#ice explosion 2020

[wannab3-writer]

Game, Set, Love

ART DONALDSON X READER (18+)

Mature Content Warnings: spoilers if you SQUINT , Forbidden Love, Second-Chance Romance, Age Gap, Mentor and Protégé, cheating ( sorta, not on reader), SMUT, NOT PROOF READ.

WC: 13.2 k

description

After walking away from tennis at the height of his career, Art Donaldson finds himself drawn back into the sport as a favour to an old friend. His new charge, Katrina King, is a talented but emotionally young player navigating the intense pressures of the professional tennis circuit. Art and Katrina's connection deepens as they train for the 2020 US Open but a single night changes everything.

2020 BEVERLLY HILLS CHALLENGER

August 31st, 2020

Art Donaldson sat in the shaded section of the stands, his arms resting casually on the armrests. He'd made it clear to everyone—Tashi and the media—that he was done with tennis. But Martha King, a long-time supporter of his and Tashi's tennis foundation, insisted that he attend, going so far as to cover all his expenses for the weekend so he could attend. Her daughter, Katrina King, was playing her final challenger before qualifying for the US Open, and Martha believed it was something he couldn’t miss.

"It's just one set; I'm not going to sit here and beg you to coach her or anything. Just watch, Art. I think you'll find it worthwhile."

Art nodded slightly, keeping his expression neutral. "I’m here, aren't I?" he said, keeping an aloof facade. He glanced toward the court, where Katrina was preparing to serve and begin the last set. Her movements were fluid and purposeful. He'd heard about her talent and determination, but he wasn't ready to be pulled back into the tennis world.

The game began, and Katrina's serve was powerful, almost explosive. Art watched with mild interest as her opponent, a seasoned French player, struggled to keep up. He watched her body move, head to toe, taking her in. She was tall and lean; her body was nothing less than an athletes that was for sure.

"She's impressive," Art commented, a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. Katrina’s mother smiled, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on her lap, glancing over towards him.

"She works hard," she replied. "A lot like Tashi used to. I remember watching her play when she was just starting out. She had the same intensity, the same drive."

That had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Art's gaze lingered on Katrina as she moved around the court with confidence and agility. Each shot was precise. He found himself leaning forward slightly, and his interest piqued despite his best efforts to remain indifferent.

Martha noticed the shift in his demeanor and cocked a brow. "It's good to see you out here, Art. I know you didn't want to come, but I'm glad you did," she said, her voice soft yet firm. Art nodded, his eyes fixed on the match.

"I'm just watching; nothing special, really," he replied, unsure if he was convincing himself or her.  — Another ace, and the crowd erupted in applause. Art found himself joining in, clapping slowly, though his eyes were locked on Katrina. Something about her—the energy, the focus—reminded him of the early days, the days of fire and ice, Stanford, Wimbledon, and Tashi. It was electric.

As the match progressed, Art's arms uncrossed, and he sat forward, his attention fully on the game. Katrina was dominating, each point building momentum until she reached the match point. The rallies were intense, and the shots were sharp and strategic. With one last ace, Katrina secured the game and title, and her triumphant fist-pump met with a roar from the crowd.

Art stood, clapping with genuine enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of excitement watching a match. Martha looked at him, raising an eyebrow, her expression expectant.

"Well?" she asked, her voice warm but with an edge that demanded a response.

Art hesitated only briefly, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I'll do it," he said, realizing that he meant it. The idea of coaching Katrina suddenly seemed like an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

Martha smiled, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "I knew you'd come around," she said. "Katrina will be thrilled."

Art nodded, his gaze returning to the court where Katrina stood, smiling at the applause. Turning towards the crowd after a few seconds, she found her mother’s gaze, and then — Arts, and she held a fiery look in her eyes, sporting a raised  brow and sly smirk for what felt like at least a minute. One thing was sure for Katrina, on August 31st, 2020, the match wasn’t the only thing she had won that day, and maybe, just maybe, tennis had a place for him again.

THE MEETING

Katrina King walked down the narrow corridor backstage, sweaty, hot, and short of breath, the adrenaline from her victory still coursing through her veins. She was basking in her win, her smile broad and confident. But her mother's text just minutes after the game was clear: "Come to the players' lounge. Now."

