#warnings: academic hardships

[neocity-net]

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[00:05] | NCT MARK LEE

"You're not behind," it prompts the grip on his forearm to tighten, "but you are tired and you deserve to rest now."

pairing » nct mark lee x gn!reader (fast proofread once - lmk if i missed anything!)

trope/au » established relationship au!, non-idol au!

genre » maximum hurt and comfort because i need someone to do this for me AND IT'S EXAM SEASON FOR MEJSDKFJHDF, mwork is a fluffy boyfriend in these angst times, mark holding you tight and telling you that everything is fine, boyfriend mark lee concerned for your wellbeing, mark letting you rest against his chest

word count, estimated reading time » 1707, ~6 mins

warnings (lmk if i missed anything!) » reader is stressed with academics, reader hasn't slept in a while, mark implied to be physically bigger and taller

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 nct dream masterlist🤍 'especially to you...'

HEYYYY HIIII! double update in a month which is very rare for me now 😭 and thanks for beta-ing a long time ago @sohnric !!

i def still love writing but life commitments can get heavy sometimes 🥹 and with that, this one is for everyone who is in exam prep or just having a hard time academically but also just anyone who needs comfort right now! good luck on your studies and commitments everyone! you can do this!! 🫂

with that being said, my first exam is tomorrow and i am tired-

Literally from the side, you hear the door creaking open, the click of its button free from the metal that houses it on its frame. As always, you choose to ignore it even though your heart drops slightly closer to your stomach. You don't dare to tear your eyes away from the document on your screen, choosing to look at the scorching white with your tired, slightly red eyes.

He called out for you but the only thing he's greeted with is your fingers rapidly against your keyboard. Mark is no longer surprised by your dismissive actions, sighing when it seems like the rhythm becomes faster. 

Slowly, he approaches your study area, a folded finger rubbing against his eyes in an attempt to blink the tiredness away even if it's just for a little bit. When he's close enough to see what you're working on, he can't help but feel proud of your progress. The title of the document takes him back to just a few days ago when you were crying to sleep in his arms, telling him about how you have no idea and that you have hit a wall in the upcoming assignment that seems to be due so soon. 

In reality, it isn't due for two more months, but it's the weighting of the assignment that has you pondering if you can really bear the burden of sleeping when forty per cent of your grade depends on this one paper.

But seeing your hair messy with an overused coffee cup not too far away from the edge of the table, he isn't sure if he would just rather see you cry yourself to sleep or see the obvious dark shadows surrounding your eyes. What he does know right now though, is that you should just rest your whole body after depriving yourself of a whole twenty-four hours with no sleep—slightly more than that now actually.

Mark arrives behind you, the front of his oversized shirt hitting the backseat of your study chair. His arms fall onto your shoulders, slowly massaging your tension away.

"Dinner?" He tests the topic first, genuinely not knowing if you have eaten today as he was busy outside the house.

You respond with a hum, "I promise, I had it." The typing didn't cease as you continued to speak to him, "Go back to bed, Markie."

If only you could turn back to see the face he makes at your dismissive answer. "Can't," he answers simply for now. "Not when I know that you’re out here tired and sleepless."

You know that this is his way of pulling you away from the technology that is keeping you up but you decide to stand your ground, "Just a bit more."

"That's what you've been saying the past half day, bubs." 

The specific timeframe is what made your fingers freeze and you tuck all your fingers into your palm except for two, scrolling up towards the start of the document. Reality suddenly sinks into you when it doesn't feel like you scrolled up a lot, but the grey bar on the right side of the screen shows that you reached the top of the document. The wave of exhaustion finally hits and your eyelids suddenly fall instantly. Mark immediately encircles his arms around you, pulling your back to rest against his chest.

It doesn't take him another second to realise that you're silently sobbing in his arms, upper body trembling in shame and disappointment with how time has passed yet no real effort is physically seen to the real world. Mark presses multiple kisses on the top of your head, tightening his hold and whispering words of comfort. 

"Mark..." You decide to bury your eyes into Mark's arms, the salty liquid trickling down the safety of his arms. "It feels like time is mocking me right now..."

You've always felt this way. Indeed, time will never wait for anyone or anything, yet as humans, it's ironic that we always wait for the right time. It's annoying and it's infuriating to see the long hand of the clock easily circle while you just sit still and watch it happen. 

Mark pulls away only slightly, pulling your seated body out from the table so that he can spin you around to physically put your work behind you. He then kneels in front of you, his hands enveloping yours on top of your lap. 

He doesn't say anything at first and doesn't even dare to fully let go of you even when he wipes your tears away from your cheeks. Mark just offers you a smile with the crease between his eyebrows evident, letting you cry out your feelings a little bit more.

"You're doing so well," he affirms his thoughts out loud. "You don't give yourself enough credit for that, so I'm here to remind you every time."

And he does. 

Mark Lee has always been great at that even when you were both still friends. You were worried that he only did it when you were both still in the flirting stages too, but four years with Mark Lee and he still says the words sincerely and truthfully. In your darkest times, that's all that you need.

Your legs push your bottoms to the edge of the seat and you practically slump into Mark's embrace as you push the seat rolling away behind you. Your arms swing around Mark's neck for stability, hiding your cries in the crook of his neck. 

"I'm tired, Mark..." suddenly the ground felt wobbly, your knees giving out to keep your posture somewhat upright in his hold, “and I feel so dumb.”

Mark quickly refutes with a series of firm shaking of his head, craning his neck just slightly enough to kiss the trail that your tears leave on the apple of your cheeks. You whimper against the touch of his lips and you hate that you’re worrying the person who has proven to you over and over again that he loves you to the moon and back. His black hair fell over his eyes but it’s not hidden enough for you to miss the reassuring glimpse that his orbs gazed you with. 

"Your past achievements prove you otherwise as well and I promise you that you’re not.”

And he really means that. 

Your tiredness is physically shown further by the way you slump over his figure on the floor. Your knee isn't even supporting you on the ground anymore, slipping you further away from him as the fabric of your longer pants helps you slide on the polished floor to bring you closer to your boyfriend.

Mark supports your weight against his, untucking his legs from under him and spreading them beside your figure. Slowly and gently, he turns you around and sits you properly on the squared patterns. Similar to before, he makes you rest your head against where his heart beats calmly while he leans backwards slightly so that you're more comfortable in his arms around your middle. Your fingers stiffly grip his forearm, mind still clouded by the next paragraph of your work and Mark picks this up. 

His eyes drift up to the black font against the white electronic paper. "Tell me the next one." Referring to the idea of your work. 

He does this often, repeating the main ideas of your work so that he can store them inside his long-term memory. This way, he can tell it to you tomorrow. His love transcends forgetfulness, his mind jotting down all the main points so that you don't have to go back to doing work without sleep inside your system any longer. Mark gently sways his upper body and the weight of your eyelids becomes more apparent from the hum he lets out. 

"But I just don't think I deserve to rest." It feels like the world is too active for you to do so. "I feel like I'm behind all the time."

"You're not behind," it prompts the grip on his forearm to tighten, "but you are tired and you deserve to rest now."

That's all the validation you need. You just needed to hear someone say, with a mellow voice and the beating of their heart that contrasts your erratic ones, that it's alright for you to rest, even if it's for a while. The affirmation that you're doing well is gratefully received, but you just needed someone to tell you that your eyelids can fall for the next few hours on a well-deserved mattress, in a safe place.

Next, your voice box finally releases the tension to the air and Mark Lee alternates between kisses to the side of your face and whispers to the shell of your ear all the words that would make the tension around your body fade.

That's the thing about Mark Lee. He would let you cry it out audibly, not like the ones you would bury your entire face to your pillow, suffocating and gasping for air as you tried to keep the weight on your shoulders to yourself when you were still living alone.

The tears from your eyes are valid and so did the sobs that did the same from your lips. The world blurs due to the remnants of some of the stubborn ones that didn't drop to your tear-stricken cheeks—but it's fine because Mark would always turn his head to you, the side of his fingers brushing on your lower lid, careful to not hurt the orbs that he finds love and security in.

Mark still holds you close throughout the whole time, eventually seeing how your chest gradually decreases its frequency in taking deep breaths. 

Exhausted and spent, you managed to whisper, "Thanks, Mark." It's croaked and easy to miss if it wasn't for the proximity that you're both sharing.

"Always." His palm rests on your jawline and he softly turns your head, your ear now on his chest. Mark lands a quick peck on your now slightly upturned lips, "I love you."

"I love you more."

Sleeping is easier for him now that the other side of the mattress is occupied and that he can feel your warmth directly on his skin in a well-deserved resting position.

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 nct dream masterlist 🤍 'especially to you...'

tags: @neocity-net @k-films @kflixnet @starlit-network @kstrucknet @haneul-and-clouds

[cavernsandcod]

ESPRESSO | Cpt. John Price

─────dad's-best-friend!price x reader

· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ─── · ·AO3 VERSION | MY FIC GUIDE

Everyone has a complicated relationship with their father; the good, bad, and the ugly. Just like every complicated adult has their vices to cope with their issues. Drugs, sex, gambling, work, adrenaline— name it, it's been done.

Yours is a bit different: hooking up with your father's best friend.

WARNINGS: mild angst. reader has a shitty dad(—i.e. neglectful, militant), but no depicted abuse. alcohol. strong language. legal age gap (20s/40s). power dynamic. smut. porn with plot. authority kink, d/s. unsafe, risky sex. oral (f+m receiving). dirty talk. praise. petnames. fluff, kind of. fem!reader. not edited. WC: 7.9k

The carousel never stopped growing up.

Each time you got accustomed to a new home, school, or routine, you had to pack your bags and start over.

Your father had a new assignment; another part of the world to risk his life in while your mother did her best—well, her worst—to cope. The loneliness and sleepless nights of worry got to her once you reached double digits in age. Their conversations turned bipolar, either abrasive spats or days of tense silence. You were too young to understand, really, but you got the gist. Only saw her on weekends because she moved hours away to start a new family.

And your father, he never made an effort for much of anything except his career. He received a substantial pay raise for contracts in the UK in your teens and never looked back to ask you how you felt about it.

You, perpetually on the back burner of his mind, were only supplied the basics a child needs. A bed, three meals, and a decent schooling. Sometimes got to tag along with him to work events if you caught him in a good mood.

The uniformed men were always kind, many with children and families of their own. Made you feel safe from the hard conversations you weren’t old enough to understand. Bled some color into the sterile, militaristic surroundings you grew used to.

Even then, you knew your upbringing was atypical. Knew that you shouldn’t get attached to anything because the rug always gets ripped out from under your feet.

Once you reached your teens, school became your only out. If you had any shot of straying from your father's militant footsteps, it became apparent that a good college was the best way. Excessive studying tarnished every fake friendship and social invite you had—but there weren't many of those to begin with.

Dwelling aside, you made it.

All the hours of academics paid off with the reward of a prestigious university. Being away from home and your father was the best part of it all. A mellow roommate, a group of classmates similar to you—and the culture of uni. How startling it was compared to the environment you grew up in.

It's your last year, and summer breaks and holidays still aren’t any easier. Going back home still has that sour taste. Each time you expect welcoming arms and approval, you get a harsh reminder of why you left.

Dressed up. A camouflaged wallflower. Cowering in your father’s shadow, small like you once were.

Countless galas bustling with formal attire and gowns alike, decorated with fairy lights and the low hum of seasonal music. Men and women with chest candy to show their years of sacrifice. Their dry conversations all start to sound the same after twenty minutes.

Logistics, hardship, and embarrassing tales are a poor attempt at humoring the family members sitting at the table. You don’t laugh, don’t smile. Only think about how good the end of this holiday will be when you can return to junk food and mild rebellion.

The weather this time of year is perfect for beers and barbecue, all humid and sweltering. Perpetually smelling of bonfires and chlorine swimming pools.

At least this year you aren’t on display. No blinding lights, no raffle tickets, or overpriced, butter champagne.

It’s not a formal event whatsoever. Just a backyard party hosted by one of your dad’s esteemed colleagues. Already much preferable to the stuffy venue space that leaves you nauseous.

“John’s a good man,” your father told you as you climbed into the truck. If he’s taking a break from talking about himself, you usually listen. “Made himself a Captain. Some of the toughest maggots I’ve seen in years, that lot.” Maybe this John character will be a kinder man than your father. Maybe he’s seen the lengths of his temper. Maybe he’ll be kind to you like the other soldiers.

Is he kind to his own family?

The house is alive when you arrive. People standing in the front, side, and backyard. Children of varying ages roughhouse, running barefoot in the manicured grass, belting out squeals and babbles of excitement.

The smell of meat grilling makes the humidity tolerable. As you enter the backyard, your father makes a beeline for the patio, more eager than you’ve ever seen him.

A pair of broad shoulders overlooks the party, thick biceps bulging from a black tee. The cherry of his cigar shines like the sun beating down on you, a cloud of smoke evaporating each time he puffs. His aura is different to the other men around him; commanding and reserved, standing in a spot against the railing that you know is only his.

It’s only when your father gives him a harsh pat on the shoulder, that you realize this is John—John, the good man.

He cracks a smile in response and returns the gesture, his voice a soothing thunder. John turns and reaches into the open cooler resting beside him, fishes out a beer for your old man. Placating. Giving him a bottle to keep him mellow.

Your father settles into a lawn chair, posture stiff and manicured as ever. Didn’t bother to introduce you around—not while he’s twisting the cap off his only pleasure in life and gulping it down.

You flinch when his eyes move onto you, squinting. It’s only fair considering you’ve been staring. After a beat, he nods his head, mouth curling into a more genuine smile than you saw before. All you can muster is an awkward wave through wide eyes.

Not your best work.

“Oi—“ A voice belts. “Fancy a drink, hen?”

It’s coming in the direction of the plastic buffet tables. The first has bread and toppings, various platters, and the other is decorated with solo cups and pitchers.

The source, a younger man than John, is sitting beside the homemade concessions. He’s easy on the eyes, with charming features, holding a squirming toddler in his arms. She has his eyes and, no doubt, the same feral energy.

“Oh, sure,” he hands you a cup. “You have anything stronger?” You ask, gazing down at the punches and cans of fizz.

“Afraid not.” He dodged a headbutt by the skin of his teeth, shushing her. “Cap’n has all the good stuff.”

“I see,” you take a small sip, allowing the pure sugar to coat your tongue. ”Well, thanks anyways.” He turns his head to the side to mutter something to her, and you spot a smear of sprinkles and icing. You raise your index to point at his cheek, “you have a little something.“

He swipes it, giving his daughter a look of intense betrayal. “Wee menace—“ he bounces her, blowing a raspberry onto her stomach, “ah told ye not to get into the cake!” She squeals, little flip-flops kicking through the air.

You chuckle against the plastic rim of your solo cup and step away from the chaotic mess.

Working the grill is possibly the most formidable man you’ve ever seen, still wearing a hoodie despite the heat.

Standing beside him is a still muscular but leaner man who’s dressed appropriately. A tank top and shorts showing off healthy, bronze skin, his hands nursing a mixed drink. He clatters into the ear of the big one flipping sausages and patties, leaning in and throwing jabs.

(You decide to skip on a plate since the man you’d have to ask for one looks like he’ll devour you whole—)

The punch is gone and the red cup turns weightless in your grip. Watching your father talk the Captain’s ear off, all smirks and happy-go-lucky makes you want a taste of the good stuff he supposedly has.

You trudge the wooden steps of the porch and keep your head down. Embarrassing yourself in front of your father is one thing, and you’ve done it many times. But doing that in front of the smoking-hot SAS-Captain isn’t as easy to choke down.

“Ah, sweetheart, c‘mere!” Your dad’s voice greets you, foreign in its softness. Sweetheart? Since when? “Come say hello to John. He is your host after all, eh?”

You nod before stepping closer, standing before the two sitting men. As you shift your focus to the man of the hour, your stomach clenches. He’s hotter up close.

“Hello.” It’s simple. Perhaps too much. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

John only stares, a light expression on his face. His thighs, thick and muscular, are spread wide in the patio chair. The bottle he’s been nursing is in between them, resting at the crotch of his denim. Two of his thick fingers caress the bottle neck, toying with it until you can’t help but track it.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? It’s my pleasure.” He responds, showing a half-smirk. You can tell his gears are turning, but can’t figure what about. Suddenly, the silence feels too heavy, and he tosses back the last of his beer—gathering himself.

“Call me John, love. It’s not sir here.” His assertiveness comes naturally, but it is not unkind. The faux confidence in your posture shrivels even more.

“Right. Sorry.” You swallow.

He chuckles, sprinkling some warmth to the tension. “No need for sorry either. Didn’t know better.”

“I tell you what, Cap’n—“

Your father’s voice soils the moment, slurring and obnoxious. It seems to startle the both of you. The Captain’s blues shift to him, his jaw clenching.

“She’s never that polite with me—her own old man. I tell ya, respect is a dying breed with these brats—“

The longer he rambles, reeking of liquor and disdain, you tune him out. Try to calm yourself down before the spell you’re caught in shows in front of all these people. The porch feels small as if it’s groaning and sinking under the weight of your dysfunction. Your cheeks are burning, your chest is starting to heave, hands are shaking—

“I, uh, need to use the washroom.” The words are a blurt; crude, disrespectful, ungrateful. “Is it—?” You point an index toward the screen door beside them, already peering inside at your escape.

“Down the hall, take a left,” John answers, eyes full of knowing scrutiny; you can’t tell if it’s toward you or your kin.

You step inside his home, feeling at ease without all the outside noise. It’s remarkably clean—some of the furniture even appears handcrafted. Wood floors, freshly polished and with minimal scuffs. Sparse picture frames, mostly of the same men you saw out there, posing in formation and nearly unrecognizable. The rest of the home is antiquated and fully furnished, but still lacking any clues to the man’s true personality. He’s probably not here enough to let it show. This place is merely a bed and desk between foreign lines and blazing bullets.

You decide to skip the left.

You ascend the L-shaped staircase to your right, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you won’t be caught snooping. This isn’t your house, your place, nor your crowd—and somehow the distraction of an alluring stranger’s home is more lulling than your own. Things that don’t belong to you aren’t weighed down by baggage and bad memories. They serve as an escape.

The washroom door is ajar when you pass it, creeping further down the hall with your head on a swivel. It’s wrong and you know it, but your feet don’t stop. Floorboards creak and groan once you make it to the end of the hall. A bedroom, a linen closet, a storage room. Nothing spectacular.

The first door left closed catches your eye.

To your surprise, it isn’t locked. You push it open silently and shuffle inside, dabbing at your eyes with your shirt. The fireplace on the back wall is unlit, two bookshelves on either side, stacked full with thick hardcovers. Beams of sunlight shine across the desk in the middle, sleek and lacking clutter. Only pens and a few files that don’t make sense to you. All the drawers have a keyhole, preventing you from trudging any deeper.

Sunlight casts warmth on your arms and legs, finally giving you the boost to catch your breath. Instead of falling further, you lose yourself in all of John’s distractions. There are more photos up here, on the mantles. Still the same men, in pubs and restaurants alike worldwide, throughout the years of their relationship.

John is clean-shaven in the first one, a stern but youthful glow to his face. Tan camo gear, a background of sand and humvees. Your thumb skims over the thick Sharpie scribble in the corner: Lieutenant Jonathan Price, circa 2009.

Somehow, you like him better now; salt and pepper, bourbon-breathed, a toned tummy turned soft—

“Find something you like, love?”

Fuck. Your nervous system goes haywire, body rigid. Frozen in place like a rabbit sensing a predator to avoid becoming dead prey.

“I’m really sorry,” you squeak, setting the framed photo back in its spot. “I was just—” His footsteps are slow, but loud enough for you to hear. He’s heading for the honey-stained cellarate beside the door. He kicks it closed before you can run for the stairs and beg your dad to let you drive him home.

“No more apologies.” The cork pops when he removes it, pouring himself a healthy glass of what looks like an aged whiskey. A deep amber swirling in his grip, glinting in the beams of summer. “Doing a bit of snooping instead of joining the party? Now, that’s curious.”

Cuticles tear when you bite at them, unsure of where to go. The door is closed. You feel like you’re in trouble. John is settling into a chair, getting comfortable. His tone reeks of disdain and ambiguity, impossible to peace together.

“I wasn’t snooping, really, I only wanted a break. I didn’t even want to come to this party either.” You explain, rounding the desk without getting any closer. “No offense.”

He chuckles. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. ‘S not exactly your crowd, I’m sure.”

You hike a brow, “what do you mean by that?”

The ice clinks as he sips. “Don’t know, dove. Bar crawls? Street fights? Speed dating? You tell me.”

“I don’t—” You huff, fighting a smile. “I don’t do things like that. All I have time for is studying.” It sounds pathetic to say it out loud, but deep down, it doesn’t feel that way, and only you know why. Anything to keep from home.

He looks pleased, sprinkling a crumb onto that constant fear of being in trouble. “I know. He told me all about it. Though, I sense I’m more supportive of your studies than he is.” Another swig empties the glass and he stands to refill it.

For some reason, you feel the need to come to his defense. He’s a shitty dad. Your shitty dad—whom you’ve known longer than John, since birth. “He’s not… like that. It just takes awhile for him to come around, I guess. My father is—”

“—A prick?”

Can’t argue with that. “We’re complicated. And it’s hardly your business.”

“He made it mine, he’s at my home.”

Four steps closer. A wide body cloaking yours. You can’t move. “Especially when his daughter would rather be hiding in a stranger’s home than around him.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you deflect, crossing your arms and tucking your chin. “I needed some air.”

“Been crying too, by the looks of it.” He pinches your jaw, forcing you to turn it back toward him. “Too sweet for all of it. And too smart. Not a bratty bone in your body.” It works because you know he’s right, and somehow standing before him, being steered by his hands feels right.

You close your eyes when his breath fans over your face. His voice is soft thunder, drowning out the rainfall of voices in the yard. “Here, have a sip.”

This should be wrong. No, it is wrong. Still, you nod your head and wait for the rim to reach your parted lips.

It’s pungent. A sharp punch to the nose. Your nose crinkles, mouth starting to frown as if you’ve never tasted liquor. Whatever he has is clearly a different league than the kegs at uni.

“Hm, I figured,” John leans back to finish the drink off, muscles growing looser by the second. “Suppose that means you were telling the truth, then.”

“I was.” Unconsciously, you open your eyes and find yourself leaning closer to breathe him in.

John reaches around you to set the empty glass down, fingers dancing close to your waist before closing in. He notices the hitch in your breathing, the clench of your jaw muscles, and most of all the fight inside yourself.

“It’s okay to like it, love. Just don’t want to see you sad, is all.” The tip of his nose burrows into your hair, the free hand holding the back of your head. “Gonna let me help you, doll?”

You nod again, head spinning. And that seems to be all it takes. Something once tucked neat below the surface unleashes so violently that you feel it.

