says, addressing the table but looking only at you. “A word.”

Kira glances at you, and Ilias makes a dramatic slicing motion across his throat like he’s already composing your eulogy. Phainon props his chin on his hands, watching with all the intensity of a wildlife observer about to witness a rare predator interaction.

Your heart kicks up hard, then stumbles.

You stand slowly.

“Sure,” you say, not sure at all.

Anaxagoras steps aside, letting you pass, his presence folding into the space beside you with such unassuming weight that the rest of the world suddenly feels quiet.

Behind you, Ilias mutters, “He pulled the ‘a word’ move! I’m going to eat this fry solemnly, in case it’s the last one I ever share with them.”

Kira shushes him with a swat.

You walk just a few paces before he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

“You’re not applying,” he repeats. Not a question. A repetition for clarity. For the sake of confirming it aloud.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m not. I was never going to.”

That gets his attention. His eyes cut back to you, something almost imperceptibly shifting in his posture. “No?”

“Studies on consciousness isn’t my field of study,” you say, level. “And I’m not interested in pretending it is for the sake of a symposium.”

He considers that, expression unreadable. “A reasonable position. If a narrow one.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “I’m not sure being selective with my time is narrow.”

“Selective,” he echoes mildly. “Or avoidant?”

You exhale through your nose. “I just don’t see the value in wasting my time on something I don't care about in a symposium I don’t want to attend.”

He tilts his head. “Cerces is one of the most rigorous thinkers in the field. Even those outside her discipline benefit from her lens.”

You squint at him, not bothering to mask the skepticism in your tone. “I thought you didn’t agree with her methods.”

There’s the briefest pause, the lightest shift in his expression. Then, without missing a beat:

“Disagreement doesn’t preclude respect.”

“Right,” you say flatly. “That’s what everyone says about their academic rivals.”

His mouth twitches at that—barely. “Have you been reading up on me?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in tone. His voice is playful—but there’s a glint of challenge there. You recover fast.

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “One of her students brought it up. Just now. In passing.” You clear your throat, glance away, and add on awkwardly, “—Professor.”

He doesn’t comment. Just watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“You might change your mind,” he pauses, “I’d like you to read a few papers.” He says with a finality.

You cross your arms. “You’re suggesting I read Cerces?”

“I’m suggesting, you examine the argument before rejecting the premise.” He lets the words settle for a beat. “I will send you a couple. You can draw your own conclusions.”

There’s a pause. One breath. Two.

You hesitate. “Fine.”

“I’ll need your email.”

You rattle it off without looking at him, the syllables falling out in practiced order, a thin attempt at professionalism. He offers his phone without a word, calm and unreadable, and you take it before you can think twice.

You type—carefully, trying not to fumble—but your pulse stutters anyway.

When you hand it back, his fingers brush yours.

Barely. A blink. A breath.

But it jolts through you like static, immediate and stupidly vivid. You freeze, absurdly aware of how warm his hand is, how close his attention suddenly feels even though he’s barely moved.

It was nothing. Just skin.

But your brain short-circuits like it’s something else entirely, and now you’re hyper aware of everything—the silence, the distance between you, the way your stomach tightens for no logical reason whatsoever.

You don’t look at him. You refuse to look at him.

He takes the phone back, and his voice is quiet. “I’ll forward them tonight.”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense your shoulders are. “Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out a little too soft.

You hate how your face feels warm.

“Thanks.”

He gives you a sharp nod, turning back already.

His eyes flick back to you once—just once—before he returns to the booth, slipping back into the conversation with Cerces like nothing ever happened.

You stay where you are, steadying your breath.

What the hell?

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @fellow-anime-weeb927 @beateater @bothsacredanddust @acrylicxu @average-scara-fan @pinkytoxichearts @amorismujica @sandwichkun

(send an ask or comment to be added!)

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader #hi hi if i missed adding anyone on the taglist i am so sorry i js realised i forgot to add one of u on the prev update :") augh im so.

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allthecanadianpolitics · 11 months ago

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Stop Bill S-210!