She pushed open the door and saw her mother sitting at a small table with Art Donaldson. Katrina knew who he was—everyone in tennis knew. A former tennis champion, the US Open winner from a decade earlier.

Art looked up as Katrina entered the room, his eyes scanning her with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Her long hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of intensity and confidence. He noticed the subtle tilt of her chin—she was used to winning, and it showed.

"Katrina," Martha said, gesturing for her to join them. "You remember Art Donaldson, don't you?"

"Of course," Katrina replied, extending her hand. Art stood, his movement deliberate, and shook her hand firmly. His hair was longer than she remembered, resembling his past self, his Stanford days, and recalling his games she'd seen on YouTube. His grip was strong.

"Great game today," Art said, his voice measured. "You played with a lot of confidence. That last ace was a killer."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, a hint of pride in her tone. She could tell he was assessing her and weighing her potential. She didn't mind—she'd done the same with him, reading up on his career and his playing style as soon as she found out he was attending her game. He was known for his

Martha cleared her throat. "But," she said, her tone turning sharp, "there were a few things you need to work on. Your backhand was a bit sloppy today. And you were late on a couple of volleys. If your opponent had been more aggressive, you could've lost points."

Katrina's expression hardened. She knew her mother was right, but the criticism was not something that needed to be said in front of Art; for God sake, she was a 20-year-old woman but felt like she was a child getting scolded in front of her peers, especially after a big win. Art watched the exchange, noting the dynamic between them.

"I'll work on it," Katrina said, her voice steady. "But I got the win, didn't I?"

"You need to be prepared for tougher competition. Complacency is the enemy." Martha replied. “If you think you can win the grand slam playing like that, you’ll be in for a rude awakening, Katrina.”

Art leaned back in his chair, watching the interplay. Katrina definitely had the spark and the drive, but there was also a stubborn streak in her.

So Tashi

When she was younger, she was always pushing boundaries and never satisfied with just a win. He could see the potential for greatness.

"She's got a point," Art said, jumping in. "There's always room for improvement. But you played a solid game today. The key is to keep that momentum going without getting overconfident."

Katrina glanced at him, assessing his words. She appreciated his straightforward approach. He wasn't coddling her, but he also wasn't tearing her down. It was a balance she could respect.

"I'm not planning on slowing down," she said, meeting his gaze. "I want to keep getting better. Whatever it takes."

Art nodded. He liked her attitude. It was raw and unfiltered, just like he had been. But there was also a hint of something else—an edge that could either make or break her career. He'd have to be careful, tread lightly, and guide her without pushing too hard.

"Good," he replied, a faint smile on his lips. "Because coaching isn't just about winning. It's about building a mindset, a work ethic, and knowing when to listen. You up for that?"

Katrina raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.”

PRACTICE

Art Donaldson stepped into the grand foyer of the White residence, feeling a slight twinge of unease. The housekeepers greeted him politely, their voices formal and distant, leading him through the opulent hallways.

The backyard was large, with meticulously manicured gardens and a full-sized tennis court at its center. Katrina was on the court, stretching with the fluid grace of a seasoned athlete. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and in her matching tennis outfit, everything was neatly upheld, even Katrina.

"Hi," she said, her tone somewhat neutral, almost formal. "Ready for practice?"

Art nodded, his expression detached.

Katrina stretched a little longer, glancing at Art occasionally. He stood with his arms crossed, his posture stiff and unwelcoming. The silence between them felt heavy, and neither seemed eager to break it. Katrina was used to coaches being more engaged and enthusiastic, but Art seemed distant, as if he was doing this out of obligation rather than passion.

"Let's get started," he replied, keeping his voice level. He placed his bag on a bench and scanned the court, taking in the pristine surface and the quality equipment. It was clear that the King family spared no expense on Katrina's training facilities.

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Katrina listened with a mix of uncertainty and skepticism. Art Donaldson wasn't the type to mince words, and despite his unbothered demeanor, his comments were sharp and to the point. What puzzled her was how much he seemed to know about her style, despite only seeing her play once.?