The cracks widen. He grips your jaw, lips latching onto the apple of cheek and trailing until he reaches your mouth. The beginning is a tiptoe that abruptly turns messy and feverrant.

The levee breaks. Your tailbone hits the back edge of the large desk, digging into it. You wince against his maw, beckoning two large hands to lift you onto it. The part of your thighs widens, his pelvis nestled between the crux of them.

The waves pull you under. You moan into the kiss, muffled and pitiful. The pressure of his erection is just right against your clothed pussy.

His name spills—a desperate plea for more that he stifles.

“Shh.” John soothes, pulling the hem of his shirt until it’s left untucked. The kiss breaks with a wet pop. “We’ll need to be quiet, lovey. Our secret.”

Love; there it is again, sodden with need.

Your hips shift when he leans forward to suckle on your clavicle, teetering close to your breasts without giving in.

“I need,” you whisper, “need more. Please.”

He tuts. Something that says patience. Be a good girl. It’s the perfect high pitched frequency to rewire the clutter in your brain. When he starts to slither lower, working your tank top off, you have wholeheartedly forgotten why you were upset in the first place.

Your nipples pebble from the air conditioning, growing erect through the thin fabric of your bra. They beg for relief from the chaffing—and he begs to feast on them.

“You wanted me to see these today, didn’t you? Perfect fucking tits.” John probes, snapping the strap against your shoulder with his hand. His hot, whiskey breath fans across your cleavage as he unfastens it.

They drop without the support—essentially hanging fruit for a man starved. Sweet and full of life on his tongue.

He suckles until his tongue grows tired leaving a trail of saliva in its way, but the fire in his blues remains ablaze. You gasp when he pulls you off the oak, a hand on the nape of your neck to herd you.

You’re facing it now, slowly tilting down until your tits are smushed against his workspace. Your upper half shivers against it, teeth biting into your bottom lip in anticipation. His fingers dig into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them, and your panties, down to your ankles in one go.

When the breeze settles onto your bare ass, you wait for the feeling of hips against it. To feel the prod of a thick cock against your entrance. For him to slam inside you without preamble, splitting you open and pounding you sore.

Instead, you feel his weight shift. A hot mouth between your thighs, two big hands pulling your cheeks apart to get a view of your pussy. It quivers, already glistening without any touch.

You let out a sharp gasp when he dives in. No time wasted with kitten licks or long, wet stripes along your inner thighs. He shakes his head when his tongue is fucking you, oscillating until you fight a cry.

“Fuck—!” You yell, muted by your gritted teeth.

He hums, and it feels like a vibrator pressed against your clit. “Even sweeter down here, sweetheart.” John’s words are muffled, as if tearing himself away would cause him death.

The captain shifts from your hole to your swollen clit. He laps at the puffy bead, suckling each time you let out a whimper for something more—already knowing exactly what you need from him. Letting you take it from him.

“My sweet girl,” Price mumbles against your sex, gently spreading it open with his thumb. “You just need to cum. Just needed your pussy played with a bit, eh? ‘S that right?”

Your brain turns haywire. Yes, yes, yes. He’s right. That’s what you need—

You can’t answer, not with words. All you want is for that coil in your tummy to snap. It would only take a few more seconds.

He latches again, hallowing his cheeks until slick pools between his lips. The bundle of nerves in your abdomen gives way, off the edge of the cliff in an instant.

Everything stops. Your legs wobble, a drooling mouth agape against the back of your hand, eyes rolling to the back of your head. The only reason he rips himself away is the fear of you falling too deep, growing too loud for any of his to remain discreet.

He can’t toy with you today. Can't push the limits, no matter how tempting it is.

His zipper interrupts the ringing in your ears, forcing you to gather yourself. He isn’t done and you don’t want him to be. You want, no, need more of him, whether you faint afterward or not because he’s too much to handle. The logistics of it don’t matter right now.

“Do you feel it, love?” He peels down the waistband of his briefs, pressing his hard cock against your pussy, gathering the arousal. It feels big—but you knew that when you first saw him. Already had expectations for what it might be like, and though you can’t see it, you know you were right.

“Gonna fuck you now.” His voice grows hard, an arm snaking across your belly to raise you up again. The thought of being moved makes you whimper impatiently. You want him now, bent over his desk as you were.

Despite the haste in his actions, you can tell there is a purpose to him readjusting you.

Your gaze lands on a bare chest. He must’ve taken his shirt off at some point behind you. Slowly, your head dips down to take a gander. John pumps his cock, using the slick he collected for a smooth, repetitive glide.

It curves upward toward his stomach, girthier at its base. Dirty-blond curls conceal some of it, conjoined with his happy trail.

The reddened tip leaks pre-cum that you want to taste. But, selfishly, you only want him to give in and put his dick inside you for being good. His mouth was only a lick of what you know he can give.

He stays true to his word, scooting you closer so his stomach presses against yours. Your legs hug his waist, spread wide to let him take his spot.

“Need you facing me.” The tip notches against your entrance, barely pressing inside. You yelp, sucking in a breath. “See? ‘M too big for you to stay quiet, baby.”

Your hole remains snug, but still eases him in, making room for what your cunt wants. It's too much to choke down without noise. “I can’t- They’ll hear us—“

“That’s why you’re looking at me, pretty. So I can help you. Just need you to trust me, alright?” You nod your head, eyes shifting from his cock to meet his. To trust him.

He raises a hand, clamping it over your mouth with a vice grip. His hips start to move, pushing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours, balls deep.

You squeal against his palm, cunt filled to the brim, womb being butted. She aches, fighting the sheer size of it, welding the pleasure and pain of every shallow thrust.

You want him to take it slow, but you’d only beg for more if he did that.

“That’s it,” he groans, mouth against your ear. The other hand digs into the fat of your hip, leaving indents in its wake. “Just take it for me so you feel better, sweet girl.”

His pace quickens into calculated ruts, causing your muffled noises to grow in intensity. Every drag of his cockhead inside you lulls you closer to that addictive ecstasy. His tongue was surface-level, playful, and exhilarating, nothing compared to the deep den of primal need. Something you ached for the first time you saw him whether you knew it or not.

Someone enters the house downstairs, dishes clattering, and John looks at it as incentive. Both hands tighten as an anchor for deeper, sharper thrusts that send the penholder and paper weight cascading to the floor. “Can feel you getting tighter, love,” he groans, stubble and breath tickling your ear. “You want to cum all over my cock—all stuffed full?”

You nod while slobbering on his mitt.

The air punches from your lungs with each jolt inside your pussy. The coil tightens again, snared and full of tension. Instead of jabbing, he reduces his pace to slow grinds along the front wall of your cunt, massaging the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

His head lifts from the crook of your neck to meet them.

“Just—fucking—need to cum, baby.” John stutters, a drunk expression that warrants the lazy movements in his pelvis. “Ah, shit—Do it for me. Be good.” He holds on for you; bites the inside of his cheek until he bleeds.

The muscles in your stomach throb, your spine goes weak. A warbled cry expels into his flesh when you gush around him, knees shaking against his sides. All the tension you carried downstairs seems to vanish for a moment. The consequences of being caught look meaningless. Giving in, inviting rebellion feels like something you can live with.

Your eyes flutter open, brows furrowed as he shifts his focus onto his own pleasure. All you need to do is keep still and take it. Be the good girl he knows you are.

He pulls out, leaving you empty and clenching around his absence. Subtle, slick sounds echo through the office as he grinds against your pussy, bumping into your clit.

His hand does the rest of the work, squeezing the base until he sputters, leaving fingerprint bruises on your hip.

You feel the ropes of cum paint the outside of your cunt, his mouth latching onto yours as he rides through it. “So messy.” He whispers, stubble harsh against your lips.

Your legs and posture drop as he pulls away, tucking his cock back into his briefs. You don’t feel regretful, only tired and in need of a cold shower.

“You go downstairs first.” He instructs, lifting you off the desk. After finding your shirt, he slips it over your head, leaving your bra somewhere tossed aside. After, he kneels, dangerously close to the mess he made, he helps you step into your panties and shorts again, hiding the evidence.

The fabric sticks to you, full of cum and sweat. Your legs throb and wobble without the support of the desk beneath you, the spend costing them causing them to stick. “Get yourself a plate, too. Can’t have you passing out, can we?”

“O-okay.” You, utterly stunned, aren’t sure what else to say.

His lips find your sweaty temple, hand splayed across your heaving tummy. “Be good.”

The descent downstairs is slow and just short of shameful. You aren’t sure of what you’ll say if anyone asks questions.

Hopefully there’s a snug corner you can tuck yourself into.

Months pass before you see John again.

The music pounds your eardrums. People are yelling over it. Bodies slam into you.

It’s the night of your grad party, surrounded by fake friends and alcohol. You lost track of the only decent one you came here with. A few minutes pass when you stare at her text, explaining why. She got bored and decided to bar hop in the city with her guy. Shit.

Your vision ebbs and blurs and you wonder if you should have joined her. This isn’t your element. This isn’t safe. This house is unfamiliar. How are you getting back to your dorm?

You never do this, never stop being the rational one in the group. Always the designated driver who holds a buzz while your friends get hammered. Yet, here you are, holding onto a bannister so you don’t faceplant. As you thumb through your contacts, you wager the options in your head about who to call.

A family member—you’d rather die.

One of your classmates—either here with you, or asleep.

The SAS Captain you fucked within earshot of all his collegues and your dad after he caught you hiding in his home office—now that’s promising. And somehow less humiliating.

You giggle against the wood grain when you click his name, feeling the sway of the alcohol on your decisions, remembering the euphoria of that day. He’s probably asleep, too. A text might be better. Otherwise, his name will continue to collect dust in your phone.

—heyyy

—are you awake captain?

He reads it after a few seconds.

I am, sweetheart. Why are you texting me?—

You pout, as if he’s here to see it.

—i missed you and i thought it was past ur bedtime

—hehe

Call me now.—

You don’t call him.

Why should you? He’s being a proper sourpuss about a little joke—

The screen flashes with his name and it takes a few moments before you can figure it out. Stumbling to your feet so you can walk outside, you cover one ear and raise the phone to your ear.

“Sweetheart.” It sounds more like a scold than a greeting.

Keys jingle on the other line, a car door opening. “Where are you?” John’s unmistakable voice flows through.

Your shoe scuffs against the pavement, balance off as you look for a street sign. Somehow, he’s able to make out the address you stutter through. Luckily, you aren’t too far out from his place because you won’t be upright much longer.

You lower yourself onto the curb and tuck in your knees, eyes drooping from intoxication. “Am I in trouble?”

Your voice is weak, half-genuine but his is neither. “No, love. I just need you to stay where you are until I come get you. Alright?”

“Mm-hm,” you hum, plucking out blades of grass. “I’ll stay.”

The call ends.

You sit there for longer than you can keep track of. The muffled bass keeps you awake even though you’re fighting it. Knowing you will see John again is motivating, too, but it’s unsure if he’s going to be warm. It’s an extremely unlikely way to reconnect with an old hookup.

An engine grows louder, tires crunching gravel through the ringing in your ears. The brakes squeal, a car door closes, boots enter your swaying sightline.

You lift your head from your lap and chew on your lip when you meet his gaze, feigning innocence. “Mr. Price?” You know who it is.

“C’mon. Get up.” His brows furrow, not giving you the time to follow his commands. Instead, he cups your upper arm and pulls you up, leading you toward his car. The other hand holds the back of your head, shoving it to the center of his chest in case you manage to fall. A few scrapes is better than a drunken head wound.

“‘M not supposed to get in the car with strange men.” Your feet drag, ankles bobbing, but his hold on you doesn’t budge.

“Cute.” John retorts, unamused as he opens the passenger door. “But I think we’re past strangers.”

With ease, he lifts your body into the seat, tucking in your feet and then forcing your hands into your lap. When he leans over you to buckle the seatbelt, you lick your lips and smirk at him, shamelessly breathing in his cologne.

“You think I’m,”—you hiccup—“cute?”

John draws back and pauses, skimming your features with a clenched jaw. Decides not to negotiate with you right now.

“We’ll talk in the morning.” Your door closes.

As you slump against the window, your eyes follow his speed-walk around the vehicle to climb inside, and how abruptly he puts it in drive and takes off. After that, most of it is a blur of neighborhoods and headlights that you’re too out of it to pay attention to.

The trudge inside his place is bits and pieces. There’s a constant hand on the small of your back, up the stairs until you reach the bedroom. His bedroom. You only saw a glimpse back at the party—masculine, simple, and neat. Two hands on your shoulders steer you toward the bed until you lower onto it.

John digs through his dresser, pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Arms up.”

You raise them, and he pulls off the sweaty one you’re wearing, and then your bralette. His shirt is more breathable by far, perpetually smelling of him. You toy with the hem as he reaches for your jeans, tugging them off each leg methodically. “Can’t sleep in these, can you?” The captain mumbles, more to himself. “Probably not the shoes, either.” Those are next, tossed onto the armchair with your clothes.

You chortle, cheeks hot. “I like your clothes.”

“Yeah? Then stay right there.” He turns away and enters the bathroom, returning with a small cup that he extends.

You stare at it, puzzled and hesitant. When you cock a brow, he sighs. “Mouthwash. You smell like a distillery, and I reckon you’ll fall over before we can brush your teeth.”

You toss it back, relying on muscle memory to swish it around your cheeks before spitting it back into the cup. The minty aftertaste is miles better than the remnants of your last syrupy, mixed drink.

“Nauseous?” He returns to the bedroom, peeling off his belt and jeans. “Tell me the truth.”

You shake your head and that seems to burn the energy you have left. The world tilts on its axis.

John huffs when you fall over, cheek squished against his navy bedspread. If he weren’t in such a sour mood, he might appreciate the sight a bit more. Instead, he grabs a throw blanket and drapes it over your crumpled frame before climbing in next to you. One arm snakes around your waist to keep you secure and the other supports your head in case you start to roll, or vomit in the middle of sleeping.

You don’t vomit in the morning.

You have a hellacious headache in place of an alarm, however. The body pressed against you throughout the night is gone and you’re shivering now. With a groan, you climb off the bed and follow the noise.

The bathroom door isn’t shut completely. You can see his shadow moving under it, the sound of him brushing his teeth and spitting out the excess.

“John?” You frown from the bright light when you push the door open. “How am I here?” That question reminds you of how you ended up here—actually, that you can’t remember the answer. All you can do is rely on hope that he was responsible enough to not have sex with you when he brought you home.

“A few texts.” He answers, placing his toothbrush back in its cup. “That’s how.”

“Did we… we didn’t—?”

“No,” he shakes his head, expression stern. “Believe it or not, love, I have a conscience.”

You can finally breathe. “Good.” Your shoulders drop, posture relaxing. “I mean, you were mindblowing, but— I’m glad we didn’t.”

The flattery gets you nowhere; John walks past you and you can feel the cloud that follows him. It makes the air thick.

Though all you want to do is sleep, you follow him with furrowed brows. “Are you mad at me for something? Whatever I said, I was drunk. A-and you didn’t have to come get me. I would’ve asked… I don’t know, someone, for a ride home.”

“I doubt that.” John argues, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You were seconds from passing out when I got there, too shitfaced to stand. You’re lucky nothing bad happened.”

Frankly, you’re offended. No, you don’t get out much, nor have you ever been that drunk without a ride. But this spat isn’t remotely fair.

“I know that. I’m not an idiot.” You roll your eyes, pulling his shirt over your head.

Like an asshole, he does that cocky, knowing half-smile. “That’s my point. You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” Despite the heat in his words, his eyes comb over the sight of your bare chest, then the swell of your ass when you bend to grab your jeans.

With your back turned, literally, you are fully intent on ignoring the domineering lecture you know is coming. It’s not his place. You just need to get home and forget about the whole thing.

“Don’t get dressed yet.” His feet shuffle closer. “We aren’t done.”

You scoff, refusing to turn around. “Or what? You’ll lecture me about safe drinking, Mr. Price?”

A dark cloud casts over your bare body in an instant. Two hands clamp onto your shoulders and spin you. Then, a rough palm shoves you onto the mattress. “I’m not doing this with—”

You let out a yelp, hands digging into the comforter. A flame of arousal flickers in your belly and it wages war with frustration. “This isn’t funny to me, John. My head hurts—”

“Shut your mouth. It won’t do you any favors.” The bed creaks when he sinks a knee into it, one before the other to hover on top of you. John’s eyes singe into every inch of your skin, hands beginning to roam. “Besides, I thought it was Mr. Price, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, sincerely regretting your choice to be snarky. “I-I wasn’t…”

“No?” His thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, stilling when your hips buck upward. “Hm, I suppose ‘sir’ is better, anyhow. Easier for you to remember.”

When your mouth opens, he tuts and brings the hand up to your chest. Too far from where you need him to touch you. It’s been too long since you felt it. Stale memories aren’t enough to get off to. None of your toys do the trick. And the blokes your age are clumsy and inconsiderate—nothing like John.

“Though your pretty head might not remember it,” he licks a nipple, teeth barely grazing it until you shutter. “I said we’d talk in the morning.”

You whine and reach for his belt, but he swats the back of your hand harsh enough for your knuckles to sting.

“Ah-ah— you want it? Want my cock inside you?” He asks, almost deceptively sweet. “Be polite.”

Your throat bobs when you swallow your pride, feeling every ounce of dignity drain from your bloodstream. “I want your in me cock. Please.”

He tilts his head like he’s truly thinking about it. Every second feels a lifetime. His index adjusts a strand of hair sticking to your cheek, sluggish enough to count as torture.

“Much better.” John leans down, pecking your lips a few times. “‘M gonna give it to you now.”

Relief washes over you with a shaky breath. You start to think this will go by quick, that a rough fuck will be all it takes for him to forgive you. One that you’ll enjoy probably too much, but God, all you want is for him to fill you—

“Up.” He fists the hair on top of your head, firm enough to make you raise it. “Follow my hand.”

You gape at him with wet eyes, lip all but quivering. You should be whining from the stretch of him, knees tucked as close to your chest as they’ll go—but instead, you’re sitting up and unsure of why.

It takes a slow blink for him to put a foot on the bed and feed his tip toward your lips. Circling them with it until they part enough for him to slip inside. Despite months of fantasizing about having his cock down your throat, you feel tricked.

“Easy. There we go. Hold onto me.” You grip his thighs tight, tilting your head forward. Halfway inside the warm, wet chasm of your mouth, his eyes flutter shut with a satisfied groan.

”Fuck— you’re bloody perfect.” It’s a new, soon-to-be addiction. He starts to pump his hips cautiously, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex.

Tears prick in your eyes as your throat fights to allow him space in it. You gag when he pushes deeper, giving his thigh a light squeeze, not a full-stop.

He pulls out, gripping the base of his glistening cock. “I-I thought—“ You stutter, voice hoarse. “You said you’d give me your cock, John.”

The hand in your hair tightens, enough for your scalp to start screaming. You whine from the mild pain and he reneges, stroking your temple to keep you dazed.

“Try again, sweetheart. Use your head.” After a beat of silence, you gather the pieces missing. Begin to anticipate what will warrant one of his firm corrections.

“I told you what I wanted, Sir.” It’s the correct answer—you can tell. Your neck is already sore, the agitated muscles putting a damper on your speech. “T-that I wanted your cock inside me. You promised you would—“

“Oh, baby.” His voice softens, less militant and more condescending. The hand on his cock starts to pump slowly, spit coating his fingers.

“I said I’d put my cock in you, but I didn’t say where, eh?” The tip prods at your mouth again and it opens on instinct.

You gulp, desperation breeding. Arguing is futile.

He goes deeper than before, easing through every gag and cough until your throat opens. “Your mouth is just as good isn’t it, baby? You can cum from this?” You won’t. And he damn well knows it.

The shift to rhetorical and demeaning feels like something you should hate. He’s been mean for the sake of it; playing with his slab of meat before devouring it.

With your eyes closed, it’s not as agonizing. You focus on the sounds he makes and keeping your teeth from getting in the way. Every grunt and groan makes your pussy clench around nothing. Makes you want to slither a hand between your legs for relief.

“‘M gonna cum, sweetheart. Keep still—“ he retracts with a wet pop, jerking himself off with only the tip being warmed. Your tongue rolls over the slit, nails digging into his hip bones to egg him on.

His fist balls on top of your head when he comes, costing the roof of your mouth and inner lips in hot, milky spurts. “Fuck, mmfph—“

John loosens the grip, finally allowing your head to rest. His mouth meets yours, tongue lapping at the inside of it despite the remnants of his climax still on your tastebuds. Before you lean back again, he works at your soaked panties, nearly ripping the cheap fabric when he rids them.

After all that, you’re practically buzzing with anticipation. Whining into every kiss. Gripping onto him like he’ll run away. Grinding your pussy through thin air.

“Gonna fuck you now, pretty. Like I promised.” He pecks your collarbone. “Turn over for me.”

With his hands steering you, you’re facing the bed in an instant, staring at the backs of your hands digging into the sheets. You arch your back, putting your head down, but he stills you with a gentle pat on the hip.

“All the way down, love. On your tummy.” It’s unusual, but definitely more comfortable than bending your spine. As you shift off onto forearms, he sets a pillow underneath the spot of your pelvis, elevating your ass.

You can tell it’s a calculated move to drive you mad. The soft arch of your back, how he’s going to drape his entire body on you and crane his hips toward that special spot.

Weight settles across your entire back, a cock head finding your hole. You wiggle your hips and he breathes through a laugh, easing inside you smooth as butter.

He doesn’t waste time, not like before. The stretch is seamless, an instant pleasure that flows to the plug of your womb.

“S-so deep. Mm— fuck.” You moan into the pillows, mouth agape.

His cock bullies for its spot in your guts, deeper than it was the last time. He leans closer, fingers slipping across your belly to massage your clit. The other drapes over your tits, his body forcing you into a bear hug from behind.

“I missed being inside you, sweet girl,” his hip bones bite into your ass, balls flush with it. Every drag of them makes your eyes roll, working the places inside you that have never been abused. “Taking my cock so well.”

The rough pads of his fingers swirl around your clit as he fucks you into the mattress, hearing sounds he couldn’t before. But now, every thrust earns a sharp, overstimulated moan from your lips that he’ll savor; to keep him warm when he’s away.

“‘m gonna cum, don’t stop.” Your voice raises an octave, a fire burning in your stomach. The headboard slams against the wall as he quickens the pace, abusing the aching spot that worked so well before.

You come with a shaky moan, coating his dick in a slick that drips down his inner thighs. Sweat poured from your skin, muscles taut and overworked.

You go limp beneath him, relying on his hold to keep your head from dropping. “Almost there, baby—“ Baby. There it is again, only desperate. “Just keep t-taking what I give you.”

Instead of thrusting, he slows and begins circling his cock inside you, grinding his pelvis into the fat of your ass. “Fuck, fuck. M’filling you up this time.” He mutters into the side of your head, unintelligible.