Although well-intentioned, S-210, an Act to restrict young persons’ online access to sexually explicit material, includes requirements that could disrupt essential functions of the Internet and ultimately harm Canadians’ security and privacy. The introduction of age verification requirements and increased liability for Internet intermediaries, not just providers of adult content, would create an untenable situation. Internet service providers, whose primary role is to facilitate online traffic, would be forced to make difficult decisions about allowing secure traffic and facing potential liability, or rejecting secure traffic and cutting off Canadian users from the benefits of the global Internet.

In order to ensure that the Internet continues to properly function in Canada and to protect the security and privacy of Canadians, the Internet Society urges the Standing Committee on Public Safety and National Security not to return Bill S-210 to the House until, at a minimum, amending Bill S-210 to narrow the scope of covered entities to remove Internet infrastructure services.

- How Bill S-210 Puts Canadians’ Security and Privacy at Risk by Harming the Internet via Internet Society

This is Canada's version of the recently dead in the water KOSA bill in the States.

As of June 2024, it has been passed back to the House without any of the changes suggested in the above article from Internet Society.

Happily, Open Media has a pre-drafted email that they will send to your MP for you that shares and outlines the reasons why S-210 sucks and why they should not vote in support of it when the House comes back from Summer Break.

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susicheng · 6 months ago

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༘⋆ speechless (not if i can help it) . . . o.sn

class president! sion x valedictorian! reader . . . high school au; enemies to lovers

an oh sion smau status: ongoing . . . ! taglist: open . . . please reply, message, or ask to be added

updates: 3x a week

“ helloooo ncit high! with a new principal, me, in the building this year, things are going to be run a little bit differently! . . . i’ve received various questions regarding the— uhhh, graduation ceremony edits. i’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors— i remember how fast word got around in high school— there have been some. . . cuts. some of you might be more bothered than others, haha.. i’ve already received several… strongly worded emails. to answer your doubts, yes! the traditional valedictorian and class president speeches have been changed. there will only be one of the above this year! “ the crackling of the loudspeaker only added to the rage brewing beneath your skin. when you turned to level the primary cause of your fury with a glare, you found there was a heated gaze of his own already directed at you. oh sion, you’ll have to pry that speech out of my cold, dead hands. or: oh sion, the widely beloved senior class president at ncit high. your competition for the student speech at your graduation ceremony. as valedictorian, you worked your ass off for 4 years to earn that speech time. all oh sion did was flash a pretty smile and get elected by the idiots gullible enough to think he was qualified.

profiles; couple therapy || academic victims chapters; 00. discount motivational speaker 01. (blood)thirsty

for my aegi. . . @holyhaech ♡⸝⸝ . . . . thank u for my first request ml

#nct #nct smau #nct x reader #nct wish #nct wish smau #nct wish x reader #oh sion #sion #sion x reader #sion smau #oh sion smau #oh sion x reader #🍡 susicheng #mel's works #mel's smaus

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qqueenofhades · 1 year ago

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I think the Aaron Sorkin fic people are writing about the convention to be extremely silly. It's going to be Biden. And if Biden's health takes a downturn and he feels the need to step down its going tk be Harris. This fantasy where we skip over her to whip up two random white guys(or like maaaybe Witmer) and somehow cruise to victory instead of fragmenting the party months before the election is simply not going to happen.

Look, I'm just saying, I got an email from the Biden campaign this morning where they seemed pretty darn happy with the actual (i.e. not-bloviating media) results of the debate: $38 million raised in 4 days ($30 million from individual small-dollar donors), 10K new volunteers in a week, 3x surge in campaign volunteers for battleground states, essentially no change or even a modest boost in the polls. So I think at this point, we can cautiously conclude the following things:

The debate looked bad for Biden, perhaps, but doesn't seem to have hurt him nearly as much the incredibly bad-faith BIDEN NEEDS TO STEP DOWN NOW takes being pumped out by the NYT and its other compatriots would suggest. Especially when these same media outlets have been gleefully sabotaging Biden at every turn for years already and whose fake-sanctimonious hand-wringing "for the good of the nation" pieces honestly should get them dropped into Superhell for Bad Journalists;

Biden went to Raleigh NC right after the debate and gave a fiery rally speech that was very well received. Now, I don't know why we didn't have that Biden at the debate, but it was the same night and there clearly was not any "cOgnItiVe dEcLinE" happening there (also Biden has a stutter and has for literally his entire life, and had a cold on debate night, so it was just an unfortunate confluence of factors)

There are very few actually undecided voters in this election (once again: HOW???) and those who tuned into the debate were largely already convinced of which candidate they were voting for and this didn't do much to change their minds. Just like, you know, pretty much every other debate in the history of presidential elections.