Art continued, his voice even and matter-of-fact. "I've reviewed some of your past games, mostly the ones you lost. It's clear you have the raw strength and power, but you rely on them too much. That's great for getting those aces, but without proper technique and precision, you're risking injuries and inconsistency. We need to refine that raw power and give it more structure."

Katrina couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. She knew she was strong, and her serve was one of the best on the circuit, but hearing someone dissect her game so quickly was unsettling. This was only their first practice; they hadn’t even started playing yet, but somehow Art already seemed to know her weaknesses better than most of her previous coaches.

Art continued, unaware of her internal resistance. "So, I've created a set of drills that will help improve your footwork and balance. It's not just about hitting the ball hard; it's about control and accuracy. If we don't work on these areas, you're going to burn out before you reach your peak."

Katrina folded her arms, her brow furrowing slightly. She wasn't one to take criticism lightly, especially from someone who'd barely spent time with her. Art had a point—she'd heard similar comments before—but his bluntness felt a bit too forward for her liking. Who was he to tell her she needed refinement after only seeing her play once?

As much as she wanted to dismiss him, she knew, deep down, that he was right. Her strength was a double-edged sword; it gave her an edge, but it also left her vulnerable. She'd suffered minor injuries in the past due to poor technique, and she'd lost matches because of these errors. Art's critique, though harsh, had truth to it.

Art noticed her hesitation and the slight edge in her expression. "I know this might sound a bit blunt," he said, softening his tone slightly. "But I'm not here to sugarcoat things. If you want to make it to the top and stay there, you need to listen and adjust. This isn't about criticism—it's about giving you the best chance to succeed."

Katrina sighed, feeling her resistance wane. Maybe Art was a bit too forward, but he wasn't wrong. He had seen something in her that others hadn't—or maybe he was just willing to point it out where others had stayed silent. She was stubborn, but she wasn't stupid.

"Okay," she said, her voice steady. "Let's give it a shot."

Art nodded, his demeanor slightly less rigid. "Good. Let's start with the footwork drills. I'll show you what I mean."

As they moved onto the court to begin the practice, Katrina felt a cautious sense of optimism. Art was a mystery; she had only met him once before and couldn’t recall him being this cold, but there was something about his straightforwardness that felt refreshing, even if it rubbed her the wrong way at first. Maybe this coaching thing would work out after all—if she could just learn to trust his instincts.

Art watched her for a while, his arms still crossed. He occasionally offered a brief correction, but his tone lacked enthusiasm. "Keep your elbow in on your serve. It'll give you more control," he said without much inflection.

Katrina adjusted her stance and served again, this time with better accuracy. "I got it," she replied, glancing at Art to gauge his reaction. He simply nodded, his face expressionless.

As the practice progressed, the tension between them slowly eased. Art started giving more detailed feedback, explaining why certain techniques were important. Katrina listened intently, realizing that, despite his aloof demeanor, he knew his stuff. His advice was sound, and when she followed it, she could see near-immediate improvement in her game.

"You're not bad at this coaching thing," she remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Art gave a faint smile, the first she'd seen from him. "Just repeating what I've heard a thousand times," he replied.

Katrina tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Didn't Tashi coach you your whole career? There must have been an adjustment when you two decided to retire, huh?" After those words left her mouth, she knew she had hit a sore spot.

Art's expression changed, the brief smile vanishing. "Yeah, she was." She hadn't meant any harm; really, it was an honest question. Art had a successful career with more than enough titles under his belt, not to mention a prior injury; it only made sense to retire when he did.

His voice grew colder. "Alright, breaks over." He turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.

The rest of the practice was more focused, with Art providing steady guidance and Katrina working hard to apply his advice. As the session drew to a close, Katrina felt a subtle shift in Art's attitude. He seemed a bit more relaxed and engaged in the process.

Before they wrapped up, Katrina decided to ask a question that had been on her mind. "Art, why did you agree to coach me?" she asked, her tone softer, almost hesitant. “No offense, but you didn't seem the most pleased when you got here.” She stopped and laughed. “And I know my mother's paying you well, but I'm sure you do good for yourself on your own.”