Your vision blurs, body jolting forward when he stills inside you. Spurts of cum coat the inner walls of your cunt as he slumps forward, bracing himself with both palms on the bed now.

You can breathe once he eases up, panting like a dog into your neck. “You’re perfect.” John’s lips feather against your ear before he shifts beside you.

Your pulse begins to slow, limbs jelly, and therefore useless in leaving anytime soon.

“I think I hate you.” You mutter into the sticky skin on your wrist, curling onto your side to face him.

His lips curve upward, slightly impressed. “I’ve heard that before.” He does the same, scooting close so you can lean against his heart. “How’s the headache?”

“Gone.” You reply, begrudgingly.

“Hm. Suppose you should get out of here, then.” John teases, while making no effort to move or let go of you. “Just a few steps and you’d be out of my hair. Easy peasy.”

You huff, fighting exhaustion. “Please stop talking.”

He chuckles hard enough for your head to jiggle against his chest. “Only because you asked me so nicely, lovie.”

[bucketbueckers]

I'D RATHER PRETEND

CHAPTER TWO

tags: @angryflowerwitch @avvwritesstufff @melpthatsme @rebecca-woso @bueckersg1rl @l0verl4ne @clouded-whispers @dolliest-thena @katemartinlvr @numberonepartyanth3m @glamourdaya | lmk if you want to be added! wc: 7.6k notes: check masterlist for content warnings! honestly a pretty lowkey chap but it's strictly business 🧐 thank you for the love on chapter 1 🫶 i fear this chap and the next couple of parts are slow-ish but i've reread this literally a million times and im sick of it so what do i actually know. no beta we die like brian thompson

'Bueckers and Kennedy, Two Dynasties, Both Alike in Dignity'

College basketball fans are excited for what appears to be the end of the "Tess Kennedy Destruction Tour." After a quiet few days, the South Carolinian guard took to social media where she shared a photo of her and a faceless individual meeting for coffee. The Instagram story was captioned "and a new day will bring about the dawn," a lyric from Frank Ocean's "Sierra Leone." Supporters interpreted this as Kennedy's recovery journey taking a positive turn, but the song lyric was not the star of the show.

Fans were quick to point out the identity of the individual was not as hidden as it seemed. Kennedy's companion was wearing two notable necklaces - one with a silver cross and one with a studded #5. The phone case in camera was also purple with a wallet attached to the back. One commenter pointed out there was a University of Connecticut student ID poking out, and after review, we believe that much is true.

Early speculation declared Kennedy's friend was none other than Paige Bueckers, the star point guard for the University of Connecticut Huskies. Then, roughly an hour after Kennedy's post, Bueckers herself took to her Instagram where she shared a photo of her holding an icepack to someone's left knee. Both Bueckers and the mystery individual are faceless; however, fans noted Bueckers's companion was wearing a silver bracelet with familiar charms and a #25, Kennedy's jersey number.

All of the signs point to Bueckers and Kennedy spending time together, although nothing has been confirmed officially. One fan noted that Bueckers tore her own ACL the year prior, believing that Bueckers flew out to South Carolina to lend a supportive hand to Kennedy amidst her own recovery and hardships. Whether or not this is simply two friends rehabbing together or the most obvious soft launch in basketball history, sports fans are united on two things: Tess Kennedy is beginning to take her recovery seriously, and Paige Bueckers might just be the guardian angel people were calling for.

-Penelope Lancaster, Bleacher Report

MAY 3, 2023

“So, lemme get this straight.”

Tess hums around a mouthful of Chipotle, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. Kamilla and Bree returned to their apartment roughly a half hour earlier and immediately put Tess on the hot seat. Once she made it through her countless apologies and explanations with minimal interruptions, she gave Kam and Bree the green light to ask their questions, and it seemed as though they had plenty.

Kam raises her fingers as she lists off the recent happenings of Tess’s life. “Because you went off a bender–” Tess frowns at the way it’s phrased, “–Amaya is forcing you into mandatory PT, therapy, and a shit ton of PR. Honestly, about fucking time.” Bree snorts, although some of the worry leaves her body. “If all it took was tough love, I woulda been meaner to your ass a month ago.”

“Don’t think it would have had the intended effect,” Tess concedes thoughtfully. She pushes around her rice and chicken, shoveling a pepper in her mouth. “I wasn’t really in a listening mood back then.”

Bree raises a brow. “And you were today?”

The injured guard shrugs a shoulder. “Well, when your manager tells you that your brand deals are about to cut their contracts, and you’re at risk for losing your basketball scholarship for behavior and academic reasons, and you’re slowly killing yourself…that kind of puts things into perspective.”

Kamilla nods solemnly. “And the Paige situation.”

Tess almost flushes under their scrutinizing gaze. She hasn’t forgotten. She has Paige’s receipt tucked into the pocket of her pants, unwilling to throw it away but also feeling weirdly vulnerable for wanting to keep it. It wasn’t a huge gesture by any means. Paige doing PT with her was objectively more intimate than buying her lunch, but the mere idea of Paige saying goodbye to her and sitting in an Uber trying to figure out what Tess likes in her Chipotle bowl is just fucking insane. “Guess I’m not single anymore…so, yay?”

“You’re taking this a lot better than I expected,” Kamilla admits hesitantly. Tess clocks the concern in her expression, like she’s thinking about her next step if she wakes up tomorrow and Tess is back to her old ways. That thought alone makes guilt squeeze at Tess’s heart.

Tess sighs. “It was like a wake up call,” she says after a moment. “Like those stupid ice baths Coach makes us do in recovery.” Kamilla and Bree crack a small smile at the joke. “To me, it was just easier to self-destruct than to let something else kill me. Basketball’s more than a sport to me – it’s my purpose, right? So after I heard I might not be able to play again, I just…let myself sink. And, Christ, people were so cruel online.” Tess huffs out something like a laugh, her throat tight with pain. “It’s funny ‘cause it never bothered me before, but… I just wanted to forget. I wanted them to hurt like I hurt. It was too easy to give into that.” The silence rings out in the living room as Tess searches for her next words. “I don’t think all hope is lost. Today helped me understand that a little better. So, I’m gonna try. I’m just fucking terrified it’s all going to be for nothing, that my knee’s never going to get better and I’m going to put myself through so much pain for a what if.”

“Okay, what if you never play again, but, God, Tess, what if you do?” Kamilla says slowly. “What if you do everything right and you get better and you can play with us again in March? I want that for you. We want that for you. Do you want that for you?”

“I mean, of course–”

“Then do it!” Kamilla exclaims, voice cracking. Tess blinks at her owlishly. She’s never seen Kamilla like this, ever, wide-eyed and desperate. It’s a near 180 shift from the girl she’s spent the last 30 minutes talking to, a complete and total shift from the girl who she’s shared an apartment with for two years. “Please, Tess. Do the PT, your therapy, get back on track; whatever it fucking takes, Tess, you need to do it. We miss you. On and off the court. I know it’s not about me, but watching you throw yourself away like that was the worst thing I’d ever witnessed, especially because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get through to you. I thought I was going to lose my best friend!”

Tess’s jaw falls open as the sudden realization of how badly she’s fucked up dawns on her for the second time that day. “Kam,” she tries, her throat tightening with emotion. The taller woman wipes her eyes, taking in a shuddering breath. Kamilla was never one to be mean, no matter how upset she was – that was a trait of hers that made her such a good leader and role model on the court. She was big on accountability and ensuring that past mistakes would never happen again. Seeing all of the emotion she kept under tight lock and key because she knew she needed to be strong for Tess (even before Tess was aware that she needed someone to be strong for her) is unbelievably sobering.

When Tess and Kamilla first met, they almost instantly knew they would be each other’s best friend. They were alike in so many ways – they were fierce competitors and proud haters of The Office; they bonded over shared struggles of not quite knowing what home was and being just a little too different from everyone else. Tess isn’t sure where she would be without Kamilla. She always prayed she’d never have to find out, but the idea that she nearly subjected Kamilla to finding out where she’d be without Tess feels both arduous and damning.

“Kam,” Tess says again, her mind reeling. “I’m so sorry – I’m so fucking sorry. If I could do it all over again, I would. I’m trying. It’s so hard but I’m trying.”

“I know,” Kamilla says, nodding rapidly. Bree is unnaturally quiet, glancing between the two of them with a conflicted expression. Sure, the three of them shared an apartment, but the bond between Tess and Kamilla exceeded friendship; they were like sisters. Bree knew that and it never bothered her. Now it seems as though she’s unsure where to stand, but she understands that this is a much-needed conversation that Tess and Kamilla need to have. “I know, Tess, I’m just – I’m glad you understand it now. Just… please, please let us help you. Don’t shut us out.”

“I won’t,” Tess vows. “I can’t promise I’m going to be at 100%, but fuck, I’m going to try.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Kamilla concedes.

The living room is quiet for a long while until Bree shifts uncomfortably. “So… PT and mental health counseling, those I understand,” she says. “I’m still a little lost on why fake dating Paige is good for your reputation. Rumors are rumors but…it’s giving new flavor of the week.”

“It’s not like that,” Tess argues, a little too defensively. Bree raises a brow and Tess immediately flushes. She’s not sure why that jab at Paige felt personal. She made a similar jab only a few hours ago. But it wasn’t her business to judge. People have their own reasons to do what they do, right? “Well, she said it wasn’t like that,” she amends, which sounds objectively worse. Tess frowns, wishing she’d just kept quiet.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Bree raises her hand in surrender. “It’s her vice, right? Her free time is her own, but I mean, she’s Paige Bueckers. It’s easy to get caught up in her. I just don’t want you becoming another notch on her bedpost, even if you’re just fake dating her to make people forget you’re on Twitter restriction.”

Tess wrinkles her nose. “My account is unbanned now, thank you very much,” she deflects, but Kamilla’s knowing expression has her redirecting. “I understand what you guys mean, but you don’t have to worry about that. We’re strictly business.” Bree grins wryly, huffing out something akin to laughter that sounds vaguely like, ‘that’s what they all say.’

“Was the Chipotle strictly business?” Bree asks.

Tess’s face is a perfect picture of confusion, but her heart thrums a little faster at the insinuation. What could she possibly know about that? “What does Chipotle have to do with anything?” she asks casually.

Bree’s smirk widens. “You never order bowls. It’s always a burrito with you.”

“I’m trying something new!”

“Yeah, new like a six-foot blonde hooper–”

Kamilla and Bree break out into howling laughter as Tess buries her head in her hands, blushing again. “Oh, my God. You guys are the fucking worst.”

And, sure – the joke is at Tess’s expense, but she can’t help but feel like everything is aligning once more, that they’re returning to the way they once were pre-injury. She expected that it would have taken her a lot more groveling to earn back their favor. Tess was a huge jerk to them – the more she thinks about what she’d likely said to them under the haze of several shots of tequila, the more she wishes she could take it all back and do it over again. She tore her ACL, a season ending injury for many athletes, and for a smaller few, it changed the course of their careers drastically. Tess wants to find it within herself to have some grace, to understand why she behaved the way she did, but now that she sees it with a clearer mind, she can’t help but be disgusted by herself.

For Kamilla and Bree, it’s probably all water under the bridge. They’re kind people like that, perhaps too kind after the way Tess treated them. Maybe the real gotcha! moment is the idea that Tess didn’t need to earn back their favor, anyhow. Sometimes friendship just works like that – it’s confusing and a great risk, but most times that risk pays off. Sometimes friendship just is, accepting a mistake and trusting that it wouldn’t happen again.

Feeling lighter than she has in weeks, Tess retires to her room for some much needed rest after a long day. She lights a candle, settling against her headboard and adjusting the pillow cushioning her knee. Deciding to face the music sooner rather than later, she begins combing through her mountain of notifications and unread DMs. The apology from Caitlin is touching. Tess feels an odd mix of guilt and appreciation as she drafts out her overdue response: “thank you for checking in, been a rough couple weeks. the injury is not your fault but trust that SC will pick your pockets next year!!!” Caitlin’s own response is swift – a simple 'Bring it on' that Tess can’t help but smile at.

She sends similar responses to some of Caitlin’s teammates and the other college players who reached out. She even had a couple of pros expressing their condolences, which honestly shocked Tess. There was Napheesa Collier, Sabrina Ionescu, and A’ja Wilson – A’ja’s DM made Tess’s Gamecock heart beat just a little faster. She was basically South Carolina royalty. Having that kind of support in her corner fills her with an insurmountable confidence.

Her last post on Instagram was a collection of pictures following their Elite Eight win. The sight of herself from a month ago, healthy and glowing, nearly made her thumb falter as she flicked through the images. It was a simple dump – a couple of action shots, a fierce one of Tess celebrating, one of her setting up for a deep three. It was captioned “nowhere else i’d rather be.” That much was still true. She’s pushed it to the recesses of her mind, but instinctually, she can feel the deep ache and the yearn to get back on the court, even though her knee hardly lets her sleep through the night most of the time.

Her eyes fall to the comments. She knows she shouldn’t look at them. She’s practically memorized each and every single one of them. Her teammates’ comments live at the top, celebrating the win with her; under them, there are newer ones from South Carolina fans, offering prayers and support, confident in their belief that Tess will bounce back from this. She can’t help herself from reading the hate comments, either. Her eyes catch on one in particular. Their username isn’t particularly memorable, but it reads, ‘Upsetting to see how Tess has responded to a normal injury for athletes. It’s shameful that South Carolina has let this go on for so long. Grow up!’ 

Well, he’s not wrong. Tess’s response was a pretty terrible one and Amaya herself admitted that they made a mistake in handling the situation. Frankly, he should be proud that Tess has grown up! If she read that comment a week ago, she probably would have crashed out. The thought alone makes Tess crack the slightest of smiles. Before she can keep reading, a text message from an unknown number pops up at the top of her screen, inadvertently saving her from a doom scroll.

Yo How’d I do on lunch? It’s Paige btw

Tess fights the warmth she feels in her chest. Honestly, she would have guessed that it was Paige from the ego she can identify through the screen alone, but she saves her contact regardless.

i’m afraid to admit i prefer burritos but the bowl was a 9/10

Paige’s response is swift.

9 cause I’m the 1 you need?

Tess rolls her eyes.

9 bc there was too much pico and bc the girl who ordered it flirts like a 12 year old

That’s insane You KNOW I have better game than that

you have no rizz, just blue eyes and a bunch of nil money like joe burrow if he was a hey mamas lesbian

Gonna ignore that hey mamas comment just cause I fuck with Joe Burrow The Bengals don’t have nothing on my Vikings though

i think i just got the ick im not gonna lie

Are you a football hater???

i don’t watch men’s sports at all i try to protect my peace

Pause So no Lebron???

ok well obviously i’ve watched the NBA

You scared me Don’t say that shit again

why are you so high maintenance

Why are you so mean

someone has to keep you in check settling down, remember?

I think you could be a little nicer!

hmmm i’ll consider ok i decided no

Just plain evil

i need to get my kicks in early if im stuck with you again on friday

You invited me???

i don’t think that’s how that happened

Pretty sure that’s exactly how that happened Paige please come to PT with me 🥺 Please Paige

ok now you’re just being delusional i see how you’re forgetting the whole ‘tess let me buy your coffee 🥺please tess’

Chilllll Did your doctor check you for a concussion after the ACL?? There’s something wrong with your brain

be honest, are you a natural blonde or did you work really hard to be this stupid

Hard work always baby Also, wanted to ask if you wanna come to the airport with me on Saturday, be seen together I fly out at 11:30am so I think it would be good for us The story I mean

you gonna pay for my uber back?

Duh

paige i was kidding

I wasn’t No rizz, just blue eyes and a lot of NIL money, right?

you’re insufferable

So you’ll come?

don’t sound so excited but i will for the story

Of course See you Friday ma 🫶

Tess likes Paige’s message before shutting her phone off with a sigh. She needs a nap.

MAY 5, 2023

Friday arrives after a day and a half of binging 2 Broke Girls, independent physical therapy exercises, and lots of ice packs.

Tess slept like shit Thursday night, though she’s unsure if it’s because of the pain in her knee or because of how badly she wanted to haul her ass to the bar and order a couple of shots to numb the throb. She knew she couldn’t do it, no matter how much she thought she needed it – it was bad enough that she spent half of the night sweating through her shirt and chewing on ice cubes to distract herself from the slow downward spiral of her thoughts. Not addicted, she’d remind herself, nursing a cup with rapidly melting ice as she watched Max and Caroline put themselves in weird ass situations. Psychologically, no. Physically…who knows. Tess certainly doesn’t know what that means, but she’s not addicted, period.

Her first therapy appointment was scheduled for Monday afternoon. She just had to hold out until then. Tess hopes that she would glean something useful from her counselor, but she’s been self aware and independent enough for years that she’s usually good at identifying her problems, though slightly less efficient at figuring out what to do about them. Her typical coping methods included a casual mantra of, ‘Pitbull’s been there, done that,’ and running a couple of drills in the quiet of the gym. And, sure – it sounds weird, but the idea that she’s not the only person facing an issue is comforting enough that she wonders if it’s even that deep. It works most of the time and she’s able to shrug it off. She will admit there’s an eventual crash out one way or the other, but she prefers one big explosion over a series of small, ill-timed ones.

With nothing but time on Thursday night, her Google search history consisted of queries such as how long does it take to establish alcohol dependence and symptoms of alcohol withdrawals. Then, around 3am, she got distracted and switched over to TikTok where she scrolled through edits of herself, but that’s less important. She learned that establishing alcohol dependence usually varies from person to person (Tess hates when something ‘depends;’ why can’t there ever be a straight answer?). It’s less clear if she’s officially ‘addicted,’ but she will concede that after a month of heavy drinking, there’s a little something there. Which isn’t ideal, of course, but hopefully it’s mild at the least. It was only a month and people intervened early…ish – maybe if she sticks to recovery then she should be good and clear within a couple weeks at the most.

Google also informed her of the several symptoms of withdrawals, which usually set in anywhere from six to twenty-four hours after going cold-turkey on the drinks. The withdrawals explained, obviously, the need to ransack the liquor store, but also the restlessness, the slight headache she was nursing for the past twenty-four hours, and the perpetual stomach ache she couldn’t seem to get rid of.

She had some answers. So, things were looking up!

…At least they were until she got the call from Amaya at 9:30 as she was struggling to eat a bagel. Google also mentioned a loss of appetite, which Tess was less than happy about. Much like everything else about her recovery, she would have to force herself into doing a lot of things that her body didn’t want her to do. She’d get used to it. She lets her phone ring for a short moment before she sighs, accepting the call and putting it on speaker, greeting Amaya.

“Good morning, Tess!” Amaya chirps, unusually chipper. The basketball player immediately frowns, brows furrowing.

“You get laid?” she asks, unsure of what else Amaya could be happy about in her life.

She can almost hear Amaya’s eye roll from across the line. “No, not that it’s any of your business, though.”

“Boo.”

“Anyways, back to business.” Amaya clears her throat. Tess can hear the slight shuffle of papers. “So, I really liked what you and Paige did, soft-launch wise. The press is eating it up and so far, both of your brand deals are seeing a slight surge in activity. I’m guessing people are flocking to your accounts for raunchy details and seeing you advertise, um, really cool make up products and homework help.” Tess huffs out a laugh at that. “Good job. Also, Craig let me know you showed up to PT as scheduled on Wednesday and did really well. He said you and Paige worked really well together–”

“Stop,” Tess says, listening to the sound of Amaya’s smug laugh. “Don’t insinuate anything.”

“I’m not insinuating anything!” Amaya says defensively and Tess cracks a smile. “So, we just need you and Paige to keep up what you’re doing. Do the small things for a couple of weeks, then hard-launch. We’re going to give you guys most of the control over that. We want it to seem more authentic and less like two PR agencies trying to salvage their clients’ images.”

“Of course,” Tess says innocently. “She’s coming to PT today. Then I’m going with her to the airport tomorrow.”

Amaya sighs dreamily. “You’re such a wonder to work with when you’re being cooperative.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Tess grumbles, giving up on the bagel and tossing it in the trash.

“Alright, one more thing,” Amaya continues, “then I’ll let you go.” Tess hums. “I need you to draft an apology to post on your socials – and I know, it sounds corny, but–”

“You don’t need to explain why,” Tess interrupts softly. “I got it. I fucked up and I made a huge mess. I’ll email that to you Saturday night.”

Amaya is quiet for a moment, contemplative. “Thank you, Tess. And, hey, how are you feeling?”

Tess doesn’t answer for a beat, considering keeping her thoughts to herself, but she reminds her promise to Kamilla to not shut anyone out, so she sighs. “Um, not gonna lie, I didn’t sleep at all last night,” she admits. “My knee hurt and I really wanted to drink – but I didn’t! I binge watched TV and ate ice cubes. Probably not the best thing I could have done but it was all I had to work with.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Amaya says gently. “It’s gonna be hard for a while, especially when your injury is still new and fresh and you’re all over the place mentally. I’m proud of how you handled it, even if you think you could have done better. Don’t forget you can call that counselor, okay? She’s available at all hours for you.”

“I don’t wanna be a bother–”

“It’s her job,” Amaya states, before adding in a more mother-hen tone, “but she also requested to work with you specifically because this issue is close to her and she really wants to help you. So if you need help, call her. Got it?”

Tess blinks back the impending tears. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Listen, I’m proud of you, I mean it,” Amaya reiterates. “Thank you for being patient and doing this. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” Tess says again. “Talk to you soon.”

Amaya hangs up with one final goodbye. Tess presses her head to the cool counter tile and takes a deep breath. She hardly has the time to think before a knock sounds at the apartment door. Already knowing it was Paige, Tess wipes her eyes and slips her crutches under her arms as she slinks towards the door and opens it.

“Mornin!’” Paige greets, far too cheery for barely ten in the morning. She’s holding two cups of coffee in her hands. When Tess glances down, she easily recognizes her coffee order. Then, a frown covers Paige’s face as she walks in and shuts the door behind her. “You good, ma?”

“Just a tough conversation with Amaya,” Tess says as Paige hands her the drink. She takes a long sip, feeling a little more regulated. “Too many feelings.”

Paige smirks at her. “I’m guessin’ she said the same shit my manager called for? ‘Keep up the good work and keep doing couple-y stuff?’”

Tess hums. “More or less. Oh, I also get to publicly apologize, so there’s that.”

The blonde raises a brow as Tess hands back the coffee cup so she can slip into her shoes. “You? Apologize?”

Tess swats her with her crutch, drawing laughter from Paige. “You’re such a jerk. I apologized to you on Wednesday!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you called me a whore,” Paige says with a dramatic pout. “Really hurt my women-respecting feelings.”

“Please walk me to PT and stop talking.”

And Paige does just that. She holds onto both of their coffees as they walk as Tess’s hands are otherwise preoccupied with her crutches. The silence doesn’t last too long before Paige is rambling about all of the questioning she’s getting from her teammates, and Tess can’t help but listen – correction, she has no other choice but to. Paige admits that she doesn’t like keeping secrets from her team, and Tess feels sympathetic enough that she gives Paige the go-ahead to confess their little ruse. Paige’s denial, however, is shockingly mature. “I trust them not to say sum’ maliciously, right? But you never know who’s listening.”