Ordinary voters, and not mainstream media outlets with BIDEN IZ BAD goggles clamped over their eyes, were able to see Trump's insane Gish gallops, lies, and full-blown dementia; this isn't going to get any better for him when he's already lost 20%-25% of GOP voters in every state primary and still is going to be sentenced in his criminal trial;

The D.C. political elite screaming about how Biden should step down (FOUR MONTHS BEFORE THE ELECTION) and leave the Democrats to start from scratch with some Star Chamber-selected candidate with no money and no incumbency record and no organization apparatus and a divided party are either fucking weapons grade morons or working secretly for Trump, because that IS in fact the best way to lose the election;

Such speculation seems to fall chiefly on Gavin Newsom, who (to his credit) has shut down any and all suggestion that he should try to step in and take the place of an incumbent who has won every state primary with 90% or more, because he's remotely sane and understands that this year is too important to fuck around with;

I've somehow never seen any suggestion that Biden should step aside for the duly elected (brown, female) Vice President, because everyone seems to think some Young Miraculous White Guy is coming and/or should step in;

All this while SCOTUS is clearly so confident of Trump getting back in that it's willing to grant him Absolute God King status pre- and post-emptively;

Yes, Biden needs to up his game before the next debate (though that's on Fox News iirc, blargh), but I think it's far enough post-debate that we can say it was bad but did not sink him, and if anything, reinforced the fact to many ordinary, non-brainwormed voters that Biden is old (which has been the number one chief theme of news coverage for four years and is no surprise to anyone) but is a decent and principled man doing a good job, while Trump is an absolute gibbering insane orange shitmonger fascist. I don't think he did himself any favors in that regard.

....anyway. The point is, do not be fucking insane people, Biden is not going to step down and frankly shouldn't, don't read the NYT (as noted, they've openly admitted to sabotaging him for personal ego reasons so I don't know why the hell anyone would listen to what they have to say about him), this is still an eminently winnable election, and let's go get those motherfucking fascists. I want Trump in jail and all of SCOTUS and the MAGAGOP fucking crying over it because they fucking suck. Let's go.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts #vote and get off my lawn

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jburrgf · 5 months ago

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About You IV- The Love Trope Series.

"Do you think I have forgotten about you?"

◦pairing: ¡lsu! burrow x ¡ex situashionship!reader

° summary: second change trope, college relationships, slow burn love, right person wrong time.

◦ description: It is the game day, and you and joe are back again. what the future holds for both of you? Forever or Down In Flames?

• playlist: About You - The 1975, Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Golding, Like Real People Do - Hoozier, I Bet You Think About Me - Taylor Swift, Called You Again - Lizzy McAlpine, Tolerate It, ImGonnaGetYouBack, Clean - Taylor Swift

PART FOUR: ABOUT YOU

The soft chime of a new email broke the quiet of my apartment as I sat cross-legged on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling through my notes for the media project. I reached for my laptop, my curiosity piqued by the subject line:

"Peach Bowl Coverage Assignment"

I clicked the email open, scanning its contents. The words blurred together for a moment before clarity hit me like a freight train:

You have been selected to cover the Peach Bowl game this weekend, Saturday evening. This will be your primary focus. Full details and meeting schedule to follow.

My heart sank into my stomach. The Peach Bowl? This wasn’t just any game—it was the game. The stakes were high, the audience massive, and the pressure immense. And to make matters worse, the LSU Tigers were playing, which meant... Joe.

I let out a long, uneven breath and leaned back against the couch cushions. Of course, it had to be this game. I rubbed my temples, willing the knot of anxiety forming in my chest to loosen.

"Great," I muttered to myself. "This is just great."

The email included a note about a meeting scheduled for Friday morning, where the media team would go over assignments, angles, and access for the weekend. I closed my laptop with a sigh, unable to focus on anything else.