Art paused, considering his response. He looked up to the sky in thought, licking his lips only to settle his gaze on her while she rolled out her quads. "When I watched your game, I saw the determination and drive for tennis that I haven't seen in a long time," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective. "Not since Tashi," he added, his eyes distant. The memory of Tashi's knee injury and the end of her career lingered in the air. “It honestly felt like I was watching her for the first time again.”

Katrina nodded, sensing the heaviness in his words. "Thank you," she said quietly. She knew there was more to Art's story, but she also knew it wasn't her place to press further. She got up after her stretch, dusting herself off.

Art nodded, "We'll meet again tomorrow at the same time," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm. Katrina agreed, sensing that this coaching relationship would take time to develop but feeling that they were on the right track. “I think it would be a smart move to sign you up for some challengers; we’ll be able to fully gauge your abilities after a couple of weeks of training and see what we need to adjust.”

AFTER PRACTICE

Katrina stepped out of the shower, the hot water having done little to soothe the tension in her shoulders. The first practice with Art had been intense, and her muscles were starting to feel the strain. Wrapping a towel around herself, she took a deep breath, wondering if she'd made the right choice in agreeing to work with him.

As she got dressed, the scent of dinner wafted through the air, a rich aroma that made her stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten much during the day, and she hoped her mom would let her have something substantial.

Katrina entered the dining room, where her mother was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. The table was set with a carefully arranged selection of dishes, but Katrina noticed the absence of anything remotely indulgent. No desserts, no heavy carbs, just the usual assortment of protein and vegetables.

"Good evening, Mom," Katrina said, forcing a smile as she took a seat. Her mother looked up from her phone, her eyes bright but her expression serious.

"Katrina," Martha replied, her tone even. "How was practice with art?"

Katrina shrugged, picking up a piece of grilled chicken. "It was fine. He's... intense, but I guess that's to be expected from someone like him." She paused, then added, "How did you even get him to come to my match? He's been avoiding tennis for ages."

Martha's smile was tight, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Art and I have a history; we’ve always been interested in his foundational work. I just reminded him of the impact he could make by coming back, even if it was just for one match. And you know, he doesn't say no to me, not when your father and I are as generous as we are during his charity events."

Katrina raised an eyebrow, sensing the hint of manipulation in her mother's words. "So you used the foundation to guilt him into coming?"

Classic

Martha's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not guilt, Katrina. It's connections; your father and I do a lot for you and your career. There's a difference.” She paused. “The money we put into the foundations were investments for you; we would have preferred Tashi, sure, but after Art retired, she went off to coach some European girls, so we got the second best.” She was irritated. “Besides, I thought you'd be happy to have a coach like Art. You said yourself you needed someone with real experience." 

Katrina sighed, realizing that arguing with her mom was a lost cause. "I guess," she said, taking a cautious bite of the chicken. She glanced at the dessert tray on the far end of the table, spotting a small dish of fruit tarts. Her mouth watered at the sight of them.

Martha followed her gaze and shook her head. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly. "Your dietitian would have a fit. You know you're on a strict regimen."

Katrina rolled her eyes, but she didn't push back. Her mom was relentless when it came to her career, and any deviation from the plan was met with immediate correction. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, feeling her appetite wane.

“Where’s Jayden and Judea?” Katrina asked only now, noticing her siblings were missing from the dinner table.

“They went out to dinner with the rest of the kids that train with them and coach Pattcheo.”

“mmh.”

After dinner, Katrina retreated to her room, closing the door behind her. She felt a mix of frustration and curiosity. Frustration with her mom's overbearing attitude and curiosity about Art.

She opened her laptop and started searching for Art's social media profiles. His Instagram was sparse, mostly old tennis photos and a few promotional shots, brand deals, and the foundation. Barley has no pictures of his daughter and no recent ones of Tashi. His Facebook was similar, with long gaps between posts. There were articles about his career, but nothing stood out.

"For such a big shot, there’s not much for me to stalk," she muttered to herself, scrolling through the limited content. It was clear that Art wasn't one for the limelight, preferring to keep a low profile. Katrina found herself intrigued.