Tess shrugs a shoulder. “If you change your mind, go for it, okay?” she says. “This is our punishment. Don’t wanna fuck up your friendships.”

“S’all good,” Paige says. “Actually, they’re pretty happy about it. Aubrey thinks I’ll play better next season since I ‘got a girl.’”

Tess snorts. “Yeah, you’ll play better until March, then I’ll get cleared to be back on the court and I’ll drop 25 on you.”

Paige wrinkles her nose. “No way, ma. Try 2-point-5. As in 2.5 turnovers every time I guard you.”

Their banter continues until they reach the PT’s office. Craig greets them with an infectious grin and Tess immediately brightens. He helps her take the brace off of her leg and rolls up her pant leg, poking and prodding at her injury. After just a day and a half of actual care, much of the inflammation has reduced.

Craig walks her through some guided exercises, and much to Tess’s silent appreciation, Paige joins them, too. She has a charming smile on her face the entire time, tacking on ridiculous jokes at the absolute worst moments when Tess is out of breath from the stretch and when laughing feels like gasping for air. Paige is strangely helpful. She boosts both Tess’s morale, comforting her in the fact she’s not doing this alone, but she also has a plethora of tips on how to manage the pain and get a better stretch on the exercises. Her hands are warm on Tess’s knee when she adjusts her leg and the way it bends. Craig looks on with an approving nod, though he jokes that Paige is coming for his job, to which Paige huffs, “Tess don’t listen to me.” Tess can only roll her eyes at that, pretending like she doesn’t care about the way Paige’s hands massage the tension out of her leg.

When Craig steps out to grab his wrapping supplies, Paige stretches out her legs and reaches for her phone. “For the gram?” she asks easily, glancing at Tess for permission.

“Don’t call it that,” she grumbles, but nods anyway and pulls out her own phone. “You sound like an old person.”

“You sound like an old person,” Paige mocks, effectively lowering her age by a solid ten years, and Tess rolls her eyes in amusement. She slides a little closer to Tess, reaching for her left leg and draping it over her right one gently, locking their ankles together. “Good?” Tess hums, looking over Paige’s shoulder and throwing a thumbs up into view of the camera. “You’re so unoriginal,” Paige says, but she sticks her free hand in frame and presses her middle and ring fingers to her thumb, raising her index and pinky in the Husky salute.

“That’s basically a hard launch,” Tess says, though she doesn’t really care.

“Everything we do is a hard launch,” Paige retorts. “We got Instagram detectives, remember?”

Tess mulls it over for a second before turning to Paige with a mischievous grin. “You wanna break the internet?”

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

Paige posts her picture to her story, forgoing any sort of caption, and silences her phone. She gives Tess her undivided attention as she plots. Tess pulls Paige closer into her space, hooking her chin over her right shoulder and leaning against her. Setting up her phone at the right angle, she says, “Look to your left,” and Paige does so until her piercings, half of her low bun, and the slight curve of her jaw are the only things in frame. The lights glint off of the diamond studs in her ears – Tess has to resist a smirk at how obvious the picture is, but she quickly controls her expression, her lips drawing into a natural pout as she takes the photo.

“Got it?” Paige asks, tilting her head to look at the photo. A smile covers her face as she takes it in. “Tess, you’re evil. Everyone is gonna flip.”

“My notifications are going to explode,” she says forlornly. “This is the price I pay to be mysterious and sexy.”

“Mysterious, nah,” Paige says. Her eyes linger on Tess’s face for a moment before she breaks out into a grin. “Sexy…? Hell nah.”

Indignant, Tess pushes her away, sending Paige sprawling to the floor dramatically. “Asshole! What happened to those ‘women-respecting feelings?’”

“You just pushed me to the ground!” Paige cries. “Where are your women-respecting feelings?”

Craig walks in just then, his face morphing into amused confusion as he looks between the two of them, wrapping supplies in hand. “Am I interrupting something?” he jokes.

Tess tries to keep the blush off of her cheeks. “Paige is just being mean to me,” she declares. “Poor Tess Kennedy whose left knee doesn’t even work.”

“Bro!” Paige’s tone is exasperated, and it brings a smile to Tess’s face. “You’re full of sh–” Paige cuts herself off with a cough. “...Sharks. Full of sharks.”

Craig chuckles as he examines Tess’s knee one last time before nodding and beginning to wrap it. “Same stuff, okay? Ice it when you do independent exercise, keep using your crutches, absolutely nothing strenuous.”

Tess nods, thanking Craig and heading out with Paige at her side. Even though the PT combined with her lack of sleep the night before has left her exhausted, Tess is in a significantly better mood than she started the day with. It’s likely too early into her recovery to feel any sort of earth-shattering hope, but she can’t help but feel like she’s doing it. She has yet to attend her first therapy appointment and the light at the end of the tunnel is still ten months away, but it feels like she’s making it out alive. And for now, that’s good enough for her.

MAY 6, 2023

Sleep comes easier to her Friday night. The cravings returned in full force as she was getting ready for bed, but Tess was exhausted – she took a melatonin gummy and passed out, although her knee woke her up a time or two. She felt well-rested for the first time in a couple of days. The drinking numbed her enough that she was able to sleep, but the abrupt cut-off has her body in disarray. It’s a double-edged sword. Her body craves it, but every time she thinks about a drink, she’s so disgusted at the thought that she can nearly taste the bile in her mouth. While it makes the cravings subside for a moment, they always return. She takes Tylenol in the morning to ward off the impeding headache and chugs a cup and a half of water, feeling as though she needs to flush all the bullshit out of her body.

Kamilla and Bree are up early and the three of them mill about the kitchen as they prepare a light breakfast. It was a Saturday morning tradition for them, usually consisting of pancakes, bacon, and eggs and a lengthy conversation about their weeks or anything in general. They’ve missed out on it for the past month for…obvious reasons that Tess already nurses a lot of guilt over, but she’s keen on making up for lost time. Kam and Bree put her on bacon duty as it’s the least strenuous. She portions the meat in the pan and slides it into the oven as Kam and Bree bicker over their shared stovetop space.

It’s grounding. Tess contributes where she can, enjoying the peace of the moment and laughing along with her teammates when they say something stupid. It nearly makes her forget about her knee, about the guilt she’s working through as she continues to make amends. Part of her wonders why she’d ever resorted to shutting everyone out and losing herself when all she really needed was to just let them in. She watches Kam shout in indignation as Bree jokingly flicks a bit of pepper into her pancake batter, and all Tess can think about is how could she ever hurt those girls. She remembers her promise. Tess has let too many terrible things become a habit, but she refuses to let mistreating her friends be a continued one.

They all sit to eat and the chatter only stops long enough to pass around their bottle of maple syrup and the butter. Kam and Bree ask how PT’s been going, and Tess is honest when she answers. She’s only two days into it and more often than not, it hurts – but she knows it’s for the better. She doesn’t voice the worry that she might stop taking it as seriously once Paige is back in Connecticut. Tess was only partially joking when she told Craig she had an enforcer. Paige holds her accountable in a way she’s been trying to force herself into doing, but her mind is still such a mess that it’s difficult and all she wants to do is mope in bed all day. She knows Kam and Bree wouldn’t let her live that down and she doesn’t want them to feel like she still needs a babysitter.

They tell her that they're proud of her, and Tess feels the tears well up as she tells them to shut up.

“She’s so back,” Kamilla cheers, high-fiving Bree. “Our little ball of sunshine.” Tess can only roll her eyes.

Breakfast ends and Kam and Bree ensure that they’ve got the dishes. The clock on the stove reads 10:30. Tess knows that Paige is likely on her way. She hugs them both, promising to be back once she’s seen her off, and slips into her shoes just as a knock rings out at the door.

Paige’s brows draw into a dramatic furrow once they come face to face. “Damn, you opened this door mad quick,” she says. “Tryna get rid of me that fast?”

Tess cracks a smile, shutting the door behind them with the leg of her crutch. “The sooner you’re out of South Carolina, the better.” They walk down the hallway.

Paige sighs as she punches the elevator button for the lobby. “You’ll miss me,” she says, assured. “You’re gonna miss me bringin’ you coffee, DoorDashing you Chipotle, and making sure you don’t re-tear your ACL.”

“On the contrary…I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.” Paige shoots her a dirty look and Tess can’t help but laugh.

Paige escorts her to the Uber she has waiting for them. She holds onto Tess’s crutches as she helps her into the passenger side backseat, laying her leg flat against the leather. Her foot nearly brushes the door. Confused and wondering what Paige is doing, the blonde shuts the door and rounds the side. As she settles in, she drapes Tess’s leg over her lap. “You good?”

Mouth dry, all Tess can do is nod, and Paige leans forward enough to instruct their Uber driver to head to the airport. Her palm falls flat on Tess’s shin, her thumb brushing against her leg, and with the way Paige stares out of the window, it’s almost like she doesn’t even register what she’s doing. Their ride is quiet, save for the driver's soft R&B that Paige bobs her head to. Tess slips her phone out of her pocket and snags a quick photo, flipping her phone screen to show her. Paige smiles at her wordlessly, knowing they shouldn’t verbally scheme in front of the driver, and Tess posts the photo to her story.

She refreshes her feed, combing through all of the shit she’s been tagged in from various college basketball update accounts and Instagram sleuths. She and Paige are the face of a new account named taigeupdates – which Tess is assuming is supposed to be their ship name? Given that the alternative is Pess – not that Tess has given it any thought, because she hasn’t! – she could live with it. The admin already has Tess’s story reposted and the comments are flooding in with many begging for an official hard launch since it’s already obvious.

Their driver parks in the designated drop off lane and Paige helps Tess out of the backseat, ensuring she’s stable on her crutches before she’s looping around to the trunk and pulling her carry-on and suitcase out. Tess can already feel the eyes on them, the hushed whispers of, “Is that Paige Bueckers and Tess Kennedy?” And despite years in the spotlight, she can’t help the anxious flush that creeps up on her neck. Having so many eyes on her makes her feel vulnerable enough, but combined with the fact she has a huge brace on her leg and she’s walking around with crutches? She feels uncomfortable, like she’s a pacing animal behind bars in the zoo.

“Ready?” Paige murmurs, stepping up behind her, pressing her free hand to the palm of Tess’s back. The touch comforts her slightly, but only because she’s accustomed to Paige right now and because they’re in this together. Tess gives her a solid nod, tightening her hands around the bars of her crutches. The blonde moves her hand down to her hip to give her a reassuring squeeze before placing it at the center of her back. Paige leads them into the airport, though she leans down, her mouth close to Tess’s ear as she whispers. “We shoulda talked about this earlier, but…what’s on and off limits right now?”

Tess swallows, trying to ignore the nerves. “Just do whatever feels right,” she answers honestly. “The media knows we just spent three days together, right? Don’t overthink it. I’m your girlfriend sending you off at the airport. Make it look like that and not two strangers trying to look the part.”

Paige grins insufferably at her. “Aw, I think that’s the first time you claimed me,” she says. Tess rolls her eyes, tempted to swat her with her crutch, but decides against it. The last thing she needs is Paige tripping and fucking up her knee even more. “So…nothing's off limits?”

“You wanna kiss me so bad you look stupid,” Tess says, nudging Paige with her elbow. From the corner of her eye, she can see the phone camera pointed at them, so she swallows her pride and looks up to Paige with a grin. “I think we should hug for sure. Anything else is too soon...like I said, we've spent three days together. I don't U-Haul.”

“Fine by me,” Paige says, looking far too comfortable as she walks through the airport. “Don't wanna do nothing you're uncomfortable with. Even if it would break the Internet. I know you like that shit.” Tess shrugs, but she was pleased with the media’s reaction so far. Between the two of them, Paige was definitely the menace and chaos-monger, although Tess enjoyed setting a fire once in a while. They finally reach Paige’s terminal and she leaves Tess’s side long enough to check in at the counter.

While she’s gone, a teenage girl approaches Tess with a shy expression, phone clutched in hand. “Excuse me, are you Tess Kennedy?” she asks.

“Guilty,” Tess jokes, leaning on her healthy leg.

“Do you mind if I get a picture?”

Tess shakes her head, saying, “Not at all,” as she moves to stand next to the girl. She angles the phone and Tess throws up a peace sign, grinning, and she snaps the photo. Before either of them can say anything else, Paige is walking back from the check in counter and the girl looks like she’s about to start doing cartwheels.

“Is that–”

“Unfortunately,” Tess sighs, which makes the girl laugh and Paige narrows her eyes. Remembering where they are, Tess smiles innocently.

“Can I get another picture with the both of you?”

Paige and Tess can’t resist. Paige rarely turns down her supporters in the first place, and all Tess can think about when she’s in these situations is all the times she’s ever met her idols and how it changed her life. Being in a situation to give back to the youth like that is one of the best parts about playing basketball. They pose on either side of the teenager as she takes the photo, and after quick hugs and a lot of gratitude, Paige and Tess are left alone.

Tess checks the time, realizing that Paige is boarding soon. The overhead PA confirms as much and Paige glances at Tess once more, hiking her carry-on bag higher on her shoulder. “You gonna miss me?” she asks teasingly, and Tess taps her chin, thinking.

“Hmm,” she ponders. “Not one bit.”

“You will,” Paige says confidently. “I got motion like that.” Tess rolls her eyes, unable to curb the warm fondness in her chest. She just pretends like it doesn’t exist. “Make sure you eat, alright? And go to PT. And be real with your therapist. Lemme hear you’re bein’ irresponsible and I’ll fly back down to set you straight.”

“Yes, Paige. Anything else?”

Paige shrugs, an easy smile on her face. “I know you pretend like you’ont like me, but I had fun with you. Even when you were mean.”

“Not mean,” Tess argues weakly. She can’t hide how touched she is by Paige’s words. “Just trying to keep your ego at a reasonable level.”

“Whatever you say, ma,” the blonde concedes. She opens her arms and Tess forgets all about the media, their story, whatever it is they’re supposed to be pretending to do as she wraps her arms around Paige’s waist. She could care less about the cameras, about the social media explosion they’re undoubtedly causing. Paige’s hands are warm on her back and her perfume makes Tess’s head spin. “Gimme a call if you need anything, I mean it. Don’t try to do this by yourself. Promise me.”

“Promise,” Tess vows. Paige pulls back ever so slightly, her eyes studying Tess’s face as her hands slide down her back, resting on her hips. Paige smiles at her and gives her a gentle squeeze before pulling away completely. She and Paige are both flushed, though the red creeping up Tess’s neck feels strangely like embarrassment.

“Call you when I land?” she asks quietly. Tess nods, forcing a smile, and they share their final goodbyes before Paige walks away.

Tess watches as she goes, suddenly hyper aware of the cameras and the crowd, and she holds back a sigh. She needs to get it together. None of that was real. She’s just a mess emotionally, touch-starved after a month-long crash out, and she’s letting it get to her head. She’ll feel more regulated after a nap and some stretches.

Hopefully.

[coca-cola-brainstorm]

Stronger in the dark

prologue:

When it was just you and your mom, she seemed different. Perhaps she was exhausted because she had to do everything alone. You didn’t know your dad—your mom once shared that he didn’t want you in his life. She had a past as a dancer, and he believed she was just trying to take advantage of him for his money. The day she confided in him about this was the last time he ever saw her face to face.

At first, Greg didn’t seem so bad; he knew what he was signing up for when he started dating your mom. The excitement of their marriage brought a new spark to your life—having a dad was something you had yearned for, and for a while, everything felt like a fairytale. Laughter filled the house, and happy memories were made.

But like many good things, that happiness began to wane. The warning signs were there: the subtle cracks in their relationship slowly became more obvious. You noticed your mom starting to wear down, her smile fading a little more with each passing day. The nights were filled with hushed, tense arguments that seeped through the walls, creeping into your dreams.

It felt as if she were transforming before your eyes, becoming a stranger in her own home. Every change chipped away at the warmth you once felt, leaving you in a whirlwind of confusion and sadness.

You could sense that something was off; you noticed the little twitches she would make. Some days were manageable, while others felt overwhelming. Greg got worse—his anger seemed to boil over at the slightest thing. You grew up quickly because you had no choice; you learned to take care of yourself. Just like your mother before you, you didn’t rely on anyone else.

Years sped by, and by the time you turned twelve, life in Gotham had woven a complex web around you. Your mom was a ghost in the house—physically present but emotionally distant, consumed by her own struggles. You learned to navigate the world largely on your own, spending long hours in the shadows of your cluttered home, your academic achievements a protective facade against the chaos outside.

Gotham was a harsh, unforgiving place, where survival often meant making choices that blurred the lines between right and wrong. You had become adept at fitting in with the city's underbelly, taking on questionable jobs that required a cunning mind and quick feet. Each task was just another means to get by—a way to blend into the background of a city that thrived on secrecy and subterfuge.

Your small frame was both a blessing and a curse; it allowed you to move stealthily through crowded streets, slipping unnoticed through the cracks of society. With nimble fingers and an instinct for evasion, you learned to dodge the watchful eyes of those around you, honing your skills in a world where the difference between safety and peril was razor-thin. Yet, beneath the surface, the weight of your choices lingered, a reminder of the reality you faced in a city that rarely offered a way out.

You had witnessed Gotham endure its fair share of hardships, but at that time, you still felt invincible in your youth. Then, everything changed in an instant when tragedy struck: your mother died from an overdose. The funeral was a blur, a hurried affair devoid of warmth or healing. You didn’t cry; in fact, you felt a strange detachment, as if the woman who had brought you into this world was a stranger. You had long stopped calling her “Mom,” instead settling on a cold, clinical distance that mirrored your fractured relationship.

It was as though she had vanished from your life long before that fateful day, fading into the shadows of neglect and chaos. Your stepfather seemed equally indifferent; he moved through life like a ghost, often present at home but never truly there. When you crossed paths with him, he offered nothing more than a dismissive glance, and you had come to accept that silence as a comfort rather than a burden.

You learned to exist in your own bubble, navigating the world independently, because relying on anyone else felt like a weakness. You didn't need him or your mother; you had forged a path for yourself in this unforgiving city, believing that self-sufficiency was the only way to survive. The scars of loss and neglect had made you resilient, but they also left you feeling isolated in a world that continued to spin around you, indifferent to your struggles.

You made it a priority to take care of yourself, regardless of the circumstances surrounding you. The nature of your jobs often lingered in the shadows—some were shady and perilous, filled with risks that could leave you bruised or worse. There were nights when desperation drove you to steal, taking what you needed to survive and thrive. Despite the precarious path you walked, you operated in a way that kept you under the radar; no one ever caught you in the act. Yet, that didn’t mean you were invisible. People noticed you. The local law enforcement was all too familiar with your name and face, and the city’s criminals recognized you as well, aware of your resourcefulness and endurance. You navigated this world with skill, knowing that both sides kept their distance, intrigued but cautious of your determined nature.

Years passed, and you were now sixteen, navigating the gritty landscape of Gotham City. It was an ordinary day, the kind that blurred together in your memory—a typical school day that surprised even you with your decision to attend. As the final bell rang, the familiar rush of students pouring out of the building filled the air, but you lingered for a moment, feeling a gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach.

Stepping onto the bustling streets, the scent of street vendors and distant coffee wafted toward you, teasing your senses. You wandered aimlessly, the chaos of Gotham all around you, the sounds of honking cars and distant sirens muffled by your racing thoughts. With little money to spare and an insatiable craving for something to eat, you slipped into your usual habit. Being a bit of a kleptomaniac, you navigated through the market stalls and shops, your heart racing as you discreetly snatched a few items—some snacks here, a soda there.

In the back of your mind, you believed your actions were unnoticed; after all, Gotham was a city where shadows could easily swallow a person whole. But that day, you felt a prickling sense of unease, an instinct whispering that you were not as invisible as you thought. As you turned to leave, the sensation of being watched hit you with sudden clarity, and you realized—perhaps you weren't as stealthy as you believed.

As you stepped out of the store, a wave of adrenaline coursed through you, but before you could fully process it, reality struck hard – you were under arrest. The chaos unfolded in a blur. Perhaps the thrill of getting away with it too many times had dulled your senses, or maybe you had simply let your guard down, becoming too comfortable with your choices.

Once at the precinct, the heavy door clanged shut behind you, echoing the finality of your situation as they ushered you into a cell. You felt a strange calmness wash over you. Handcuffs were not new to you; you had danced this dance before. As you peered through the bars, you recognized several faces among the officers; some were familiar from your previous encounters, while others eyed you with a mix of boredom and judgment.

Then, one officer approached you, a noticeable figure in the sea of uniforms—Officer Gordon. His presence felt oddly familiar. You had crossed paths with him on multiple occasions in Gotham; he was always earnest, often attempting to steer you toward the right path. His gentle nudges to pursue an education and make better choices rang in your ears, a stark contrast to the cold steel of your current reality. In that moment, you could see the disappointment in his eyes, and it made you question just how far you had strayed from the dreams you once held.

He leaned forward, curiosity etched across his face as he asked you a series of questions about school. You forced a smile, lying through your teeth, claiming that everything was going well, even though the truth was that you rarely attended. When he inquired if there was anyone who could come to pick you up, you hesitated for a moment before mentioning your stepdad’s name. However, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t be able to help since he hadn’t answered his phone all day. The atmosphere grew heavier as the situation turned serious; they proceeded to explain the necessity of conducting a blood test to verify your identity, a routine but unsettling requirement that left you feeling more isolated than ever.

You didn’t care much in that moment. You figured Officer Gordon wouldn’t find anyone significant, or if he did, they could simply swing by, scoop you up, and you’d go your separate ways without a second thought. The tension in the room was palpable as you waited for the test results. When they finally came back, Officer Gordon’s expression shifted—it was a mix of surprise and concern. He quickly excused himself to make a phone call, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts.

Minutes later, he returned, his demeanor more serious than before. “Your father is on his way to pick you up,” he informed you, and you felt a flicker of anticipation, expecting it to be Greg. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t Greg who stepped inside. Instead, it was Bruce Wayne, a figure who radiated an air of authority and confidence, instantly transforming the mundane atmosphere into something charged with weighty implications. Your heart raced as you absorbed the reality of the moment.

[neocity-net]

new addition to our library 📚 by zanna! help to spread the word everywhere by reblogging!

♬⋆.˚　WOES OF A MUSIC STUDENT　( 김대영 )

genre fluff , music university au , both reader and jaehee are pianists , jaehee x fem!reader   cw school stress , i actually know next to nothing about jazz composition so if it makes no sense ignore , not proofread   wc 434   request yes   note i love jaehee soooo bad whenever he touches a piano i actually fall to my knees like i'm not sane   net @kstrucknet @neocity-net

“We should use the minor third, not the fifth. We’re going for something jazzy so get the classics out of your head,” Daeyoung said, pointing at the chord you had written out of habit. You sighed, already erasing some of the composition. Composing jazz melodies always had your brain spinning a bit. Daeyoung had a better grip on the theory of it.