I shut down my computer, getting ready to finally leave the house. I packed everything I needed into my backpack, and minutes later, I left my apartment heading towards the LSU campus, not too far from where I lived.

The media room was buzzing when I stepped inside, the hum of conversations mingling with the faint sound of chairs scraping against the tiled floor. A slideshow projected on the front wall displayed the Peach Bowl logo in bold letters, its importance impossible to ignore. I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder, clutching my coffee cup tightly, as if it could somehow ground me.

"Saved you a seat," Maddie said as I slid into the chair beside her. Her energy was palpable, a stark contrast to the knot of dread tightening in my stomach.

"Thanks," I murmured, setting down my notebook and coffee.

“You okay?” she whispered as I slid into the seat next to her.

“Peach Bowl,” I muttered, my tone flat.

Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “What? No way. You mean you get to cover one of the biggest games of the season? Tragic.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at my lips. Leave it to Maddie to downplay my nerves.

Before I could respond, the room quieted. The director of media assignments, Professor Ellis, followed by coach Taylor, stepped to the front of the room, clipboard in hand. His voice boomed as he greeted everyone and launched into the agenda for the Peach Bowl.

I tried to focus, scribbling notes as he explained the logistics—press passes, sideline access, and post-game interviews. But my thoughts were fractured, my mind wandering to the one person I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

And then I saw him.

Joe sat near the back of the room, his tall frame hunched slightly over the table. He was wearing a dark LSU sweatshirt, the hood pulled halfway over his head, and his usual air of quiet confidence seemed to be replaced with something else. He looked... unsettled.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen him since the night at Malone’s—that night was burned into my memory—but seeing him here, in the context of work, made it feel different. More formal. More unavoidable.

He didn’t look up, and for a moment, I thought maybe I could slip by unnoticed. But then, as if he could sense me watching him, he lifted his head.

Our eyes met.

It was like the air in the room shifted. Everything else faded into the background, and for a second, it was just us. His expression was guarded, his mouth set in a firm line, but his eyes… His eyes were all over me.

”Keep it together, Y/N," I told myself, tearing my gaze away and scribbling down notes I didn’t even need.

Joe, on the other hand, seemed unusually quiet. His usual relaxed confidence was replaced by a subtle tension, his fingers tapping against the table and his jaw clenched.

"You okay?" Maddie asked as I slid into the chair beside her, her voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"Fine," I said, though my voice betrayed me, sounding far less convincing than I intended.

Maddie gave me a knowing look but didn’t push. Instead, she nodded toward the front of the room where the media director was setting up.

"You’re not going to faint, are you?" she teased, her tone light, but her concern still evident.

"I’m fine," I repeated, more firmly this time.

Coach Taylor started to speak, outlining the importance of our assignments and the exposure this game would bring. It should have excited me—it was a dream opportunity, the kind of coverage people in my field worked years to get. But all I could think about was how I’d survive the weekend with Joe lurking in the periphery.

"Now," Professor Ellis said, drawing my attention back to the front of the room, "I want to remind everyone of the importance of professionalism during this event. You are representatives of the university’s media program, and your behavior reflects on all of us."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

As the meeting neared its end, Ellis and Taylor began handing out specific assignments for the coverage. I kept my head down, furiously jotting notes about the timeline for game day. But I could feel Joe’s eyes on me again, a quiet weight I couldn’t shake.

You’ll each have access to a key player from the team you're covering," he explained. "For LSU, Joe Burrow will be the primary focus, given his leadership role and performance this season."

I flinched at the mention of his name, my pen faltering against the paper.

"Your angles should focus on the game, the team’s journey, and what this win could mean for the program."

I stole a glance at Joe, who was now sitting straighter, his brows furrowed in concentration. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but the tension in his shoulders was visible even from across the room.

Maddie leaned over, whispering in my ear. "You’re gonna have to deal with him eventually, you know."

I shot her a look, but she just smirked, unfazed.

When Taylor finally dismissed us, the room erupted into the sounds of chairs scraping and low chatter. Maddie nudged me again as I shoved my notebook into my bag.

Maddie nudged me as she stood. "Come on. Let’s go before you combust."

I shot her a glare, but I got up anyway, clutching my notebook like a lifeline. As we moved toward the door, I couldn’t resist glancing back.