She searched for videos of his old matches, curious to see him in action. She found a few highlights from his glory days, watching as he moved across the court with precision and grace. It was easy to see why he'd been a champion—his technique was flawless, and his focus was intense.

"Not bad," she said to herself, watching a particularly impressive rally where he had dominated his opponent.

As the night grew darker, Katrina closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. Art was weird, and she wasn't sure how to feel about him yet. But one thing was clear—he had a depth that she'd have to uncover if she wanted to make the most of his coaching. And maybe, just maybe, he'd be the one to help her reach the next level.

SIX DAYS BEFORE US OPEN

It was six days before the Open, and Art stood at the far end of the court, watching Katrina as she moved through a set of agility drills. The sun was beating down, but Katrina was relentless, her movements swift and precise. As he took her in, he marveled at how good she looked. The thin layer of sweat that covered her form made her glow in the evening light, with her baby hair clinging to her face as she hit ball after ball. He drank in her curves, nearly forgetting what he was actually here for.

Art was calling out instructions, his voice clear but encouraging. Clearly, the past five weeks of training had brought them closer, both in skill and in the ease with which they interacted.

"Remember to keep your weight centered," Art said, pointing toward her feet. "Don't lean too much into the shot; it'll throw off your balance. Other than that, you’re looking good."

Katrina nodded, adjusting her stance. She enjoyed the sound of his voice, especially when he was praising her. It felt genuine, not just a coach’s platitude. She could sense an unspoken tension between them, but she couldn't quite define it. It was there, in the way his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they needed to, in the way he sometimes reached out to correct her form.

"Nice volley," Art said as she expertly returned the ball over the net. "You're really getting the hang of these drills."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, giving him a small smile. "I learned from the best."

Art chuckled, shaking his head. "Flattery won't save you on the court, but it's appreciated." He watched as she moved into position for a backhanded hit, a play that had been a weak point for her. She swung, and the ball clipped the net.

Maybe she was just tired, or maybe he just looked too good; either way, she was distracted. How was she supposed to focus when he was standing with his broad shoulders and arms crossed and that damn backwards Sandford snapback observing like a hawk? She understood that’s his job; he’s quite literally getting paid to be here. Something was different though; the look he gave her five weeks ago, shit even two weeks ago, was nothing near the way he looks at her now.

“Stop.” He says, and she halts her hit.

Art moved closer, taking a pause, before walking behind her, closing the distance between them. "Here, let me show you," he said, reaching around her to correct her grip on the racket. His breath was warm on her neck, and Katrina tensed, feeling a heat that wasn't from the sun. His touch was gentle but firm, guiding her into the proper position.

"Like this," Art said, stepping back slightly but still close enough to feel his presence. "Keep your elbow straight and your wrist firm."

Katrina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and swung again, this time clearing the net with ease.

“There we go, atta girl.” He whispered while cracking a smile.

She felt hot, oh god, and it definitely wasn’t the sun. How could he say that so casually? She didn’t have to just deal with the fact that she’s now all hot and bothered, but also the guilty embarrassment of realizing she has a fat crush on her 30-sum-year-old tennis coach, who just happens to be a husband and father.

Right

Pulling away, she changes the subject, considering he’s been silent for the past minute and a half. "How's your daughter doing? And Tashi?" She felt the atmosphere shift as Art cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Lily's doing well," he replied, his voice controlled. "She's on tour with Tashi, who's coaching her for the season." He left it at that, his eyes avoiding hers as he focused on the court. "Keep hitting the ball with that form," he added, his tone all business now.

Art adjusted his pants, his expression tight, and turned to leave. "I'll be right back," he said. "I just need to run to the bathroom."

Katrina watched him go, her heart still racing from the moment he'd been so close. She tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing on her training, but the lingering warmth of his presence was hard to ignore. The open tournament was coming up, and she needed to be at her best, both on and off the court. The challenge would be to keep her focus where it needed to be.

“Oh, what the fuck, Art?” feeling his own disappointment, he said to himself as he did his best to fix the hard-on that was growing by the second. What would he give to be able to take a cold shower right now?

Scurrying to the bathroom, he quickly shut the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and leans against the door, contemplating what just happened and palming himself.