“Let’s do an F minor 7 here since we had a theme of D in the previous two bars. We can resolve it with a G or C7 later on,” he suggested, picking up his pencil and scribbling in the chords over where you had erased the previous ones. With skilled hands he played the twelve bars you had written so far, rich chords and a dancing chromatic third pattern singing out between them. You had to admit, it sounded perfect. 

“This jazz unit is gonna be the end of me. I’d give everything to go back to Baroque,” you slumped over the piano, forehead resting on the top of the fallboard. 

“It’s the last one of the semester. It’s better than practicing your pieces for finals another fifty times. Surprised you haven’t killed one of our professors yet,” your boyfriend joked. He was surviving another year at music school a lot better than you. Maybe you should have taken your parents advice and majored in something safer. It was all to prove a point. To show them that you could be successful in a career in fine arts. You weren’t too sure yourself, though.

Daeyoung always believed in you. He saw where you shined musically while most teachers didn’t spare you or your playing an extra glance. Maybe it was just because he just paid more attention, or that he cared more. You knew he would do the same to any of your classmates. It wasn’t just because you were dating— he was just kind to everyone. 

“I think I’m going to rip my hair out if I have to think of one more chord progression,” you mumbled, defeated. Daeyoung rubbed your back, coaxing you to lean against his shoulder instead of the piano.

“I’ll do the rest. It’s only 20 measures.”

You nodded, grateful that you didn’t have to look at the empty staff still to fill with notes. Your boyfriend grabbed the pencil again, drawing in a rhythm of triplets in the thirteenth bar. Closing your eyes, you listened to the sound of the pencil scribbling on paper and Daeyoung’s hands on the keys; the gentle melody slowly washing away the frustration that had been building up all day.

nct wish taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @lexeees,, @nyukyusnz,, @planetkiimchi,, @haecien,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @yudaies,, @mjupis,, @lilly-cherry7,, @kpopandbookschild,, @taroddori,, @lexeees,, @voikiraz,, @xikskrrrs,, @cupidslovearrows,, @yvshi,, @nicholasluvbot,, @hhaechansmoless,, @i03jae,, @somerandomf1fan,, @tmrwsuns

[hivemuthur]

Tightrope - masterlist

overall explicit - based on a request, viktorxfemale!reader, academic rivals/friends to lovers, modern era AU. AO3

tag: #tightrope

A mini-series based on a request for academic-rivals. NSFW content begins in chapter 2. From warnings: slightly mean or rather teasy-natured Viktor, slight praise kink, sneaking around in dusty places, some angst resolved with smut + mentions of female hardships in male-dominated environments. Fully proof read by @rennethen, thank you!

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3.

[nebuladreamerrr]

Black sheep| Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: You had always felt rejected by your family's paternal side, but you managed to overcome it. However, one match could unleash a plethora of problems.

Warnings: English is not my first language and mention physical and psychological abuse by a paternal figure.

Little by little, at just twenty years old, you had managed to overcome all the obstacles that came your way. It wasn't easy, but with the support of your close circle of friends, you achieved it.

Childhood memories are hazy for you, often questioning if the few you hold truly belong to you or if they are just vague impressions shared when strangers inquire about your early years.

There were beautiful moments in childhood, especially when your father wasn't home. You remember singing summer songs loudly with your mother, her gentle hands combing through your hair as she deftly wove small braids secured with light blue hair ties—a tangible link to carefree, joyful days.

You loved school immensely. Every class fascinated you: from reading fairy tales to dancing at end-of-year parties, practicing carols for Christmas galas, and most of all, playing with classmates during recess. Whether it was tag, British Bulldog, or imitating singers from The Voice Kids, those moments overflowed with happiness.

But these memories darkened when you thought of your father. Despite living in Spain, he enforced a "French" education on you from a young age. He insisted on speaking only Spanish with your mother, and if he caught you playing alone and using a Spanish word instead of French, he would shout and intimidate you. "It's not 'muñeca', it's 'poupée'," he would sternly correct. Those echoes of shouts tainted the joyful memories with shadows of fear and strictness.

Luckily, on your eleventh birthday, your mother gave you the incredible gift of promising to divorce your father. It wasn't an easy decision for either of you. Firstly, because your mother had endured years of severe abuse, beginning with psychological mistreatment that later turned physical. Secondly, because your father was the main provider for the family, which often meant tightening belts to find moments of happiness. Despite the hardships, that promise marked the beginning of a new chapter—one where you started to find the peace and freedom you desperately needed.

With immense effort and dedication, you managed to open a small restaurant that became your family's main source of income. Once things stabilized, your mother finally fulfilled her dream: creating an association to support women who, like her, were trapped in abusive situations and couldn't escape due to fear or difficulties. The association provided shelter, money, clothing, and food to any woman, along with her children or pets, facing such circumstances.

Reflecting on it now, you couldn't be prouder of your mother. Not only for her incredible strength and resilience but also because she always supported your dreams. She became a beacon of hope and resilience for many other women. Her courage and dedication not only changed your lives but also touched and transformed many others.

After successfully completing your education despite the challenges, you faced a new wave of anxiety upon receiving a job offer as a physiotherapist for the French national football team. With an outstanding academic record and recognition from your professors as an exemplary student, evidenced by the honor roll distinction you received, you never imagined an international opportunity would come your way.

The issue wasn't the opportunity itself but the fear of working with international stars and, above all, with a prestigious team of physiotherapists. However, your primary concern was moving to France.

You hadn't set foot in that country since your father left to reunite with his relatives, who felt somewhat ashamed of him for not being able to "tame his lady." Just hearing that language again gave you goosebumps, and every attempt to speak French seemed to trigger a mental block.

But, as a beloved phrase reminds you, "If fear occupies your head, it leaves no room for your dreams." So, with a half-empty suitcase ready to be filled with memories and stories to share upon returning to Spain, you courageously departed for France in 2020. Since then, you've hardly ventured out of the country.

The enchanting French cities captivated you, and despite a few challenging encounters, you handled them with grace and chose to extend your stay. Not to mention, the team of physiotherapists was highly impressed with your work.

You still vividly remember your first day with the players. Nerves had you meticulously arranging bandages and creams, striving for a professionalism that mirrored your dedication. A soft knock on the door startled you, expecting someone at a distance, only to find a young, robust man on the other side.

Young Mbappé wasted no time in coming to your aid, concern evident in his eyes as he asked if you were alright. Despite the initial awkwardness, the session proceeded smoothly. Kylian took the opportunity to inquire about you throughout, his curiosity revealing a growing rapport. By the session's end, the young Frenchman boldly asked for your number and recommended you as his preferred physiotherapist to the trainers, advocating for all future appointments to be with you.

As the French training camp concluded, a deep friendship tinged with burgeoning affection had blossomed between you both, culminating in several dates that emboldened you to begin a relationship that proved profoundly positive for you both.

Over time, you gradually opened up more to Kylian. While he couldn't fathom or justify the challenges your father had imposed on your mother and you, he was resolute in not letting you slip away, grateful for the fortune of meeting you.

Following intense matches filled with surprises, including Kylian breaking his nose in one, France advanced to the semifinals. Despite being French, he understood and respected your steadfast support for Spain, a country synonymous with peace and security for you. Despite France treating you kindly in recent years, your bond with Spain remained unshakeable. And while you supported Spain nationally, Kylian knew he held a special place in your heart as your favorite player.

After a long and disappointing match where France fell short against Spain, conceding victory with two goals, Kylian felt the sting of defeat. Anticipating an uncomfortable press conference probing Rabiot's reaction and Lamine's triumph, his true yearning was to find solace in your arms, the sanctuary he sought since your first embrace.

Exiting the press conference, he swiftly made his way to the locker room for a cold shower and to swap into the national team jersey. Anxious to receive one of your comforting massages, he hastened towards you. Yet upon arrival, his surprise mounted upon seeing you visibly distressed while listening to an unfamiliar older man.

His astonishment grew as he approached and heard the hurtful words of your uncle: "Even twenty years from now, you will always be a disappointment. I wonder if you've struck a deal with your boyfriend to win a bet and some money. You're a small rat who will never rise socially. My brother made a grave mistake marrying your mother."

Before you could respond, you felt his strong arms around your waist, shielding you. Kylian intervened calmly yet firmly: "Excuse me, if you don't stop speaking like that, I'll be forced to call security. I won't allow you to belittle my girlfriend or her family. If you continue, all of France will know how you treat women, and your family business will suffer."

Taken aback by Kylian's response and swift action, your uncle chose to leave the stadium. Touched deeply by Kylian's display of love and protection, tears streamed down your face as you embraced him and whispered, "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would do without you, my king."

From the moment he met you, Kylian had made a vow to himself: he wouldn't let your family inflict pain on you again.

[eod-agent-13-12]

Violating the Confidence

Stuck in late night reading, Agent Phoenix contemplates their past experiences in a similar era of their life years ago.

Content Warning: Very self-indulgent and comfort fic. You have been warned. Also, discussions of burnout and implied academic hardships will be present.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Agent Phoenix let out a short breath as they stared at the stack of paper they had to go through. Maybe even boxes of the stuff. They've gotten out of their agency training and probation but they're back to the more... administrative sides of espionage: paperwork, or more specifically going through someone else's.

Zoraxis had laid low, forcing the 'great Agent Phoenix' to take up more mundane work. Normally, they'd sulk and fuss over the amount of work and paper they have to read but-

"For once, you seem really excited to read through this, Agent. Is there something about it that makes you enthusiastic about this?" Reginald sounded amused before handing them a cup of warm 'tea'. (He wouldn't call the concoction tea at all- no! It was leaf water. But he doesn't have the heart to tell them since they're cutting down on caffeine, something their doctor recommended after so many sleepless nights.)

"I got access to a paper early for once. Usually, I only get them once they're printed for conferences." Their eyes shone with glee as they used telekinesis on a different piece of paper. "Now, I get to see all the messy drafts and internal sobs of those scientists. The late nights, the revisions. You know, the typical stuff that keeps people up at night... You... did see Doc P go through this, yes?"

They took a short sip from the cup, tasting the bitterness as it traveled down their throat. The small light from their desk lamp was dim enough to not disturb anyone still silly miserable enough to be awake at this late hour. Their brow raised at Reginald as they watched him squirm under their gaze.

"I am... vaguely aware of the process, Agent. But it's more on trying to get her to rest. She had quite the concerning habit to be awake before dawn without sleeping at all. It was bad enough that I had to drag her from her desk to get her to lay down more than once."

They smiled, placing the mug down on the empty spot of their desk. There was a small thud that disguised the small chuckle that slipped from their lips. "Guess she never escaped that."

"I don't think she did. But I quite admire her for her determination. I suppose being with her made some nights pass easier. Going through paperwork can certainly feel like a drag, Agent." He sat down in one of the spare chairs of their office, eyes crinkling with amusement as they floated a different file and sticking red string on it to reveal a graph.

"Reminds me of so many days of staying up and begging for my muse to come back." A small smile grace their face as they lifted a file up to their mouth. "A thesis is not easy. In fact, I once spent a night crying while thinking of it and demanded cuddles from Ver."

Their shoulders slumped, their body leaning onto their chair as they took a deep breath. "Right. Her..." Their bangs swaying slightly as they looked up at the ceiling.

"She seems to be quite important to you, Agent." He took a glance at their slump, their hair tied up with a single hair stick but gently falling apart. "A ghost from your past perhaps?"

Agent Phoenix's eyes dulled, hiding the silver spots in their irises even more. "You... could say that. Unfortunately, I don't have anything to bribe Shawn with. But to put it in simple terms, she's working for Zoraxis now and I don't know if she'll choose me over... you know, the entire thing about Zoraxis: control, stability, an opportunity to take things to the next level. A bit more than that but... you know."

Reginald heard a slight click, followed by seeing his agent twirling an expensive glass pen with their left hand. Their eyes were dazed as slumped on the backrest of their spinning chair even more, allowing them to dip further into their desk.

"She held my cheek and called me 'darling' some days. I called her 'Ver' because of a joke. 'Throwing myself off a veranda'. It's... complicated but there was a terror prof and she was acting like a baby version of it. In a way, she did become a terror."

Something about the way their eyes reddened before they grabbed their left wrist with their other hand rubbed Reginald the wrong way as they took a deep breath like someone who was just exposed to some poisonous gas.

"Fe, what are you doing?" The older woman looked at the college student laying on the floor of their bedroom in despair. Tear stains decorated their cheeks as the mess of papers were scattered everywhere. Black and blue covered the side of their left hand as they heaved slowly.

"Getting swallowed by despair, Ver. I need a hug. Please? I'm tired of looking at these papers and I wanna see a comforting sight instead." Fe whined, reaching out their arms, trying to wipe their tears away with their long sleeves.

"And to think one of the department's brightest is reduced to such a state. You're ruining your clothes if you lay down like that." She sighed, watching as her junior's elegance get reduced to a sniffling blob of misery.

"It's not mine." They smirked, arms still reaching out to her. Their silver-specked eyes were bright under the brown background of their iris. The small study lamp was bathing them in a soft orange-ish tone the same way their chuckles are slowly filling the air.

"You little- you're going to get that washed and pressed when you return it. And you will. You already stole my glass pen." Her indignant tone echoed in the room as she approached closer and took their hand in hers and 'pulled' them up.

Their arms wrapped around her, hands trembling as they put their head on her shoulder. They've grown bigger during their time in college, that's for sure. Just how much longer until they reach her?

"Please don't push me away this time. I just... I'm so tired. I can't sleep. I have to get this done or else I'm-"

She held their back, patting it tightly as her arms embraced them. "You will get that done. It's you. If anyone can pull off such an ambitious thesis idea, it'll be you. And I'm always right."

"Shut it. I'm just... not in a good mood. Overwhelmed. You know how it is. System's rotten. Heh." They buried their face on her shoulder as they tightened the embrace like a lifeline.

"I'm aware, darling. Just a few minutes, alright?"

They smiled while gently 'pushing' her down for floor time, trying not to crumple the papers scattered everywhere. "Thanks, Ver."

"Handler Sir? How do you deal with the fact that Dr. P worked for Zor?" Phoenix glanced at him, eyes begging him for answers. Their eyes were watery but no tears were shed as they looked up to the closed lights. "I... need to hear it."

"It's... a complicated matter, Agent. For one, she's still on the run. We haven't tracked her location but we have seen her movements."

"I'm asking emotionally. Have you... processed it? Do you have any people you treated as a friend or mentor work for an enemy side?"

"It's a common phenomena, Agent. I find it a sorry matter you had to go through it."

"I just hope I can one day get her out of there. Last I checked, she sounded so exhausted and I'm worried. She's loyal to Zor to a fault and, embarrassed as I am to say it, I'm afraid what relationship we may have shared might fall apart when she finally knows what I do." Phoenix pulled out the hair stick, combed their hair with their fingers, and put their hair up once more. "Handler Sir, I know that look and I'll tell you right now. I'm not telling you who that is unless someone will be put in danger because of my silence. You can't make me break that confidence."

"I wouldn't plan on it. Discretion is a valuable asset. I suppose I should trust you know what you're doing."

"I know that as much as everyone else, Sir."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Self-indulgent Fic done. Trying to get into the flow of writing once more and practice.

Fun Fact: Ver is a nickname I came up with for one of the canon characters that I did not anticipate growing on me. I blame @definitelyunhingedagentphoenix for that. /j /silly

Tag List:

@phoenix-and-found-family, @the-one-and-only-043, @agentwraith, @jellyfishgummy, @silverdragon889, @agent--shadow, @blueorchid-95

@stellar-collective, @agent-nor, @dandorime, @juniperfan16, @warden-draws-sometimes

[neocity-net]

new addition to our library 📚 by tomie! help to spread the word everywhere by reblogging!

Ups and Downs - L.Taeyong

Pairing(s) - Taeyong x GN!Reader, slight Yuta x GN!Reader at the start

Genre(s) - University!AU, Fluff, slight Angst

Warnings - swearing, academic rivalry (not with Taeyong or Yuta), reader has a meltdown during a presentation

Summary - You were thankful for group projects in college, but only when you were paired with your crush, Yuta, and quiet art major, Taeyong. When presentation day disaster strikes, you discover who truly sees your worth beneath the chaos of university life and academic rivals.

Word Count - 5.0k

Author's Note - This is inspired by a dream I had about three years ago when I was in the midst of changing my majors and ultimately seeking academic validation and I’m sure a lot of this will show through the fic haha 

Taglist - @k-vanity @neocity-net (fill out this google form if you'd like to be added!)

Written for the Candy Hearts Collab originally hosted by @127-mile. Also part of my NCT: Seven Deadly Sins Collection. 

Prompt: “Are you jealous?”

Now playing: Ups & Downs - Taeyong, She Looks So Perfect - 5 Seconds of Summer

You sighed in exhaustion, leaning back in your chair and stretching while closing your eyes, letting them rest from all the hours of staring at your laptop screen. You had spent hours on your assignments, but the work never seemed to end. You were starting to question if this business degree was worth all of the long, tired nights. 

It was worth it when you got to have class with, in your opinion, one of the most handsome men on campus, Nakamoto Yuta. The fourth-year communications major had an air about him that was so enchanting. He carried himself with so much confidence and charm that it was impossible not to look at him as he strode through the hallways, his bold fashion sense posing a stark contrast to the bleak beige walls. 

Initially, you were upset about having to take a lower-level business marketing class as you were already well into your degree, but your academic advisor informed you it was mandatory, especially since you had intended to finish your degree in business with a focus on marketing specifically. You already knew all the concepts the course covered, and for that, you hated coming to class, feeling as if it was a waste of time. But whenever Yuta showed up, you thought perhaps this class wasn’t all that bad. 

You all but choked on air when your professor announced that you would be in the same group as him for the final project. But that excitement quickly faded as he stated the name of the next person to be in your group. Clara, your academic rival from the very start of your college career. She had been in so many of your business-related classes, and quite frankly, you were sick of her. She, too, was a business major, but unlike you, she had a focus in public relations, making her all the more better at manipulating people and playing them in just the right way to get exactly what she wanted.

You felt your irritation bubbling in your chest, the intensity of it ringing through your ears, almost loud enough for you to nearly miss the name of the last person in your group. Lee Taeyong. You knew him, the fourth-year graphic design major, but you had never spoken to him. You had no idea what an art major could be doing in this course meant for a business major, though you weren’t one to critique others and their academic path seeing as you could barely cope with your own. 

Your phone buzzed on your desk, pulling you away from your thoughts. A familiar heat in your cheeks began to bloom as you saw Yuta’s name pop up. But just as always, Clara was there. She had a way of ruining anything nice you ever had at school. 

It was worth noting that you previously had projects with Clara in your multiple shared business classes, so you were no stranger to her antics. The way she constantly forced her way into conversations that she wasn’t part of, the way she would steal your ideas and reword them to make it seem like she came up with them, the way she did it all shamelessly as if the world owed it to her. There was no way you were going to let it happen this time, not with Yuta in your group. 

“So, does anyone have an idea on what our topic should be?” Yuta dropped his backpack onto a chair as the group entered a study room in the library. 

“Oooh, I have a few,” Clara volunteers, ever so eager to earn points with someone she may get to use in her network of connections. “But what do you guys think?” She turned to you guys, eyes wide as a deer. You knew what she was doing, you knew she wanted you to spill your ideas so she could snatch them up and turn them into her own before anyone even remembered that you said it first.

“Haven’t really thought about it,” you mutter, a lie. You had thought about this final project a lot, not just because Yuta was in your group. This project was by far more interesting than any of the essays and PowerPoint presentations you had created. The core task was to develop a hypothetical marketing plan to promote any organization of your choosing. The professor left it open-ended so you could choose any topic to market, and for that, you were thankful. 

“I have an idea,” Taeyong began quietly as you all got settled around the table. “I know I’m a bit out of place here as an art major, but I was thinking, maybe we could talk about using marketing techniques like social media and ads.” He looked between the group of you guys, unsure if you would like his take on the project. “I kind of wanted to focus more so on how art is used in marketing and how it can be used to influence the consumer’s psychology to create persuasive messaging that appeals to their emotions and humanity.”

“Taeyong, that’s an amazing idea,” Clara gawked. You held back a scoff at her obvious acting. 

Taeyong was a creative person, and you could see it just through his proposal. He had thrown all your previous doubts about him out the window, but you worried for him. He didn’t know Clara the way you did. He hadn’t experienced her way of banking on the intellectual property of others, and you could tell that he was going to be Clara’s next target through this project. 

You leaned forward in your seat, resting your forearms on the cool table in front of you. “So, I guess we have our marketing strategies and tools covered. But what about our topic? What should we advertise? What kind of organization are we supporting here?”

Clara turned back to Taeyong expectantly as Yuta fiddled with a pencil between his fingers. Taeyong looked between the three of you and let out a sheepish laugh. His right hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it slowly as he spoke, eyes glued to the table. “Well, because I volunteer at the animal shelter, I think it would be nice to advertise for them-”

“Awwww, that’s so cute,” Clara interrupted. “I didn’t know you liked animals!”

Taeyong had a slight smile on his face as he looked up from the table and met her gaze. “Yeah, I love animals. I think they’re all so sweet.”

“Oh my gosh, no way! I never thought a guy like you would volunteer at an animal shelter and have such a soft spot for them! Do you have a favorite animal? Or a favorite at the shelter? I’m sure all the puppies there must be so cute, their little paws and their-”

“Clara,” Yuta interjected, firm and stable. “I only booked this room for an hour. Let’s not waste our time here.”

“Sorry,” she apologized, peering up at Yuta through her lashes, and she drew her hands into her lap. You so badly wanted to roll your eyes, but you refrained. 

Yuta made a little nod to her before turning back to you. “So, going back to our topic, it seems that it’s been decided for us. Animal welfare organizations it is.”

“Okay, great, so to summarize everything we decided on today,” you pulled out your phone to write a message into the project’s group chat, “our marketing plan aims to promote animal welfare organizations,” you glanced up at Yuta for confirmation, “through the use of art within social media and ads to target the consumer’s psychology and create a message that appeals to their emotions and humanity.” Taeyong nodded along as you listed off everything. 

Yuta clapped his hands together once. “Awesome. Now, let’s divide up the work.”

It was concluded that Taeyong would take the lead in sourcing material to use for mock-ups of the hypothetical ads that would be posted on social media or aired on television. He came up with a plan to get pictures and videos of animals at the shelter and edit them himself. “Creativity comes the most easily when it’s something dear to your heart,” he claimed. With your focus on marketing, it only made sense for you to end up working alongside him, carefully shaping the theme of Taeyong’s work and pairing his art with the capitalist ideals of your field. 