Joe was watching me. His eyes locked on mine for just a second before he quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in whatever was in front of him.

I didn’t know what to make of it—of him—but the knot in my stomach tightened as I walked out of the room.

"You okay?" she asked, her eyes flicking toward the back of the room where Joe was still sitting.

"I am.” said quickly, though the tightness in my chest suggested otherwise.

"You sure? You look like you’re about to bolt," she said, crossing her arms and giving me a pointed look.

"I’m fine, Maddie.” I repeated, grabbing my coffee and heading toward the door before she could press further.

“You’re gonna have to talk to him eventually," she said softly, giving me a look that was equal parts concern and exasperation.

But just as I stepped into the hallway, I heard my name.

"Y/N."

My heart stuttered in my chest. I turned slowly, my grip tightening on the coffee cup. Joe was standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

"Hey," he said, his voice quiet but steady.

"Hey," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. I could feel Maddie’s curious gaze from behind me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Joe.

"You—uh, ready for this weekend?" he asked, his words tentative.

"Yeah," I said, though it was a lie.

He nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Cool. See you at the game."

"See you," I murmured, and with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding in my chest.

And just like that, the moment was over. I turned and walked away, my heart pounding as Maddie fell into step beside me.

"You’re going to be fine," she said, her voice firm but reassuring. "You’re tougher than this."

I wasn’t so sure.

[…]

The stadium buzzed with electricity, the kind of energy that seeped into your bones and made you feel like you were part of something bigger. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a sea of purple and gold on one side and orange and white on the other. This was it—the Peach Bowl, the biggest game I’d covered yet.

I adjusted the strap of my camera and took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous excitement thrumming through me. This wasn’t just another game—it was a defining moment for the LSU Tigers, and I was here to capture every second of it.

The LSU Tigers were set to face off against the Oklahoma Sooners, and everyone knew this wasn’t just another game. This was the Peach Bowl. A playoff game. A shot at the National Championship.

From my spot near the sidelines, I had a clear view of the field. The players were already lined up, Joe at the center of it all, his focus unshakeable. The sight of him in his purple-and-gold jersey, helmet tucked under one arm as he called out plays, made my stomach twist in a way I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

I raised my camera, framing the shot as he stepped onto the field.

The perfect glare, I looked at my camera and saw the picture that I had taken. I Could feel his energy through the screen. I never knew if it was just me or literally every single other girl in the world, but he was so magnetic. And he did nothing to be like that.

The game started with a bang, LSU coming out strong. Joe was in his element, commanding the offense like he was born for this moment. The ball snapped, and he moved with precision, throwing a perfect pass that resulted in the first touchdown of the game.

I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face as the crowd erupted around me. Even though I was here to work, to document the game, it was impossible not to get caught up in the emotion of it all.

Raising my camera, I snapped a series of shots—Joe in mid-throw, the receiver catching the ball, the celebration that followed. The images would be sharp, full of action, but they couldn’t capture the full intensity of the moment.

A 19-yard pass to Justin Jefferson.

Touchdown.

The crowd erupted, and I couldn’t help but grin behind my camera as I snapped a shot of Jefferson celebrating in the end zone. Maddie, who was a few yards away working on her own coverage, shot me a thumbs-up before turning back to her notes.

I stayed focused, switching lenses to get tighter shots of the players as they regrouped for the next drive. Joe was commanding the huddle again, his gestures sharp and precise.

By the second quarter, LSU was dominating. Joe was unstoppable, his passes clean and precise, his movements smooth and calculated. The energy on the field mirrored the stands—wild, unrelenting, alive.

I knelt near the sideline, framing a shot of Joe as he stepped back into the pocket. His focus was laser-sharp, his eyes scanning the field before launching the ball in a perfect arc. I clicked the shutter just as the receiver dove into the end zone.

Another touchdown.

The scoreboard flashed, and I couldn’t help but cheer under my breath, my voice lost in the roar of the crowd. My camera captured the celebration on the field—Joe’s rare but brilliant smile as he high-fived his teammates, the way the entire team rallied around him.

By halftime, LSU was leading 49–14, and the media box was abuzz with murmurs of disbelief. Seven touchdowns in one half. Joe alone had thrown for nearly 400 yards. It was a performance that felt less like a game and more like a statement.