“Fuck” was uttered in a raspy and hushed manner.

He turns to look at himself in the mirror. He felt guilty forgetting hard for a girl over a decade younger than him. But that wasn’t what he really felt guilty about. He felt guilty because he liked it. She was fiery; she was driven, and the way she looked at him, with admiration, was long since Tashi looked at him with any emotion of the sort. Katrina made him feel good about himself. And fuck, was she hot. He was almost certain that as the days of training passed, the length of her skirt shortened and her tops got tighter, or maybe he just started paying attention to it.

He needed to stop thinking of her for his sanity and his cocks, because leaving every practice with blue balls for the last week and a half hasn’t been pleasant.

Splashing himself with cold water and tucking his dick into his waistband, he walks back out before she starts questioning anything.

"All right, that's it for today," he called out, clapping his hands to get her attention. "Good work. We'll take it easy tomorrow, then hit the road the day after."

Katrina straightened, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she said, her voice a little breathless from the intense workout. "I feel good about it. I think we're ready."

Art nodded, watching her carefully as she walked toward him. There was a grace to her movements, even in her exhaustion. She carried herself with confidence, but there was also a vulnerability that he'd come to recognize. It was in the way she sometimes hesitated before speaking or the way her eyes softened when they shared a joke.

"Thanks for, you know, doing this," Katrina said, her eyes meeting his. "I know you didn't have to, but... I'm glad you did."

Art felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of connection that he'd been avoiding, or perhaps suppressing. There was something about Katrina that made him want to stay, to guide her through the ups and downs of the game. And it wasn't just about tennis. It was something deeper, something that made him feel almost protective.

"It's been a good few weeks," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "You've got a lot of potential, Katrina. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could go far."

She smiled, a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you."

There was a moment of silence, a charged pause where neither of them moved. He knew he should step back and create some distance, but he found himself drawn in, his gaze lingering on her lips, then her eyes. There was something about her.

"All right," he said, finally breaking the silence. "Get some rest tonight. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I need you focused."

Katrina nodded, her eyes locking with his. The tension was palpable, a mix of excitement and something else, something neither of them wanted to name. Art felt the stirrings of something almost primal, a desire that had been dormant for a long time. He knew it wasn't appropriate, but it was there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"Good night," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

"Good night," he replied, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than they should. "Rest up. I'll see you tomorrow." With his things packed, he walked off the court, leaving her to stretch.

The US Open tournament was coming, and with it, a new set of challenges—both on and off the court.

THE DRIVE TO SAN DIEGO

This was unexpected. Somehow, Katrina was sitting in the passenger seat of Arts Blue Bronco and had managed to snag herself a one-on-one tournament weekend with the Art Donaldson himself. Her mother had only missed three of her games throughout her entire career. The first time was when Katrina was 12. Her mother didn't attend because Katrina had just started playing tennis, and her mother assumed she wouldn't be good enough to watch, so she spent her time on holiday with the neighborhood housewives and was pleasantly surprised when Katrina returned with her first trophy. The second time was when Katrina was 16. Their grandmother had passed away, but Katrina's mother insisted that Katrina should play in the game instead of staying home to grieve like a normal person. She told Katrina that every win was one step closer to a successful career; bad things happen all the time, and you simply “need to get over it and move on." The third time was today, when Katrina was 20, after her little brother's appendix unexpectedly burst at 4 a.m. in the morning, and he and their mom had to rush to the hospital.

"How do you feel about your mom not being here this time?" Art asked, leaning back in his seat. He took a sip of his coffee, glancing at Katrina's expression carefully.

Katrina shrugged. "Honestly? I'm kind of happy she's not here. It's like a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to worry about her criticizing every move I make or every shot I miss."

Art nodded, sensing the relief in her voice. "Your mom seems pretty tough on you."

"She is," Katrina replied, swirling her drink. "She talks a big game, but sometimes I think she doesn't really know what she's saying. Like when she criticizes my plays—she doesn't really get the game, you know? She just wants to be involved, but it's not always helpful."

Art felt a twinge of sympathy. He'd known parents like that, always pushing, always expecting perfection without understanding the sacrifices involved. "I'm glad I could be here for you, then," he said. "You shouldn't have to go through all this alone. It's hard enough without extra pressure from someone who isn't really helping."