On the other hand, Yuta took it upon himself to handle the final presentation. The creation of the presentation itself was quite easy, simply taking whatever you and Taeyong created and throwing it into a slideshow. It was the presentation that would bring your project home, and Yuta was perfect for the job. Yuta was to work on a script for the entire group with Clara’s support, using carefully chosen words to dig into the audience’s emotions and bring to life the media that you and Taeyong created. 

From then on, you worked tirelessly on the project. Day in and day out, you had your laptop open whenever you could, looking over the pictures and videos Taeyong had sent and thinking up what kind of story they could tell, what kind of message they could convey. You quickly grew close to Taeyong upon seeing how kind he was to all the animals he came across. He was so gentle, even with the insects that you wouldn’t hesitate to smack with the bottom of your shoe. He even once sent you a video of a toad resting in the palm of his hand, staring up at him with wide, glossy eyes. 

You and Taeyong worked well as a team, and you quickly grew close to him. The videos he sent only made you more and more intrigued with this hidden side of him. “So what are you doing taking this class?” You asked one night over a video call. “You’re not a business major, so surely you didn't have to take this class if you didn’t want to, right?”

Taeyong looked away from the footage he was editing over to your image on his screen. “Yeah, I didn’t have to take it, but I wanted to. In my program, we have a lot of elective spots that are meant to round us out as students and people so we’re not released into the world as solely artists.”

“Oh, that’s smart of them,” you remarked, not ever having thought about the difference in academic curriculum before. “So why this class then? Why business?”

You watched Taeyong through the screen as he shrugged. “Figured that it would be good to take a look at this side of things, you know? If one day my art blows up and one day people want to buy it and own prints of my work, I thought it would be useful to know how to market it properly.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, “That’s a good point.” 

Like this, you and Taeyong grew more familiar with each other, finding comfort in working together. Even in the silence of your video calls, interrupted only by the sound of a keyboard clicking or a pencil scratching on paper, Taeyong was there. 

As the deadline for the final project drew near, you and Taeyong were more frequently joined by Yuta and Clara. The four of you jointly went over all the media that you and Taeyong had curated and incorporated it into the script that Yuta had been writing. Clara would interject with comment every so often about Yuta misplacing a punctuation mark or moving a picture closer to the center of the page, anything to gain Yuta’s approval. 

It irritated you, and you had to keep telling yourself that it was only a few more days until you could finally be rid of her. However, as much as you were excited to be free from Clara, that also meant saying goodbye to your interactions with Yuta. You didn’t feel close enough to him to strike up a conversation, and you most certainly were not going to ask him on a date, fearing the rejection that you felt was inevitable. 

You could only admire Yuta through your computer screen, and that much had to be enough for your aching heart. It didn’t go unnoticed, though, with Taeyong’s own eyes observing your video feed and his mind quieting his emotions. He could tell that you adored Yuta. ‘If only she saw me the same way she saw him,’ Taeyong thought to himself. 

The day you were due to present your final project to the class finally arrived. You were powered only by two hours of sleep and three shots of espresso, but you couldn’t give up now. You poured your heart and soul into this project, matching the same energy that Taeyong gave alongside you through all the long nights and bleary mornings. Today would be your moment of triumph. 

You stood on stage with your groupmates, Yuta closest to the screen as he led the presentation with Clara at his side while you and Taeyong stood on the opposite end of the screen. Yuta spoke eloquently with perfect pacing and the occasional bit of humor, introducing your groups’ topics and the methods behind the teams’ marketing plan. He looked so natural holding the microphone and speaking in front of a large audience, one might have even thought he would be a singer in another life.

Every smile Yuta gave to the audience only made you want him more. He was the perfect mix of funny and smart, a charmer in every way. Any moment you weren’t gazing out into the sea of your classmates or briefly speaking about your contributions to the project, your eyes were on him. The way the lights hit him made him glow, a soft golden aura floating around him, making him seem all the more ethereal. 

Taeyong saw the way you looked at Yuta, and he hated it. He couldn’t bear the way your eyes were glued to Yuta and how your lips would pull tight as you held back a smile when he cracked a joke. Taeyong only wished that you would look at him with that same kind of fondness one day, but for now, he merely stared straight ahead into the rows of the large lecture hall. 

As the presentation was coming to a close, you got ready to do your final remarks and lead into a Q&A session, as Yuta had written in the script. Taeyong handed you the microphone after briefly talking about animal sanctuaries and his work at the local animal shelter. You were about to begin your portion when you were interrupted by Clara on the other end of the stage. “It is all thanks to Taeyong that we were able to decide on such a selfless topic, one that the rest of us would have never thought of. Taeyong and his passion brought a great deal to this project, and I would like to mention just how much he contributed.” You sighed, waiting for Clara to end her oh-so-valiant speech, just wanting to get your part over with. “I was easily able to apply my knowledge of marketing and public relations to Taeyong’s work, creating stories that pulled at your emotions. Without Taeyong and Yuta in this team, our presentation wouldn’t have been even half of what it became.”

With that, she handed the microphone back to Yuta, looking at you expectantly to continue as rehearsed. But you couldn’t. A wave of heat came across your face, flooding to your ears as you felt your throat grow tight and your mouth go dry. You didn’t dare speak into the microphone, fearing that your unstable voice would break and show what you were feeling. Was it anger? Shame? Embarrassment? Maybe a mix of all of them? You couldn’t tell. All you could do was hand Taeyong the microphone, his warm hand brushing against yours in the most fleeting of touches, before you ran off the stage. 

As you fled down the stairs and off into one of the dressing rooms in the back, you heard Taeyong deliver what were supposed to be your final words. You leaned against a wall as the first of your tears fell from your eyes, leaving hot and jagged streaks in their wake. “With this, we conclude our presentation,” you hear Taeyong say the opening words of your ending speech that you so carefully recited to yourself over and over for the past week. The audience clapped for your teams’ presentation, and you wiped at your tears, trying your best to make yourself acceptable before going back on stage. 

You heard the first question being asked, trying to listen and fall into a more professional mindset again, but your efforts fell apart as the door to the dressing room was pushed open. Whipping around, you tried to dab at your eyes, wanting to blot away the tears before they had the chance to fall. You froze in your actions when you realized through blurry eyes that it was Taeyong who had entered the room. “Aren’t you supposed to be up there with them?” Your voice was shaky, but you didn’t care anymore. 

“Yeah,” he quietly breathed out while coming to your side. He brought a hand up to your face, cupping your moist cheek in his large palm. “But this is more important than being with them. They can handle the questions.”

You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes as you tried to quiet the sniffles and hiccups that exposed you against your will. “Thank you,” you manage to croak out. Your hands latch onto his forearm, not wanting him to let go of you just yet. Only when your body had stilled and your breathing slowed did you find the courage to open your eyes again. You were met by Taeyong’s eyes, pupils round and dark, peering into yours with his brows furrowed in worry. “Why are you here? You could have just let me go.”

Taeyong shook his head. “I can’t do that. Not when I know how hard you worked on this.” His eyes flit between yours as he used his thumb to brush away a tear that slipped away through the corner of your eye. “All those nights we spent together working on this presentation…I saw what you went through for us, for this team. Those two out there? They didn’t see all the times you nearly fell asleep at your desk. But that doesn’t mean they can undermine all the effort you put into this project.”

“No, don’t include Yuta in this,” you tell Taeyong, pulling his hand away from your face but still not letting go of him. “He didn’t do anything wrong-”

“Yes, he did,” Taeyong spoke those words quickly with enough conviction to stop you in your thoughts as you stared back into his big, round eyes. “He didn’t care to stop Clara or correct her words while she spread all those lies. After you ran off, I told the audience that it was you who worked closest to me and matched my every step in this process.” Taeyong brought his free hand to cover yours that were still on his wrist. “It was you that sifted through my endless files and picked the best ones. It wasn’t Clara, it wasn’t Yuta. It was you. The very fact that Yuta didn’t do anything up there…I think that shows enough.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” you point out. “He didn’t know that Clara was going to say all of that.”

“Yeah, well, neither did you or me.” He was right. “Their recognition doesn’t define your talent. I saw it myself, and I know just how amazing you are. If Yuta didn’t care enough to stand up to Clara, then he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve the way you look at him, the way you smile whenever he laughs, the way your eyes light up when he walks into the room-”

“Taeyong, are you jealous?” You watched as his mouth slowly shut and his jaw tightened. 

He looked away from you and down at the floor. “So what if I am?” He muttered. “Any man would be jealous of how much you fawn over that guy.”

You squeezed Taeyong’s wrist, wanting him to look at you. “This isn’t about my crush on him-”

“Crush on who?” Yuta burst into the room. 

“It’s nothing.” “You.” Both you and Taeyong spoke at the same time, heads jerking to the sudden guest.

“Well, someone in the crowd just asked about donating to the shelter, so Taeyong, I’m gonna need you back on stage,” Yuta urged before leaving just as quickly as he came. 

Taeyong turned back to you. “Come on, let’s go.” He tugged at the arm he was still holding onto, but you refused to move. 

You didn’t want to go back on stage after everything that happened. “Taeyong, I- I can’t.”

“Okay, then don’t.” He finally freed you from his grasp as he made his way to the door. “But just know that I will tell the audience how much you endured for this very day, and I’ll do it no matter if you’re up there with me or not.”

He closed the door, and you heard his footsteps grow faint as he returned to the stage. Your head fell to your hands, and you slid down against a wall onto the floor. It all was too much. First, it was Clara during the presentation, then it was Taeyong being a jealous prick and getting involved when he shouldn't have, and now Yuta knows about your crush on him. You just wanted the ground to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. 

You stayed sitting with your forehead against your arms and your back against the wall, the coolness of it serving as a way to ground you to reality as you fought back another wave of emotion. You didn’t remember how long you sat there for, but it was long enough for the audience to erupt in another round of applause followed by hurried footsteps coming off the stage. 

Yuta called your name once, his voice growing louder. “We did it! The presentation is done!” He entered the room once more, expecting to see you in a somewhat better state than when he left. When he found you on the floor, he rushed to you, kneeling and taking your hands in his. 

You yanked your hands back into your chest as you looked up at the man in front of you. “Congratulations,” you say dryly. 

“Look, I know what happened out there was embarrassing, but don’t let it get you down,” he tried with a smile. If this were any other occasion, the very thought of Yuta smiling at you would have been enough to have you kicking your feet and giggling like a middle schooler. But right now, you couldn’t even fathom the energy it would take to smile back at him, especially when you heard Clara’s obnoxious voice coming down the hallway.

“Oh my gosh, that little stunt you pulled back there was so embarrassing,” she began not a second after stepping foot into the dressing room. “I can’t believe you were so childish that you literally ran off stage and just left us there. What kind of teammate just leaves their team-”

“Clara, get out,” Taeyong commanded as he, too, joined the pity party in the room. 

Clara scoffed at him. “You don’t have to be so rude. We all know about your crush on that loser on the floor.”

“That’s enough.” Taeyong pushed her out the door and closed it before she could even complain. 

Your attention fell back onto Yuta in front of you, your gaze zeroing in on the way his lips moved when he spoke. “You know, I don’t mind you having a crush on me. Maybe once this is all over, we can hang out sometime…” You looked over Yuta’s shoulder and saw Taeyong with his lips pressed together in a line. Yuta’s eyes follow your gaze, falling onto the other man in the room. “...Unless something else is already going on, then I don’t want to interrupt it.”

“It’s not like that,” you quickly blurt out. You watch as Taeyong’s expression morphs into a grimace. 

Yuta senses the obvious tension in the room. “Maybe I’ll just leave the two of you here to sort things out then,” he says, excusing himself to escape from the suffocating silence. 

The silence between you and Taeyong seemed to stretch on forever before you spoke first. “What Clara said earlier…she said you have a crush? On me?”

Taeyong leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “She did say that.”

“Is it true?” 

He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “If you want it to be.”

You didn’t look at him, choosing to pick at the skin around your nails instead. “How long have you liked me?”

“Truthfully, ever since the start of this project.” Your breath hitched at the revelation. “I fell for the way you cared so deeply about your work, the way you-” he suddenly paused, causing you to glance up at him, meeting his gaze. “Look, I’m not going to spill everything when I know you still have feelings for Yuta. You should go after him.” You shook your head at Taeyong’s suggestion. “Why not? He’s the one you wanted all this time.”

While that much was true, you could tell Yuta didn’t care about you the same way you cared about him. “He doesn’t want me.” You didn’t want him to like you out of pity. You didn’t want him to try to love you just because of what happened today. 

You heard the crowd applaud once more, likely for the next group that was taking the stage. “I’m going to head back to class. I have a friend in the next group,” Taeyong shares before slipping out of the door, leaving you alone with nothing but your thoughts. 

It was a week before you contacted either one of them, but both Yuta and Taeyong had already sent you multiple messages of apologies and thank yous. You first opened Yuta’s messages and read his apology for his actions and his gratitude toward your devotion to the project. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond to him. Instead, you opened Taeyong’s messages with similar content except with the additional pictures and videos of him with an array of animals over the past few days. 

Taeyong had sent you multiple pictures of a stray cat on campus, one that he had previously told you he was taking care of. His message right below said that she had just given birth, and he managed to take them all home to look after before the kittens could be adopted out to their forever homes. Scrolling down further, he sent a video of two baby chicks sitting in the palm of his hand, chirping at him and turning their heads as he cooed back. The last picture he sent was of two baby pigs, one brown and one beige, lying close to each other as they took a nap, sound asleep and without a worry in the world. 

As you struggled to navigate your feelings, you found yourself constantly going back through all the videos and pictures Taeyong had sent to you. The warmth he showed to all those animals reminded you of the warmth he showed to you. You came to realize that his messages were laced with love and comfort, all of it waiting just for you. 

You put together a short message thanking him for all the cute animals and then asked if the two of you could meet up sometime. Taeyong responded not even a minute later. He wanted to see you. 

You finally reunited with Taeyong during the weekend at the animal shelter he volunteers at. When you told him that you were interested in helping out that day, his eyes went wide in shock. “Really?” He asked, looking as if he had boba pearls in the place of his pupils. 

“Yes, really,” you confirmed. “I wanted to see all these little cuties for myself and see what you get up to over here.”

“Oh, not much. Just cleaning up after them and making sure they all get enough play time in.” He led you towards the staff area of the shelter with a chuckle. “I’m so glad you decided to try this out.”

“There’s, uh, something else I would like to try out too, if you don’t mind,” you hesitantly started as you followed Taeyong’s lead, washing up in the large metal sink. 

He hummed a bit, going up in the end as a question while continuing to wash his hands.

“I would like to give us a try.”

Taeyong shut off the water, reaching for a towel to dry his hands. “Us?” He pointed back and forth between the two of you.

You followed suit, grabbing the towel from his hands. “Yeah, us,” copying the way he gestured. 

“Oh, um, I’d like that,” Taeyong admitted quietly as his hands came to rest at the edge of the sink. “I’d like that a lot.” 

You smiled at his words. “You would?”

Taeyong’s arms encircled you in a warm hug, and you embraced him, his chin coming to your shoulder. “Thank you for choosing me.”

His sin was envy. But you set him free. 

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Stuck With You - L.Taeyong

[mariacallous]

Emboldened by Columbia University’s recent capitulation to a series of sweeping government demands, U.S. President Donald Trump is weaponizing vast sums of federal funding against a growing number of universities. 

As of Friday morning, the Trump administration has now either frozen, canceled, or threatened more than hundreds of millions of dollars in federal funding to seven wealthy universities: Columbia, the University of Pennsylvania, Princeton, Harvard, Brown, Cornell, and Northwestern. To justify the moves, Trump officials have cited the universities’ policies for transgender athletes and alleged antisemitism and racial discrimination. 

With Columbia, Trump wielded $400 million in canceled federal funding to pressure administrators into surrendering to a raft of far-reaching government demands, and he is now reportedly considering pushing for federal oversight of the university. Trump now appears to be using that same playbook with the other institutions, most recently by issuing a long list of “critical reforms” to Harvard that the university must meet to continue receiving federal funding. 

The moves amount to an unmistakable incursion on academic freedom as Trump seeks to expel what he has called “anti-American insanity” from universities and reclaim “our once-great educational institutions from the radical left.” More could soon come, too. The Trump administration is investigating more than 50 institutions for alleged racial discrimination—an accusation that largely targets efforts by universities to promote diversity—and previously warned 60 universities of potential punishment from antisemitism probes.

Yet the ongoing campaign has sparked confusion about why institutions such as Columbia—which ranks among the world’s richest universities—aren’t using their fortunes to fight back. Columbia, for example, touts a nearly $15 billion endowment, assets that could theoretically cushion the blow of $400 million in pulled federal funding. Harvard has a whopping endowment of more than $50 billion. 

“Outsiders look at the dollar amounts and say, ‘You know, that’s a ton of money available, right? Why don’t they step up?” said Todd Ely, a professor at the University of Colorado Denver. “But the story gets a lot more complicated when you start digging into what endowments are.” 

Endowments are, at the most basic level, pools made up of various separate funds that are crucial to powering universities’ ongoing and future operations—whether that’s by supporting financial aid, study abroad programs, or research efforts—and also underpin the institutions’ long-term business strategies. 

It’s “really this collection of assets the colleges and universities invest, and the idea is they’ll be generating a long-term stream of revenue,” Ely said.

Since many donors have earmarked their contributions for certain purposes, there are indeed constraints on endowment spending, experts said. Phillip Levine, an economics professor at Wellesley College, said that donations often come with “strings attached” to them. 

“The endowment is not a piggy bank,” Levine said. 

Still, there is some room to maneuver. Much of the endowments’ restricted funding relates to operations that universities would spend money on anyway—such as financial aid or operating libraries—and even then, not all of the universities’ funding is legally bound, said Morton Schapiro, a former president of both Northwestern University and Williams College. While universities typically spend around 5 percent of their endowment per year, they have historically spent more in times of hardship, such as during the 2008 financial crisis. 

“There’s more flexibility on spending the endowment than most presidents admit,” Schapiro said. 

Yet even with that flexibility, by dangling hundreds of millions of dollars in federal funding over these universities, the Trump administration is forcing administrators to confront difficult trade-offs that will only become more existential over time. 

In an interview with NPR, Christopher Eisgruber—the president of Princeton University and one of the most vocal critics of Trump’s crackdown on higher education—said that the university’s $34.1 billion endowment can help it respond to “very short-term suspensions in research funding.” 

“But if you get to longer-term deprivation of grants at Princeton or elsewhere, what it’s going to mean is that there are going to have to be choices to stop doing things that we’re doing now,” he added.

The big question now is whether Trump’s latest targets will follow in Columbia’s footsteps. As Trump sets his sights on more universities, a growing chorus of voices, including Eisgruber, has urged the wealthy institutions to fight back. 

One such voice is Larry Summers, the former president of Harvard University as well as a former secretary of the U.S. Treasury Department, who warned in a New York Times op-ed last week that Trump’s threats “must be resisted using all available legal means”—including the institutions’ endowments. 

“Part of their function is to be drawn down in the face of emergencies, and covering federal funding lapses surely counts as one,” he wrote. “Believe me … when I say that ways can be found in an emergency to deploy even parts of the endowment that have been earmarked by their donors for other uses.”

Trump’s pressure campaign is just one part of his sweeping effort to remake higher education in the country. On top of the president’s funding threats, universities across the United States have also been roiled by the administration’s purge of the National Institutes of Health. Republican lawmakers are also mulling further hiking up the tax rate on top university endowments—measures that would only add pressure on many of these institutions’ finances. 

All of this turbulence also comes as the Trump administration has launched a sweeping crackdown on students who participated in or are in any way associated with pro-Palestinian activism. Trump has sought to deport foreign-born students who are in the United States legally—in many cases, seemingly over their support for the Palestinian cause—and his administration has revoked more than 600 student visas. 

“There’s just these huge forces that are bearing down on these institutions, all of which are troublesome one at a time, and collectively, they are overwhelming,” said Levine, of Wellesley College. 

[sgt-scottymoreau]

Beginning of the end, End of the beginning - CIAJ

Summary: A few years after the first kaiju came throught the Breach, more breaches appeared throught out the world focing almost each nations to make their own line of defense. In England, 4 SAS soldiers decided to join the Jaeger program. Throught hardship and derermination they built themselves a reputation and are known the TF-141. Camille, or Scotty to her friends, is freshly new arrived J-tech at the Plymouth Shatterdome. She has no trouble blending in the new crowd and make friends easily, even with the Rangers. But there might be something more going on between her, Soap and Ghost. Life is about to change for all of them, not in a way they expect.

Warning: None

Words: 4.2k // AO3 // Masterlist

A/N: Welcome to my new AU of an AU where I get to be a huuuuge nerd about Pacific Rim because, this my favorite movie of all time! This will be a multiple chapters project. I don't know how long or how it will evolve, but it will be fun to find out. Here is some more info I have about it before I started to write if you are curious. Althought some might change as I write as the post was sort a draft, take it with a grain of salt :)

Feet hanging down, she looked at the jaeger's core from a distance. It was always a sight to be seen. Although the Mark-4 didn't have the same feelings as the nuclear core of a Mark-3, Scotty was still in love with it. A quick glance at her watch, she had half an hour before her shift would start. She grabbed a piece of food from her tray and kept eating in silence. Or as much silence the maintenance area provided with the drilling, metal clinking, shafts and other mechanical engines roared in a harmonized cacophony. 

Scotty had been transferred to the Plymouth Shatterdome six months ago. They needed extra hands and she proposed herself. After all that happened almost a year prior, she needed a change of everything. A new place to sort of start anew. At her arrival, she was assigned to Bravo Tanker, one of the two Jaegers of the TF-141. 

TF-141 was composed of 4 ex-SAS members who joined the Jaeger Program a few years back. Johnathan “John” Price had been the oldest member as he was part of few people who piloted Mark-1. Lucky enough he didn’t for long before moving to Mark-2 who were slightly safer and didn’t leave terrible health consequences on his body.

Simon Riley, mostly referred to as Ghost by many, was a rather mysterious pilot. His academics, results and training were very honorable and an example to many. One of the best pilots. However the mystery around laid in the fact that the man would always be wearing a balaclava for a reason no one knew. He kept his past a secret to everyone and was a man of few words in his free time. He wasn’t cold or asocial per se, but he kept some interaction to minimum. But once you knew him, you would be surprised that he had a sense of humor and quite enjoyed his little army jokes.

Kyle Garrick, nicknamed Gaz by Price quote “he doesn’t talk much”, wingman of the ex-captain, he had a great tactical mind who often proved to be a great asset during deployment, he also had very good academic records. He held the record for the longest simulation training; twelve hours. Stable and came out feeling perfectly fine.  He had a quick reaction time and would find solutions to many problems in a few seconds. He was reliable and someone you rather liked as a friend than an enemy. 