After the first part of the game, I reviewed my shots, scrolling through the images on my camera. They were good—great, even—but there was something about being here, in the middle of it all, that no photograph could truly capture.

Maddie texted me from the stands: "He’s killing it. You okay?"

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how to explain the mix of pride and nostalgia and something heavier that sat in my chest every time I looked at him.

The third quarter started with a bang—another touchdown pass from Joe that sent the stadium into chaos. I barely had time to steady my camera before the celebration started, capturing the players as they piled into the end zone.

Joe scrambling out of the pocket, delivering another perfect pass. The defense shutting down Oklahoma’s attempts to close the gap.

With every touchdown, the crowd grew louder, and I found myself smiling more, caught up in the euphoria of the game. This wasn’t just football—it was history in the making.

Joe jogged back toward the sideline, his expression calm but focused, like this was just another day at the office. But I could see the fire in his eyes, the determination that had carried him and the team this far.

By the fourth quarter, the game was all but decided. LSU’s lead was insurmountable, the offense and defense both performing at their peak. But Joe didn’t let up, still playing with the same intensity he had at kickoff.

I captured a shot of him in the huddle, his arm slung around one of his teammates as he called the next play. There was something about the way he led, the quiet confidence that radiated off him, that made it impossible to look away.

When the clock finally ran out, the scoreboard flashing LSU’s victory, the stadium erupted. Players stormed the field, coaches hugged each other, and the fans went wild. I snapped photo after photo, documenting the chaos and joy that filled the air. They were headed to the National Championship.

I lowered my camera for a moment, just to take it all in. The confetti, the cheers, the pure elation that came with a win like this—it was a moment I wouldn’t forget.

And then, as the team gathered for the trophy presentation, my eyes found him again. Joe stood at the center of it all, the MVP of the game, his smile brighter than the lights overhead.

I didn’t need a camera to remember this moment. It was etched into my memory, clear as day.

I brought my camera back up, capturing one last shot of him holding up the Peach Bowl trophy, a grin breaking across his face. The confetti rained down around him, a sea of purple and gold framing the moment perfectly.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I packed up my gear, my heart full with the weight of what I’d just witnessed. It wasn’t just a game—it was a reminder of why I loved this job, why I loved being here, even when it meant facing things I wasn’t ready to confront.

And maybe, just maybe, it was a reminder of why Joe Burrow still had a way of pulling at my heartstrings, whether I wanted him to or not.

I did my way directly to the media room, waiting for Maddie to catch up with me on the way. Our eyes, mouths, bodies — you could tell that we were living the dream.

“I can't believe in what just happened.” Maddie said to me, loud and clear, trying to talk louder than the voices surrounding us.

A quiet buzz hummed in the media room as Maddie and I reviewed our notes and photos while waiting for the post-game interviews. The energy from LSU’s victory still hung in the air, even though the stadium was slowly emptying.

Joe arrived in the room surrounded by cameras and reporters, his expression calm yet commanding. He still wore his uniform, though the helmet was gone, and his face gleamed with the remnants of sweat. The Peach Bowl trophy gleamed on the table beside him, a physical reminder of the night’s triumph.

I positioned myself near the back, pretending to focus on editing the photos on my laptop. Maddie whispered something about the quality of the lighting, but my attention was elsewhere. I couldn’t help but glance up every time Joe spoke, his words measured and precise as he answered the questions being thrown his way.

“I felt like we were in a rhythm all night,” Joe said, his voice steady. “The offensive line gave me time, and the receivers made the plays. It’s a team win.”

I snapped a quick picture, capturing the moment, even though I knew I wouldn’t use it. Something about seeing him under the spotlight like this, with the weight of his success on full display, felt surreal.

After the interview, the team headed back toward the locker room to change and prepare for the ride back. Maddie and I lingered in the corner of the locker room, packing up our equipment.

We headed to the bus, getting our places on the back, where we used to travel. I was still electrified, feeling on my skin all the energy of the night that we just had it.

“You crushed it today,” Maddie said, nudging me as I zipped up my bag. “Seriously, those shots of Jefferson’s touchdowns are going to blow up.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, distracted. I was double-checking my bag when it hit me.

My second camera.