Katrina shrugged, her lips curling into a small, ironic smile. "It's been like that since I was a kid. I never had much of a childhood, anyway. The little bit of teenager-like stuff I did, I had to sneak around to do it. Mom was always watching, always pushing me to be the best and to win. I never really got to be a kid."

Art felt a pang of something deep in his chest. It wasn't just empathy—it was a sense of injustice, of the things Katrina had missed out on. He'd seen it before in other athletes whose parents lived vicariously through their children, expecting them to carry the weight of their own dreams. It was a burden no young person should have to bear. Shit went through it himself with Tashi, and it eventually cost them their relationship.

"That sounds rough," he said, his voice gentle. "Everyone deserves a chance to be a kid—to have fun, to make mistakes, to figure things out without a constant spotlight." 

“I definitely have to make mistakes." She paused and giggled in embarrassment. “This might be T.M.I. But my first time was with a random guy around my age that was dragged to a dinner party at his parents house.” She side-eyes Art for a moment. “Of course, while the adults did whatever adults do, we snuck off into the liquor cabinet, got so hammered, and then decided to go up to my room.”

Art only looked at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to finish.

“Long story short, by the time we were done, everyone was looking for us — of course we were too stupid to think that anyone would notice we were missing for over an hour.” She sighs with a smile. "Anyways, it turns out they were serving desert, and when the housekeeper came in looking for us, she couldn’t hold back a scream. It's safe to say I can’t even remember how long I was grounded for.”

Art was fully laughing now, not sure if it was from second hand embarrassment or because of how unexpected this was.

“Mistakes aren’t something; you escape, believe me.” He seemed nostalgic.

"Yeah," Katrina replied, her gaze dropping to the table. 

“Anyways, I’m sure instances like that’s what made me basically one of the strongest tennis players of all time,” she concludes, sarcastically exaggerating.

Art sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Strength isn't just about winning," he said. "It's about finding your own way, making your own choices, and being okay with who you are, even if it doesn't fit someone else's expectations."

Katrina looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. "That's what I want," she said. "I want to play because I love it, not because I'm trying to prove something to someone else. I just... I wish I had more time to figure it all out."

Art nodded, understanding her struggle. "You'll get there," he said. "You've got a lot of potential, and you're doing it for the right reasons. Just remember, it's okay to take a step back sometimes. To enjoy the game, to find joy in the small things,

Katrina smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "I needed to hear that."

Art returned her smile, feeling a connection that went beyond coach and player. It was a moment of genuine understanding, the kind that made all the effort and hard work worth it. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but at least they had each other to navigate it together.

AT THE HOTEL

After a two-hour drive, Art and Katrina King arrived at the hotel where they would be staying during the tournament in San Diego. The hotel was upscale, with modern decor and spacious rooms. They'd been given a suite with two separate bedrooms connected by a shared living area. It was the perfect setup for coach and player.

Art had just finished unpacking when he decided to knock on Katrina's door. It was only 7 p.m., and he thought it might be nice to have dinner together. A little bonding before the tournament might help ease some of the tension they have been feeling lately. There is no harm in a friendly dinner. 

Right?

Katrina opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Art standing there. "Hey," she said, her voice softer than usual. "What's up?"

"Want to grab dinner?" Art asked, keeping his tone casual. "There's a nice restaurant downtown I've been meaning to check out every time I come down here."

Katrina hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a hint of a smile. "Sure, why not?" she replied. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach—this wasn't just a quick meal at the hotel lobby; it was a proper dinner out.

"Great," Art said, checking his designer watch. "Meet you back here in 40."

Katrina agreed, closing the door to get ready. She picked out a simple black dress, something a little fancier than she normally wears. Her brown hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, cascaded down in curls. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves. This was just dinner, right?

When she stepped out of her room, Art was already waiting in the living area. He glanced up and immediately did a double take. Katrina looked stunning, the soft curls of her hair framing her face perfectly. Her dress hugged her figure in a way that made it hard to look away. Art felt like a high school boy going out on his first date. He could already feel himself stiffen. 