John MacTavish, alias Soap, a name he got from his time in the military, was the fairly newer member. Always eager to jump in the cockpit to defeat the Kaijus. But his playful demeanor is only the tip of this iceberg. Under his optimistic charm was also a tactical man who knows his explosives and weapons like the back of his hands. He learned a few tricks from the J-Techs on how to fix small issues on the Jaegers if needed. 

Price and Gaz were pilots of Bravo Brawler, a Jaeger made to fight in a close combat ranger, but was also armed with four missiles, two in each arms for distance. Soap and Ghost, Bravo Tanker, Jaeger build to endure hard blows and take repeated hits. Which means a very high maintenance mega weapon sadly. 

On her first time at the Shatterdome, she quickly blended in with the crew. Two weeks later, the chief engineer took her under his wings as an assistant. He was impressed by her knowledge and there was a little something that felt that she knew more about Jaegers than she let know. Although she was very capable of fixing any part of the mecha, Scotty was assigned to the Conn-Pod or cockpit. Again, she surprisingly had a very good knowledge of everything that happened there. Being a J-Tech, Scotty never really expected to befriend pilots, it felt like an honor. For a while, she admired the TF-141 from afar, or close in her case when she would help them suit up or briefly pass them as she entered the cockpit for maintenance after their deployment, never really pushing herself to get to know them better. Until her third week at her new home. 

She was elbow deep in grease, trying to fix one of the enormous ankle joints till she heard someone clearing his throat in the back. Hands still inside the construction, Scotty looked over her shoulder to see who it was. Mohawk and bright blue eyes stared at her with a smile. It was Soap. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m just looking.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the metal, eyes looking inside the opening. 

She stared at him a little longer before shrugging it off. “What would a Ranger do down here with the mechanics?”

“Learning. Is that bad? Never heard the other complain before.” 

“Not at all.” She chuckled. “How much do you know about this big girl? For a Mark-5 she is impressive, don't you think?”

“Aye. Very smooth riding if I compare it to the Mark-4, but not by much, and a not so different interface. Definitely better than Mark-3.”

Scotty finally loosened the bolt she was working on, almost the size of her head, and turned to face him. “Someone seems to know his jaegers. That’s interesting. Ever been in a Mark-3? You don’t strike me like someone who did.”

“Are you saying I’m old, bonnie?” He scoffed. “I did, in during my training. They feel so clunky once you try a newer model.” And this is how their friendship started. Nerding over Jaegers, then went out to talk about what they did before the program. 

Eventually, after a few days Soap invited her to sit with the rest of the team. Scotty was a little surprised by the invitation and honestly wasn’t too sure about it. She was so used to eating with her crew. Not that sitting next to the pilots was anything special, in the cafeteria you took the first seat you could find. It was talking with them and being so friendly that she wasn’t too sure; she didn’t want to look like she was privileged. It was some friends who pushed her to accept because honestly, it was obvious. They had seen her talking for hours with Soap, also opening up more to Ghost. It was more than just the regular crew and check up talks nowadays. She did accept the offer and was thrown under the spotlight by Soap who introduced her more informally to Price and Gaz. Because of his background, Scotty felt like she wouldn’t never be as friendly as she was with the Scotman towards Price. An old captain deserved more respect, but it wouldn’t stop her to warm up and tease the man along with Gaz. Gaz had been easy to befriend just like Soap. Being around the same age was actually an advantage. That and he was a nice person in general. It was nice to have some deep conversation of all and nothing during calmer moments. Just like now.

Gaz took a seat next to her, his tray in hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.” Scotty moved slightly to the side, although there was enough space for ten people around them. “Aren’t you and Price supposed to train?”

“Finished. I swear he really wanted to push the limits today, I’m done and hungry.” 

She glanced at her watch again. Another ten minutes. Her eyes trailed to her own tray, half full. She grabbed whatever dessert was proposed, some strange sweet thing that resembled cake, but didn’t have inviting colors. Yet it tasted good. She handed him her left over. “You need more than I do. Make sure you have enough energy.”

He laughed at her remark, yet appreciated the extra ratio. They kept talking for a little longer till they sat in silence, enjoying the calmness. Her time was up and she had to leave to start her shift. 

Her shift was assigned to the Conn-Pod today. Last Bravo Tanker’s deployment had been a little rough. A very hard blow to the head left some damage to the moving system. On the report, it was said that the left leg remained stuck for two minutes. It didn’t sound long, but in the middle of a fight against a twenty-five thousand tonnes monster, it was an eternity. Ghost and Soap were able to unjam it, but to say they didn’t feel fear for a hot second would be a lie. Toolbox at her feet, Scotty engaged the safe switch and jumped in the movement center, wiggling a little between the pipes and gears to reach the troublemaker. Her eyes looked one more time at the tablet. She analyzed the graphics and waves. The malfunction was definitely mechanical in origin as there was no misalignment registered from the pilots. Their neural handshake was almost perfect the whole time, even after the damaging blow and the panic that followed. They remained in control without flinching. It read the most beautiful thing. It brought back some memories, memories that she quickly pushed away and focused on her task ahead. It took five minutes to find the culprit; a rode had broken off from the walking mechanism and lodged itself between gears. From the look of it, it eventually broke off under the pressure, releasing the jammed leg. Not without damage. They would have to install a new rod and change two gears. That should take a whole shift or two, if they didn’t have the pieces yet. It will be a long night.

It was five in the morning when her head hit the pillow. Every muscle was painful and sore. The mattress was so soft and welcome. At least, this would be her last night shift for a few weeks and today was her day off. As usual, she would sleep a few hours before going on with the day. Maybe nap later depending on how tired she was. 

Her alarm bipped around ten. With a groan, Scotty woke up and jumped in the shower. She didn’t stay long to ratio the water, but long enough to wake her up and give an appeased sensation to her body. She grabbed her phone, quickly looked through her messages. Some quick replies to her family, more technical answers to her colleagues who need another refresher on what had been done last night and where they should pick up. Mindlessly walking towards the hangar bay, always looking on her phone when she bumped into someone. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be.” Ghost replied unphased. “You shouldn’t look at your phone while walking though.” 

“I was almost done really.” She shoved the device in her pocket. Soap popped behind Ghost.

“Where are you going like that, sweetheart?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that, sunshine. Well I’m off for today, I was thinking of going into town. Get some fresh air. What’s your plan?” 

Ghost brushed off the casual flirting of these two. They had been at it for a few weeks now and he didn’t mind. “Training. As usual.”

“Tanker will be under heavy repair for another day at least. If anything happens, you won’t be able to deploy yet.” Scotty informed them.

“That’s why I was thinking after our workout, maybe we could all go out for a drink? Price and Gaz were up for it.” Soap smiled. “What about you?”

“Sounds good, count me in!”

The shatterdome being a few kilometers away from any big cities made the small town that was nearby thrive with all the workers. While the main base provided lodging and food to everyone, the town did provide the recreational aspect allowing the hard workers some possibility to unwind. Despite the Kaijus’s attacks, the civilians went on with the regular days. They became part of the routine. People would still go to work, go out with friends, do their grocery shopping, take a drink at the table outside the cafe as if nothing was going on. Of course when the alert rang across the land, they would all run to the nearest bunker and wait till the Jaegers took down the beast. For now, they could enjoy one of the rarest sunny days in a long time. Scotty wandered around without a goal. All she needed was to be out of the overcrowded building. Hear other sounds than drilling, welding, clanking. The birds, the kids' laughter, the car, the casual discussion of strangers. A change of scenery. A little after noon, she stopped in a restaurant to grab some food and then went on to walk along the coast. 

There, it was truly calm. Only the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Sat in the sand, she allowed herself to close her eyes and let this moment last for as long as she could handle it. The breeze was soft today. Scotty shifted her position to lay down and look at the sky before closing her eyes again. It wasn’t the best idea but…

She woke up to the sounds of seagulls fighting somewhere. Half a mind present, her watch showed five. She must have slept for a good two hours! Her phone buzzed. It was Gaz saying they were on their way to their regular pub. They should be in town in half an hour. She decided to make her way there. She dusted off the sand on her clothes and returned to the center of the town. The sun was slowly setting in the distance, painting the sky in a bright orange blue color. Reflecting on the water that slowly disappears as she makes her way through the small street between the buildings. If at first she had been a little intimidated by forming a friendship with the TF-141, now she actually appreciated their time together. It brought back good old memories.

This was the seventh day of her day shift schedule and it was coming to an end. Not her best day in terms of repair. Bravo Tanker had been a breeze to fix recently thanks to the very little visit from kaijus. Bravo Brawler was a whole other story. A lot of the pieces needed to fix her had been late on the delivery and the Marshal wanted her fixed since yesterday. Didn’t like the idea to have one less Jaeger operational in case of. Their Shatterdome was yes the main base of the well known TF-141, but also three other Jaegers. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the ability to operate with one less team. But out of the three, two were new hence why he would rather send more experienced pilots with them than face the monsters alone. Because of this, Scotty had been pulling extra hours on fixing Price and Gaz’s jaeger. Help that was well appreciated by the crew who was being pushed in the back all the time. A quick chat with the person in charge of the night shift to explain what still had to be done and Scotty was on her way to her quarters. She could feel the sweat and grease sticking on her skin. She wanted a shower, now! However on her way there, she made a little detour to the Kwoon Combat Room. 

As she walked toward it, she caught the noise of a familiar training. Someone was there. Maybe she could just look a little. Hidden by the corner, she leaned to see who it was. Ghost and Soap were in the middle of the mat, readying their stance from what looked to be another round. She watched as they began. Just for a minute or two she told herself. 

Scotty didn’t mean to peek for so long. Neither peek in general. But watching them dance on the training mat, the sounds of the wooden poles knocking on each other, the soft silence except for a few grunt here and there, it reminded her of her pilot days. Drifting with someone was the most intimate thing of all, something beyond anything else. It had nothing to do with the romance or things you would keep behind closed doors. Being drift compatible wasn’t about this. It was about letting someone inside your head, share their memories, let them see your memories. All your secrets are bare to them to see. You had to trust your co-pilot more than anyone else. A wave of sorrow passed through her body as she was reminded of her previous partner. How they had such a strong connection, how she could still feel his fear when he died, how his last words were to his wife and kids. It broke her to be the one to tell them and not him. Yet as she cited his words, his voice echoed in her mind. This was the reason she wasn’t able to drift after that. She tried, but the memory was too strong, no matter how hard she tried to keep it out, it crawled back. She was always out of alignment with other pilots to the point that she simply gave up. Not wanting to stop helping against the Kaijus, she took a job as J-Tech and eventually landed where she was now. It was for the best that she didn’t know if she would ever let someone else in her head ever again. 

It was obvious that Ghost and Soap were a good match. Her eyes could follow each of their attacks and parry with ease and it was easy to see that they knew each other well. She had also seen Price and Gaz training, it was the same. However there was something a little more about the pilots of Bravo Tanker. A detail she caught as easy as their fighting style. They had something going on between the two of them. That didn’t stop her from letting her eyes linger on their muscles. Who knew that a tank top and sweatpants would be so sexy. They were both a sight for sore eyes. Her cheeks turned into a soft pink as she caught herself thinking of that. 

The room became very silent. Scotty realized that they had done their training and were looking at her. A wide smile on Soap’s face and she swore maybe on Ghost but it was hard to see behind his balaclava. “Enjoying the show?” The Scotsman laughed. 

“Oh hm me? No! I mean yes. But not how you think!” She stumbled on her words. 

“Relax, we won’t eat you.” Ghost shook his head. 

As much as they were all up to keep going with the conversation, the alarm went off. A sound they knew too well. A kaiju had crossed the Breach. Ghost and Soap didn’t waste a second and hastened to the Drivesuit Room. Brawler still being under maintenance, they were the only available at the moment to support the other teams. 

It took them less than twenty minutes between the suit up and being waist high in the water. One advantage of Plymouth Shatterdome was that it was enough on the coast, Jaegers could directly walk in the ocean, they didn’t have to wait to be dropped far away by helicopters. “What now, Ghost?” 

“We wait.” The Brit contacted the other team to know their status. They were in the area also waiting for any sign of Kaiju approaching. Both Jaegers’s radar bipped steadily. They hated these moments. Standing still, being a perfect target for surprise attack. The LOCCENT kept updating them on the possible location of the threat. It was moving fast, coming South-East of their position one moment and then full East, back to South. Then West! Whatever this Kaiju was doing it was all over the place. They looked in all directions hoping to visually see something that radar had not picked up, in vain. The water remained calm. 

“I don’t like that, Simon. Why is it moving so-” Soap was interrupted when their comms was flooded by the other team. They had a visual two klicks away from them. The water was slowly rising while advancing. It was their target! The Jaeger reacted fast, running towards it ready to attack. But as soon as they were in range to punch it, it slipped away quickly. The old Mark-3 was a little slower to respond to the pilots change of position; they didn’t have time to react to the clawed hand that pierce through the water behind them. It clenched, ripping all the back’s plates. The pain receptors connected to their suits send a signal so strong they surprised themselves to still be conscious. However, damage had been done. 

“Bravo Tanker we are done! All systems are not responding! What the fuck! We need back up!”

“On our way! Stay put!” Ghost acknowledged. He lifted his right leg, starting to run in unison with Soap and the mecha eventually responded to the speed they wanted. They wouldn’t let the monster attack a second time. At the same time, Ghost and Soap locked the right arm to punch the creature. Their Jaeger reacted accordingly, landing a powerful blow at the top of its head. The Kaiju wailed before being engulfed under the water. They punched it a second time. On the third, the beast dodged by swimming away, its tail hitting the leg of the Jaeger. They didn’t flinch. Bravo Tanker was ready to chase it, but revised their plan when they saw the wake it made as it swam back in their direction with a lot of speed. They braced themselves for the attack, well aware of what to expect. The claws screeched on the metal, automatically the two pilots were met with a jolting pain on the chest. Nothing they couldn’t handle.They shook it off repositioning themselves to return the favor. 

‘‘Hull is badly damaged, but still holding!’’ Soap shouted, dismissing the alerts that popped on the screen.

‘‘LOCCENT we need back up! I don’t know what this bastard is made of, but it is shredding us!’’ Ghost demanded on the comms.

At the Shatterdome, the Marshal weighed his options. He could send another Jaeger or two, but the more, the longer it would get for them to reach their allies. Could Tanker hold till then? However this Kaiju rendered one of his mecha inoperative with just one slash and his most resilient Jaeger was already fighting. ‘‘Tanker hold, help is coming. … Brawler, I want a fast deployment!’’

Bravo Tanker dodged another attack by a few meters. To last till back up, they used the blade weapons. With them they had been able to hurt the beast, but quickly it destroyed one of them. This fight was straining the pilots, physically and mentally. ‘‘I swear when Price shows up.’’ Ghost groaned. He could feel the sweat rolling down his forehead, his suit more sticky than usual.

‘‘What will you do when we show up?’’ The ex-captain voice came through the open channel. ‘‘Take a breath, we will handle it for now!’’

Bravo Brawler was being carried by helicopters. Price ordered them to release the cable who dropped them right on top of the Kaiju. The beast was crushed back into the water, wiggled its way out and went for its first attack on the newer opponent. Ghost and Soap only took a minute breather; the bastard was tough and they couldn’t let it win. Two against one was the upper hand they needed. Something the beast realized quickly and decided to hide underwater for surprise attacks. Thanks to their radar, both Jaegers avoided them. It began to circle them. Suddenly jumped on Tanker jaw open ready to take a bite. The fang pierced the Conn-Pod not so easily, but with a secured anchor, its claw dug deep in the chest and neck’s connector. The pilots were flooded by alarms blaring, pain in their whole body and view of the monster’s mouth. Its maw closed further onto the head, bending and crushing the metal. The mechanism which normally held the pilot in place was heavily damaged on Soap’s side. As Price and Gaz closed the distance to remove the beast, Soap was disengaged from the lock system and in the heat of being tossed in all directions, he was sent flying up and down, landing then in the back of the cockpit where the door was. Ghost didn’t have the time to realize what happened. All he felt was the sudden overload of pressure on his brain as he was now the only pilot in control of the mecha. It made him feel dizzy, his movements slowed as he raised his arm to grab the Kaiju and throw it away. With Brawler's help, he was free. Gaz refused to waste another second. He engaged the missile and fired two of them. An option they only want to use as a last resort. The beast was already damaged; this should be enough. Indeed the Kaiju went down in one last screech. 

Sure that everything was cleared, Ghost disconnected his side as well before the load would kill him. With a heavy breath, he gave a quick sitrep of their situation, to which the LOCCENT replied they will have a medical team right away. Ghost scrambled through the damaged cockpit and found Soap lay, unconscious. His helmet was broken, blood tainting the suit and floor. ‘‘Soap? … Johnny!’’ He checked his vital signs; they were steady but very weak. He needed help now!

[comiicii]

Hummingbird II

Backdrop: You and Miles have been best friends since you were babies. Doesn't mean that the friendship never faced hardships. Pairing: e!1610 Miles Morales x fem!spider!reader Warnings: none, probably some grammar errors and my attempt at fluff with the characters. y'know before the inevitable has to happen A's notes: apologies for this not coming out sooner. also, i don't think i clarified in the first chapter that reader is also hispanic. i'll be sprinkling in some spanish words moving forward. if you'd like to be tagged, do let me know in the comments. Translations: a comer = time to eat | amiga = friend (feminine) | mi vida = my life, darling, dear etc. | lo adoro = i adore/love it Word count: 2.5k PREVIOUS | NEXT

After that, you brought up the subject every now and then. You had spotted on his notebook once a quick doodle of you swinging around. It was from a clip he’d seen on the news and thought it was cool. When Araña was brought up, Miles never had anything but good things to say. Always commenting on how cool she looked on a video he’d seen of her stopping robbers or the one time he heard her speak Spanish to an older woman as she was helping cross the street. His words were indirectly helping you to keep going.

You tried harder to salvage the friendship you had with him as you came up on two years of fighting alongside Peter. You had more study sessions together (which you were still sometimes late to) and you did your best to keep him involved in your life.

The study sessions that the two of you had were also becoming more frequent as you were gearing up for entry exams for Brooklyn Visions Academy. If you did well on the exam, you would be entered into a lottery that could land you the opportunity to attend the school. You were naturally academically gifted - didn’t mean you never studied, though. You knew that this could be great for your future. You wanted to make a difference in the world and while Brooklyn Middle had great programs, BVA would be a step in the right direction to get you where you wanted to be for college. Two students would be selected from the lottery after the school year ended.

You and Miles alternated study session locations; the last one being at his place before the entry exam. Mrs. Morales adored having you in her home. She was worried when you didn’t stop by as much; going as far as to ask your father about your well-being (he claimed you were going through puberty and all that ‘teenage angst’). Mr. Morales breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed you and Miles were studying together again; he always thought of you as a good influence on his son. You complimented him in areas where he wasn’t the best and knew him a lot better than they would these days.

The two of you had been studying for the last few hours and you had informed your family that you would be eating dinner at Miles’. Peter also knew that this was an important time for you and let you have the night to study, rest and enjoy your time with Miles.

“I think I’m going to pass out if I have to look at another page of equations.” you groaned on his bed, falling back onto the pillows. Miles could only laugh on the floor, agreeing with your statement completely.

“¡A comer!” Mrs. Morales yelled from the kitchen. You silently thanked the heavens for her impeccable timing.

As you two set the table, the TV flashed to a picture of Spider-Man and ‘Spider-Girl’, reporting on an update of the Green Goblin you two had thwarted the previous night. You didn’t pay much attention to it once you heard them refer to you as Spider-Girl. Oh, how you dreaded them calling you that.

“It’s terrible that he’s gotten a young girl believing that she can just swing in and not take responsibility for her actions!” Mr. Morales hollered at the screen as he helped bring the food to the table.

Miles rolled his eyes at his father, never really agreeing with his dad’s opinions on the superhero. He mumbled under his breath about how he didn’t understand. You quietly chuckled at his statement. He was a cop after all. What you and Peter were doing was helping but technically illegal.

The conversation was quickly squashed before it even started by Rio when she looked at Jeff with a look. She didn’t want to hear any talk about work or superheroes at the table. Dinner was spent eating and catching up with the family that hadn’t consistently seen you in a while. Rio had expressed that you could talk to her if you were going through something, appreciating how much she cared about you like you were her daughter. She always looked out for you. Jeff had asked the two of you about studying for the entry exams. You had shown more enthusiasm for the opportunity to study at BVA more so than Miles. Before the two of them could get into it, you mentioned how much you appreciated Miles helping you study. You knew how hard his father could be, despite meaning well. You always tried to make Miles look good in front of his parents to spare him. Miles bumped his knee with yours under the table as a ‘thank you’. It seemed like the two of you were getting back into the swing of things like before. That night, you ended up sleeping over for the first time in a little over a year. It warmed your heart knowing that your friendship with Miles was settling back to the way it was.

When you were chosen in the lottery with Miles to go to BVA, you couldn’t be happier. You felt as if it was a sign that life wasn’t going be terrible. It signaled to you that you could handle your school and spider-life. Or so you believed.

After you turned 14, you had begun pestering Peter to start trusting you to tag along with him to fight more of the big bad guys he was always on the news about fighting. He didn’t want you messing with the ‘big leagues’ yet as he was worried about your safety. 14 still meant you were a kid, after all. Even if you were 21, Peter would’ve still been hesitant. Last thing he needed was to further traumatize you or possibly get you killed. It wasn’t until you bothered him beyond belief and pinky swore that you’d get out if it got too dangerous. It meant that you’d leave Peter to fight for himself if it got to be too risky to keep you safe. You and Peter both had families that cared about you but his family wasn’t in the dark about the crime-fighting. He’d rather risk himself than have to explain to your family why he couldn’t keep you safe.

Meanwhile, Miles didn’t enjoy being at BVA. He quite loathed it. While he had you there with him, your schedules weren’t the same; three classes in total you had together. The school load was also stressful and it felt as though he didn’t belong. Didn’t mean that you weren’t stressed either. You were practically drowning in your own thoughts of your future on top of the work load from school and your spider duties. You were barely getting any sleep and had debated on letting a few classes suffer for the sake of lessening the stress of your life. You just seemed to have a better way of hiding your stress than Miles - something he commented on when he realized that you were just as stressed but didn’t show it. Thankfully the two of you had lunch together to connect and stress together. It hurt to see that your best friend didn’t see himself fitting into the school. You always told him to give the school a shot because maybe, just maybe, he may like it. He often wished to be back at Brooklyn Middle. He described the school as ‘elitist’ and that neither him or you belonged because it was always going to be you two against the world.

It was a saying the two of you bonded over - especially since it was the name of one of your favorite songs. You had originally voiced the phrase when you were both 10. Already feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. Miles knew that your home life wasn’t always peaceful and that you took on more than you should’ve, emotionally speaking, for a 10-year-old. Miles always did his best to let you know that he was there for you. Whenever your family stressed you out, you would find yourself on the roof of his building, staring at the sunset, waiting for the sky to turn navy. You two had managed to keep a giant sleeping bag stashed there to lay on and go under when the nights turned cold. It was your own private hiding spot from the world. On particularly stressful days, one or both of you would bring food to eat your feelings.