It wasn’t in my bag. My stomach sank as I realized I’d left it in the players’ locker room earlier during halftime.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Maddie, already heading toward the hallway.

“Want me to come with you?” she called after me, but I shook my head.

The hallway leading to the locker room was silent, an abrupt change from the chaos and energy that had dominated the stadium hours earlier. I could hear the muffled sound of voices in the parking lot, where the team was already preparing to board the bus. Maddie had stayed behind, talking to another reporter in the media room, but I was there, hurried, because I had left one of my cameras in the players' locker room.

The door was closed when I arrived. I hesitated for a moment, my heart beating too fast, but I slowly pushed it open, calling softly so no one would be caught by surprise.

"Just here to get my camera," I murmured, my voice echoing in the empty space.

That's when I saw him.

Joe was sitting on the bench, still wearing the black shirt he wore under his uniform, with a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair was slightly messy, still damp from the shower.He hadn’t noticed me yet, and for a moment, I considered turning around and leaving before he did. But then, his gaze lifted, and his eyes locked on mine.

My breath caught.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice softer than it had been during the interviews but no less certain.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to speak. “I—I forgot my camera.”

He nodded, watching as I moved toward the bench on the far side of the room where my gear was. The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable, as I fumbled with the camera strap, trying to avoid looking at him.

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.

“Do you think I’ve forgotten about you?”

The question hit me like a punch to the chest, and I froze, my hand tightening around the strap of my camera.

“I…” I started, but my voice faltered. What was I supposed to say to that?

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. The weight of his gaze was too much, and the vulnerability in his voice shattered any defense I might have had.

He took a step closer, his duffel bag slipping from his shoulder to the ground. “Because I haven’t,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “I’ve tried, Y/N. God, I’ve tried. But it doesn’t work. You’re still in my head. Always.”

My heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn’t bring myself to move, to speak, to do anything but stand there and let his words sink in.

And for the first time in months, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from him—or to him.

I stared at him, my mind racing as I tried to process what he was saying. The locker room felt impossibly small, the world outside forgotten as his words hung in the air.

“I thought…�� I started again, swallowing hard. “I thought we agreed to move on.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I thought I could. Turns out I was wrong.”

My chest tightened, the mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. Anger, confusion, hope—they all swirled together as I looked at him, searching for something in his eyes that would make sense of this.

“What do you want me to say, Joe?” I asked, my voice trembling. “You walked away. You left.”

“And I regret it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Every damn day.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know what I felt anymore. All I knew was that the way he was looking at me—like I was the only thing that mattered—was making it impossible to think straight.

“You don’t get to do this,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the camera strap. “Not now.”

Joe nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he took a step back. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t forgotten. And I don’t think I ever will.”

He turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the silence of the locker room. I stood there, staring at the spot where he’d been, my heart pounding in my chest as his words echoed in my mind.

Do you think I’ve forgotten about you?

No, I didn’t think he had. And that was the problem.

The weight of Joe's words seemed to have transformed the air around me into something dense, palpable, difficult to breathe. The tension was so thick that it could almost be cut, but something inside me hesitated to run away. My eyes fixed on his, a mixture of surprise and something else that I didn't want to name taking care of me.

"Joe..." My voice came out in a whisper, his name almost trembling on my lips. "I don't even know what to say."

He took a step towards me, and then another, his eyes never leaving mine. "You don't have to say anything. Just... just listen," he began, his voice loaded with something I hadn't heard in him for a long time - vulnerability. "I tried to move on. I thought I could bury it, but I can't. You're there, Y/N. Always there."

My grip on the camera tightened. The part of me that had been building walls since the night he walked away screamed at me to leave, to not let him in again. But the other part—the one that still felt the warmth of his touch and remembered every word he had ever whispered—wanted to stay.

“You left,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I had kept bottled up. “You just… left.”

“I know,” he said, his voice raw with regret. “And it was the biggest mistake of my life.”

His honesty cut through me, and I shook my head, trying to find the strength to look away. “You can’t just say that now, Joe. Not after everything.”

“I know,” he repeated, his eyes never leaving mine. “But I need you to understand—I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped wanting this.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something he couldn’t bear to lose, shattered the last of my defenses.

“Joe,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. “I don’t know if I can go through this again.”