“Hey Miles,” you turned your head to look at the boy who had just listened to you ramble about what was going on in your headspace for the last 30 minutes.

“Yeah, Y/N?” he kept looking up at the sky.

“Are you scared of the future? What may happen to us?”

“Yes and no,” he chuckled, finally turning to look at you, a small smile creeping in.

“Why’s that?”

“‘Cause, you and I are bound to change and yeah, I’m scared that you won’t want to hang around me at some point buuut,”

“But?”

“I’m also sure that you and I will always be in each other’s lives - can’t get rid of me that easily, Y/N.” he reached over to tickle your side, earning you a laugh as music softly played along with the natural sounds of Brooklyn. Your favorite, 2pac’s ‘Me Against The World’ started playing in the air.

“It’ll be us against the world”

“Always, amiga”

You smiled across the table at the memory. You knew that he could succeed in BVA. He didn’t get lucky, both of you deserved to be here. You didn’t want him to quit when there was a possibility for him to do great things and prove himself to all the other snobs that he was just as smart, if not, smarter than all of them.

“C’mon Miles, you’ve barely given it two weeks,” you started as you played with the food in front of you.

“Now you’re starting to sound like my dad,” he groaned. The comparison stung a bit but you kept your face neutral.

“Y’know you deserve to be here just as much as these other richy-rich kids” you started, not wanting your frustrations to shine through.

“Y/N, if I flunk a couple more tests, they’re sure to kick me out and back to Brooklyn Middle,” he was growing frustrated at not being understood, “all our friends are there.”

“Your friends are there, Miles. Not mine…not anymore.” you were now getting a jump start on an assignment, trying to distract yourself from the loss of a few friends because of your crime fighting. It was a painful reminder of how quickly people were willing to let you go.

“Y/N, I don’t know why you want to stay here so ba-“

“Because I care about my future Miles,” now you were yelling, “you’re not the only one who has had to sacrifice so much to get here!” a few sets of eyes were staring at you and Miles. Not wanting to make more of a scene, you grabbed your belongings and walked out on your best friend who sat there hurt and embarrassed for the second time since arriving at the school (the first being when his dad dropped him off at the beginning of the week).

You didn’t speak to Miles for the remainder of the day. You didn’t mean to yell but you knew what you needed was to patrol with Peter to get away from your schoolwork and all your other stress. It was good that you lucked out and didn’t get a roommate. Well, you did for two days and then she was gone - you don’t know if she couldn’t handle the pressure or something else had happened.

“Tough day at school today?” Peter started from your dorm window.

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Pete.” you grumbled as you pulled your mask on.

He didn’t bring it up for the rest of the night.

The following day, you had run late to your first class and tried multitasking during classes. By the time lunch rolled around, you and Miles still sat together, just didn’t say a word. He was listening to music as he ate while you worked and ate. You know Peter would’ve laughed if he saw the two of you. You were both mad at each other but you were still sitting together eating lunch. It was a testament to your friendship. The two of you could argue and yell at each other but like you both had said various times, you couldn’t get rid of the other easily. It would take a lot to leave each other. You knew in your heart of hearts that you could never leave Miles, no matter what he did. You loved the boy so much and considered him a lifeline. If you cut that, you don’t think you’d survive the world. Miles felt about the same. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the two of you would be in each other’s lives forever; even through the ups and downs of life.

You had your final class of the day with Miles. It was an English Literature class and you had been assigned a personal assignment that your teacher decided was a good way to get to know the students. You were allowed to work alongside a partner for the remainder of class to brainstorm and start the assignment. Quietly, you and Miles made your way to each other, sitting in the back corner of the room on the floor. Miles had taken out his sketchbook to start brainstorming some ideas for how he could title his paper. You had forgotten your sketchbook in your locker. Regardless, you weren’t as skilled as Miles when it came to art. You mainly did little doodles in the margins of your notebooks. Which is why Miles referred to your sketchbook as a ‘doodle book’.

“I’m sorry for losing my cool with you, Miles” You bumped your shoulder with his as you aimlessly doodled on your notepad.

“Don’t worry about it, mi vida.” he was already writing something out on a page that had a few drawings. One that particularly stood out was a side profile of Araña. “I know how hard you worked to be here and I’m more than happy to have you here with me.” he smiled as he continued sketching.

“What’re you going to title your essay?” you rested your head on his shoulder, a natural position the two of you were often seen in.

“I’m not sure yet but I thought of one for yours,” he mindlessly spoke, his attention on getting the design just right for you, “if you like it, of course.”

Your eyes started focusing on the word he had spelled out, the lettering he kept simple, almost delicate.

“Hummingbird?” you eyed him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah…I read somewhere that they bring good luck if you’re visited by one,” he stated as he continued detailing around the lettering, “I think it suits you.” he sheepishly smiled.

You couldn’t help but smile and placed a quick peck on his cheek, “I don’t like it, Miles.” you state with a smile on your lips as you bring your focus back to your notepad.

“Lo adoro”

[rabbitspawgames]

A few years have passed since everything crashed. The reality of the new normal is just beginning to set in when new troubles arise. Sleep, the one constant, and for some the only, escape is disrupted. Some are lost in an endless dream while others are completely deprived of it. No answers appear and the number of victims grows by the day. 

Accept an invitation into the mystery of the sleeping city. Join a partner to see their side of life; help them to embrace the best parts of themselves, or the worst. Consider your actions carefully, for they have a larger reach than you may realize. 

Features

Chasing Dreams is a choice driven Cosmic Horror set in post stock market crash 1930s America, where you can save humanity or offer them up on a silver platter to your eldritch lord.

6 LIs with their own story to explore. 

Each route has multiple endings and a variety of ways to get to each.

Not every story has to be a love story, there is the option to be Aromatic within each route.

It is your choice to believe in the strange tales you'll be told. Choose to be a staunch skeptic or a firm believer in the occult. 

While some things about the MC are set, like their job, their name and pronouns are customized to fit your identity. 

Cast

There had been a point early in her academic days where Alice was invited out to social functions, work events, and even dates. But with enough rejections they did eventually die down. Now she spends her days within either her office or her classroom, exactly as she always wanted. So why did she find herself resentful of her peers each time they returned from a lunch or an event without even asking her?

Not everyone is meant for the spotlight. Not everyone wants it. But how do you reach out to those in it, when you’ve shut yourself away?

Each and every day spent within the precinct was a test of Gabriel's morals. Watching as his so-called brothers dismiss and belittle the people of their own community. Maybe one day he would work up the gall to leave the job and find something more fulfilling.

What do you do when the ideals you built your life around turn out to be too difficult to uphold?

There was never a moment to breathe for Vivi. Everyone wanted, needed, something. Even when it wasn’t something she could provide, she still searched for a way to get it for that person. That was what she wanted, was expected, to do. But would asking for a moment for herself be too much when so many were still lacking even their basic needs?

Everyone needs help every now and then. So isn’t it our responsibility to help out whenever we can, even if it means putting aside what’s important to us?

If only there were enough hours in the day. Or some way to do more with the time he’s given. Jean is in a constant fight with the clock much to the concern of his friends and family. One more patient one more call, each and every minute life changing to those who depend on him.

Not every problem can be solved. Some stories end in tragedy no mater the effort. But if you could change the outcome, then shouldn't you always try?

For Georgia the big events in life were set in stone. Sure there were dozens of different choices and hundreds of possible outcomes, but people never change. They will always choose the same thing leading to the obvious. Why even bother trying to change it?

What will be, will be. We can change the details but the bigger picture is always the same. So why even bother?

Mason didn’t always struggle so much in life, but after the economy went to hell things just weren’t the same. He had lost what purpose he had, and it wasn’t until this plague of insomnia hit that he found it again. He was going to help those suffering through sleepless nights, and guide them into a better life.

Who doesn’t want a purpose? A reason to wake up everyday, to endure the hardships of life. What would you do to pursue it?

Warnings

This game will have: flashing lights, body horror, disturbing imagery, sensitive topics such as depressions, suicide, discussions of abuse, and depictions of drugs and alcohol. 

**There will only ever be discussions of suicide and abuse. These events will not happen on screen. 

[herrenxenoberg]

Fandorm Showcase #39 - Aladdin and the King of Thieves

Introducing the dorm housing the most sneakiest of desert roses...

Sablegriffes (Sand + Claws)

Sablegriffes consists of a desert-like atmosphere, complete with a sandy cavern which is where the dorm itself resides in, referred to as a den. It is a dorm that thrives on brute strength, combat instinct, and feral cunning, rejecting elegance in favor of dominance and loyalty through efforts. They mostly house students who are "desert roses", as in female thieves with strong survival instincts and capability to handle whatever danger they come across. There are rumors that the members are part-time thieves mainly in Scalding Sands, infamously known for robbing royal figures or the richer folks and managing to evade the authorities for years, but yet they manage to stay within the legal circle with their supposed crimes, all because their leader, the housemistress has resigned to focus on academical studiesWell, you would still have to hope they still don't try to steal your valuables when you're not looking...

"A dorm founded on the Tough Outlaw's spirit of fortitude. Students in this dorm focuses on survival instinct, brute strength, and fearlessness in the face of danger, embracing their raw potential and fight fiercely for power, respect, and freedom"

Dorm Uniform:

It is a form of tradition for the desert roses in Sablegriffes to wear a veil over their faces, which symbolizes leadership or high status amongst members, in this case the housemistress and the vice.

Character Roster:

Keep your valuables safe, the infamous desert rose of the Scalding Sands and housemistress of Sablegriffes is lurking...

Chameli Al-Amin (Twisted off Cassim)

Chameli Al-Amin, the enigmatic junior housemistress of Sablegriffes at Eventide Corvus Lyceum, is a name woven into the legends of the Scalding Sands—a former master thief whose exploits once brought entire royal courts to their knees. Known as the “Desert Rose,” she was a symbol of rebellion and cunning brilliance, orchestrating daring heists under the light of desert moons and vanishing into the dunes before the alarms rang.

Now at Eventide Corvus Lyceum, Chameli has traded jewel heists for lectures and battlefield strategy, donning the mantle of housemistress with a reluctant grace. While her fingers no longer snatch treasures, her mind remains as sharp as ever—teaching her students the art of misdirection, escape, and clever thinking. Sablegriffes, her dorm, is a haven for students with complicated pasts or outsider reputations, bound by loyalty and grit, much like the gang she led, who now joined her in enrolling into ECL. Though she's left most of her thieving days behind, she still keeps an old dagger hidden under her uniform, and the glint in her eye warns: she could always return to the shadows if the need arises.

[SPOILERS FOR HER BACKSTORY AHEAD]

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Raised among the sand-swept alleys of a forgotten bazaar, Chameli learned to survive the hard way—quick hands, quicker thinking, and a charm as sharp as a blade. Her past was one of hardship, loss, and resilience, and she built her name among the forgotten and the desperate, rising as both a symbol of hope and a mythic criminal. She founded her own band of desert thieves not for greed, but to give others the second chance she never had. She has grown used to the life of a thief, doing it for the sake of both her own survival and her band of thieves, especially her closest friend and second-in-command, who is also her vice housemistress. But after enrolling into ECL, she seemed to have lost the reputation she used to have as an infamous desert rose from the fact her vice and her familiar band of thieves don't take her temporary resignation from thievery seriously.

Notable Members:

Sabr Ainbihar (Junior) - Vice housemistress of Sablegriffes and one of the original "Desert Roses," is a legend in her own right—a whirlwind of precision, fury, and unmatched desert-born skill. Despite holding the official title of vice housemistress, many believe she still sees herself as the true leader of the Desert Roses, unwilling to let go of the grit-stained glory days of her heist-born sisterhood with Chameli. (Twisted off Sa'Luk)

[noellehenry-original]

Along The Heather by noellehenry 

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: One Direction (Band) Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson Characters: Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Simon Cowell, Olly Murs, James Corden, Ben Winston, Niall Horan, Ed Sheeran, Liam Payne, Ernest Deakin, Bebe Rexha, Danielle Campbell, Perrie Edwards, Jesy Nelson, Jade Thirlwall, Zayn Malik, Steve Aoki, Greg James, Nick Grimshaw, Eleanor Calder Additional Tags: Jane Eyre AU, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Young Harry, Panic Attack, Disease, hardship, Minor Character Death, Tutor Harry Styles, Fire, Attempted Murder, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Mystery, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Manor House, York Theatre Royal, North Yorkshire, Gothic Words: 35755 Chapters: 5/5

Originally published on 6 October 2018

Summary:

Jane Eyre AU/Victorian AU

Harry Styles is an orphan who grows up with his cruel aunt and cousins. After being sent to a boys’ boarding school, which teaches poor and orphaned boys, he excels academically despite attempts to undermine his experience. Harry graduates and decides to stay at the school as a teacher.

When Harry becomes restless due to significant changes at the school, he applies for a job as a tutor at Thorgill Hall. His job is to teach the younger brother of Mr Louis Tomlinson, but Harry soon develops romantic feelings for Louis himself.

However, Thorgill Hall holds a secret, it is becoming slightly more eerie every day. When Harry's life is threatened, he makes a drastic decision.

written for the @hlregencyvictorianficchallenge 2018

[literally-noone83]

More Than You Know

College!Henry Cavill × Fem!reader

About: The polarity of you and Cavill did not stop at your popularity status; when it came to affection, Cavill was always most comfortable in initiating it. However, you were not. Until one afternoon study session you find you were a little too touch starved to resist him.

Warning: Cussing and Kissing, nothing more. Mainly fluff. Not entirely proofread - literally got the author of moby dick wrong, welp.

Word count: Not that long.

Author's note: I DONT KNOW WHAT I WROTE. Honestly really like this one, especially the last bit. In the beginning I can't help myself but explain the background of their relationship - I realise I do that a lot and I feel like a lot of people just don't want that. But I thought this one was cute asf. Anyways, this also is probably most likely cringey so beware of my corny shit. Enjoy.

"You know I've never seen you this distracted when studying." Henry suddenly said. He glanced over to you, his lips curving into a smirk upon seeing your face become flushed with pink, quickly looking back at your text books.

He's caught you staring at him about a hundred times now.

It's supposed to be your traditional study session. In your dorm, you sat at your desk cluttered with notes and piling content he wouldn't even try to comprehend, and him laid on you'd bed comfortably studying Econ and business.

Henry was never really studious. It wasn't till he met you did he want to try. Who knew one banter with you in a library he'd once never catch himself dead in, about a book he'd only seen the movie of, meant meeting someone like you.

It wasn't hard to note how school orientated you were. You spent more time in the library than anyone on school campus. Volunteering to work there, shelving book after book, at the front desk scanning borrowed items or in between rows of mahogany shelves reading your favourite pieces for the third or fifth time. He thought you were a snob like most. Pretentious, an academic elitist, on your constant high horse. But the afternoon he had to finally sit down and read an overdue assignment of Herman Melville's Moby Dick, his grueling hardship to read one chapter amused you to no end. College's greatest macho man complaining this shit is so boring compared to the movie. The offence you took from such a comment he caught from a mile away. It was the moment he finally took notice and in annoyance he had to ask.

What, you disagree?

You shrugged. He hadn't known your name yet.

Yes, I actually do disagree, Cavil. But it's not like it matters to you.

Huh. But you knew his.

So you think this wad of crap is better than Hollywood blockbuster movie with Chris Hemsworth?

If you had half a brain and a attention span longer than child you'd see Hollywood doesn't do justice to Melville's writing.

... What's your name?

You scoffed and ignored his question.

You were definitely hard headed. You snubbed most of his questions about the book until his inquiries slowly turned on you. You always found a way to evade them. The times you took mercy and helped him in understanding literature were caveats of your walls coming down. Banter turned into teasing. The moment he heard you laugh — and quickly apologised for — his heart spurred with elation he didn't expect to feel. He wanted to hear you that sweet and smile so unabashed. Coincidental study sessions and run-ins with each other turned into late night walks he offered to your place, and hangouts in other bookshops and markets.

The polarity between the two was clichae to say the least but Henry couldn't care less. You become someone he liked to talk to, speaking in ways he hadn't before. And you were someone he loved to listen to. You were nothing like he expected, and he was a far cry from your own expectations. Reputations that proceeded you two crumbled in each other's presence.

In the end the biggest irony was that he couldn't finish Moby Dick for the life of him — you ended up spending hours talking to his about in library shifts — but he could read you so easily.

"I'm not, I'm not distracted." You denied, scribbling some words that wasn't relevant to your Lit course. You heard him chuckle.

"You're also awful at lying," you glanced to your right. He shifted onto his side to face you, taking a break from glossing over his assigned textbook.

"Whats wrong, babe?" He asked seriously, yet his voice still gentle. "You've been staring at me all of a sudden, something is clearly wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," you affirmed.

"Then why were you burning a hole in the side of mu head?"

"I was'nt!"

"So you werent looking at me?"

"Is it such a crime to stare?"

"So you do admit it!" He jutted a finger at you.

You groaned, "Oh hush, you're my boyfriend. Yes, I stare at you."

His heart clenched at your words. He loved it when you claim him as yours. A reminder that I'm yours, made him feel wanted. And in this case, it egged him on to tease.

"Baby, I think you want to do more than stare." You could smell his smirk, you refused to look at him. He watches you crane your neck further into you books, to hide the blush that dusted your complexion. If there something more he loved to hear you say he's your boyfriend was making you flustered.

"You are so lewd." You mumbled.

"So that's a yes." He teased.

"Wh- no!"

"No? you don't want to touch me." He feigned offence.

"I- I never said that!"

"You rather stare at me."

"I'm not saying that-"

"Then what are you saying, darling? C'mon tell me."

Your moment of silence makes him smirk self satisfied. "Aww baby, don't be shy. You are my girlfriend after all."

You finally looked at him. His stupid lopsided smile that made your chest pulse, and stupid sly glint in his eyes, knowing his effect on you. You saw his lips move. So pink and full. You heard the hum of his voice, the playfulness laced through it, and you saw his lips continue to move in speech but you didn't comprehend anything that came out. Maybe you were distracted.

He took your silence as annoyance, he shuffled closer to the edge on his elbows to reach out to you.

"C'mon babe," a laughed sprinkled in his words. "I'm sorry, I'll quit teasing and I'll leave you to your studying. I swear it." He looked up at you. Your gaze was on him but somehow so far from the now. He stretched out his hand to place it on your thigh to bring you back, "Just after you tell me what is going on inside that big brain of your-" The moment he touched you, your hand suddenly grabbed his stong jaw, tilting his head up to you. You leant down and connected your lips to his.

The force of your lips stunned him. You swallowed his words and he couldn't been more pleasantly surprised. It wasn't often that you were so assertive outside the realm of verbal debates and banter. For the longest time you were rather shy when it came to physical affection; the way you stuttered slightly behind a cough when he'd snake his hand down your arm and intwine with your fingers, or never push for more when you kissed. He knew this, and so he was always gentle and you let him lead every time. But this. This was different. His lips were still, at first almost just registering your lips on his. Feeling you press into him further, his hand around your wrist loosened and his eyes fluttered shut relishing at this change.

It was intoxicating. The felt of his lips, the way his bottom lip fit so perfectly between yours. Soft, tender, you had half a mind not to bite into it. You pulled back only millimetres before drawing into for another, a rhythm you were setting he was gladly falling into. All stress and tension dissipated from you, entranced by him, the feeling of him. You want him and you have him, you remind yourself.

Henry was undeniably annoying as fuck. He teased you and never backed down from a banter. He talk to you about anything, so unfiltered you became around him was frightening before. Yet now you find comfort in it; the way he listens and some how picks up on ques from you without saying anything. He was gentle, and understood even when he couldn't possibly; he always tried. He didn't yell or was aggressive as most assume. He plays tough, and has been since you've known him, but he's so soft, he's a sap for romance and a nerd for fantasy. He's genuine, and he's thoughtful. You loved him.

The fact overwhelmed you, and your languid kisses began to pick up. You couldnt get enough of him. Suddenly you were pecking him on the lips. The change in pace, humoured Henry, funny to note you had no time for patience when you dominated. You now held the sides of his face, you felt his lips curl and you kissed the corners of his smile. He was so irresistible it made your heart ache and stomach flutter. As your kisses travelled to his cheeks, to his nose and even eye lids, a chuckled escaped his lips, your touch so feathery it tickled. Until you reached his forehead.

You kissed one last time in the centre between his temples. You held it for a second longer to let him know this was out of affection and infatuation, settling for the spur of physical aggression. An affliction he enjoyed.

You felt him fingers softly caress the back of your hand that cradled his left cheek. Back to earth, you rested the crown of your forehead against his own, too embarrassed to see your flushed complexion as if he hasn't already seen it about a thousand times. Regardless his eyes were on you, closely watching the way your lips parted to release a semi-labored breath and your evasive gaze half-lidded. He couldn't help it either, his cheeks burned at this new affection. It excited him. He wondered if you could feel it under the pads of your finger tips.

"You are actually annoying me." You breathily said and a laugh erupted from his lungs. His breath tickled your face and you couldn't help but join him.

"And you're distracting me." You continued with a smile you couldn't suppress.

"Oh yea?" He swayed you against him.

"Yea, so I think I do need you to leave." You didn't mean it in the slightest.

"After that? I don't think I'll ever leave your side, baby." His voice grew soft, turning his playful comment into something sincere. Soft chuckles slipped your lips, and gently he pulled back. He needed to see your face.

Your hand left his face as you let up some space—just a little—in between you and your lover, rather letting them glide past his side of his neck, dip in the crook of his neck and slide to his chest. One of his hands followed. He warmed your palms and his hand pressed it against him to make sure you rested there.

"I'm sorry," you began, "I don't- I don't usually do that, I just..."

You felt his thumb career your knee and his soft lips peck your cheek, nudging you to look at him. You hadn't realised you were still avoiding his gaze until you met his light eyes.

He leaned in and kissed your other cheek in routine. "Don't do that," his looked at you and you saw his eyes dance between your eyes, "Don't apologise."

You exhaled through your nose, nodding. "I just wanted to kiss you"

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"Shut up" Leaning back instinctively out of embarrassment, he kept you close to him.

"But really, sorry I was so..."

"So assertive?" He raised his brows and you nodded, "Well, I actually quite liked it." He admitted.

"Really?" You asked.

"Yea," he had a soft smile. Not teasing or mischief, just sincere and elated.

"Really really?" You leaned in close, a smile breaking out against your will as you leaned in close.

"Yea," he whispered, his eyes dropped to your lips, as did you yours. You kissed him.

"Well I could practice..." you mumbled against his lips, pressing his hands against his chest to push him slowly back, "to be more assertive."

He followed your lead, smirking at your words. "I would..." He spoke between every kiss, "... love... that..."

"Yea?"

"Fuck yea..." His heart preened at your giggle.

"More... than you... know, baby"