I shook my head, confused, struggling to contain the wave of emotion that threatened to dominate me.

"Because I was scared," he interrupted me, his voice hoarse. "Of what you meant to me. Of how much you meant to me. And I know I don't deserve for you to forgive me, but—”

"Joe, stop," I said, my voice firm this time, but my hands were shaking. "You can't just come back like this and say these things. Do you have any idea how much it hurts? How much it—”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if my words had hit him directly. When he opened them again, there was something desperate there. "I know. And I'll spend as long as it takes proving to you that I regret it. But right now, I just need to know—do you still feel it? Because I do. Every time I see you, every time I think about you... it's still there. I’m not asking you to,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m asking for a chance to prove I won’t let you down again.”

My chest tightened with his words, each sentence hitting me like a wave. I wanted to yell at him, say that it wasn't fair for him to come out of nowhere with these confessions, after so long. But at the same time, all I wanted was to stop feeling this pain that seemed to have no end.

"Why now?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Why do you get to say this now?"

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was gathering courage. When he looked at me again, the vulnerability in his eyes completely disarmed me.

"Because I can't keep pretending I'm okay without you," he replied. "I can't stop thinking about you, Y/N. You're everywhere for me. Damn, for every second of the day since I wake up, you’re there. Every win, every moment, every trophy—I want to share it with you."

I was about to answer, but before I could form any word, he took another step and got so close that I could feel the familiarity of his presence - that unmistakable smell of his, the way his breathing seemed to synchronize with mine.

"Joe," I murmured, my heart beating hard as his eyes plunged into mine. “I hate you,” I mumbled against his chest, my voice muffled but shaky.

“No, you don’t,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands cradling my face as if I were something fragile. The tension between us felt like a live wire, humming with electricity.

And then, he didn't say anything else. He just tilted his head, hesitantly, as if he gave me the chance to retreat. But I didn't back down.

When his lips finally met mine, the world seemed to disappear. All the anger, the hurt, the confusion that had haunted me for so long dissolved, replaced by something stronger, deeper.

The kiss was slow, hesitant at first, as if we were both testing the waters of something we had been too scared to confront. But the moment I let myself melt into him, all the hurt, the doubt, the fear—it all disappeared. All that remained was him, and the way he made me feel like I was whole again.

My hands met on his shoulders while his pulled me closer, holding me as if I were something he never wanted to lose again. The warmth of his arms around me brought a sense of security that I didn't even realize I was looking for.

When we finally separated, just enough for our eyes to meet, Joe had a smile on his face. A genuine smile, which seemed to illuminate the empty environment.

"Does this mean you'll let me make it up to you?" He asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"Maybe," I murmured, unable to contain a smile of my own.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a whisper now. "For everything. For leaving. For not fighting for you. But I'm here now, and I'll fight as long as it takes."

I nodded, unable to find the words.

He smiled then, a real, genuine smile that made my heart twist in the best way. "Be my girlfriend," he said, straight, without hesitation

My heart stopped.

I blinked, surprised, my mind trying to process the sudden simplicity of his words. "What?"

He laughed softly, his nose brushing mine while his hand went up to my face, holding it gently. "You heard me. No more games. No more running. I want you, Y/N. I want us."

“Joe…” I started, but he cut me off.

“Let me finish,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I want to be with you. Not just for a moment, not just for now. For everything. So, will you let me prove that to you? Will you let me be yours again?”

My heart seemed to be struggling to get out of my chest, and even with the confusion that still remained in my mind, one thing was clear: in his arms, I felt at home again.

"Okay," I finally said, the word coming out in a whisper. "Okay."

His smile grew, and before I knew it, he had pulled me into his arms again, spinning me around as if we weren’t standing in the middle of an empty locker room.

The smile that illuminated his face was genuine, full of joy and relief. He pulled me back into his arms, pressing me against him while whispering: "You don't know how long I've waited to hear that."

I laughed against his chest, feeling the happiness that seemed unattainable for a long time. There, in Joe's arms, everything finally seemed to be in place.

Joe smiled even more, his eyes shining with a happiness that made me smile back, despite myself. And when he pulled me for another kiss, I knew that, for the first time in a long time, I was exactly where I should be.

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