Blinking, he gives up a smirk. "You look great."

Katrina blushed slightly. "Thanks," she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "You don't look too bad yourself. Nice seeing you outside of tennis attire."

The place was dimly lit with candlelight, adding to the intimate atmosphere. As they sat down, Art felt a sense of ease with Katrina that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was nice to know that for once, something in her life wasn't just about tennis; it was about getting to know each other on a personal level.

As time passed, they got into a comfortable conversation, talking about anything and everything.

"So," Katrina began, looking across the table at him, "you mentioned your daughter earlier. Tell me about her."

Art smiled at the mention of Lily. "She's great," he said. "She's 10 and a total fire cracker; she’s starting boarding school next year. She’s got this energy that lights up a room. She loves tennis, too, but I'm trying not to push her too hard. I want her to find her own path."

Katrina nodded, appreciating his perspective. "Sounds like you're a good dad."

Art chuckled softly, then his expression turned a bit somber. "I try to be. Things have been complicated at home. Tashi and I are technically still together, but it's more for Lily's sake than anything else." He paused, glancing at Katrina to gauge her reaction. "We're not really happy, but we're making it work—for now. Nothing has really been the same since I retired, you know."

Oh, that makes sense. She tensed.

Katrina felt a guilty glimmer of hope. If Art and Tashi were essentially separated, then maybe her fantasies weren't so impossible after all. The thought made her blush, and she took a sip of water to hide it.

As the dinner progressed, they subtly flirted with each other. Art ordered a bottle of wine to keep the conversation going, which prompted Katrina to raise an eyebrow. "Isn't this off-limits?" she teased. "My mother and my dietitian would be so disappointed."

Art smirked. "You have to live a little," he replied, pouring her a glass. "Besides, a glass of wine won't ruin your career. It's all about balance, right?"

Katrina laughed softly. "Isn't it ironic that a thirty-something-year-old man is telling a twenty-year-old to have fun?"

Art chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Maybe I know a thing or two about loosening up," he said with a playful wink. "Life's too short to be serious all the time."

“You sure look like you know how to have fun,” she said in a teasing tone. It was clear her words had a double meaning.

Art smirked and quipped, “I do; you just have to pry it out of me, I guess.

As the evening went on, the tension between them grew more palpable. The candlelight, the soft music, the wine—all of it added to the atmosphere. There was an undercurrent of attraction, a pull that neither of them could ignore. By the end of the night, you could’ve cut the tension with a knife.

Art leaned in slightly, his voice lower. "We should probably head back," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "I don't want to overdo it before the tournament."

Katrina nodded, feeling her heart race. "Yeah, probably a good idea," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they left the restaurant, the night air felt cooler against their skin, but the heat between them hadn't cooled at all. They walked back to the hotel in comfortable silence, each aware of the unspoken desire simmering just beneath the surface, steeling glances here and there.

The tension had been building throughout dinner. As they reached their suite, Art turned to Katrina, his expression neutral but his eyes holding a hint of warmth.

"Well, I guess we should call it a night," he said, reaching for his key card. He didn't want to cross any boundaries, especially with the multiple games she had tomorrow. But the way Katrina looked at him during dinner made it difficult to ignore the desire simmering just beneath the calm exterior.

Katrina held up a finger. "Okay...” she paused, feigning a thought. “But we didn't finish the bottle of wine," she said with a playful smile. "And my mom's going to be back for the second day of the tournament. This might be our only chance to… get to know each other; we’ll have to throw it out if we don’t finish it tonight, just sayin’."

The wine was definitely hitting.

Art hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

They moved into the shared living room, which had a small kitchenette and a comfortable seating area. Katrina grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses while Art flipped through the channels on the television, settling on a random movie for background noise. It was an action film with a lot of explosions and fast-paced scenes, but neither of them paid much attention to it.

As they settled onto the couch, Katrina poured them each a glass of wine. The atmosphere was relaxed, but there was an underlying current of flirtation. They started talking about the tournament, about tennis, and then about life in general. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and playful banter.

"You know," Art said, taking a sip of wine, "I didn't think I'd enjoy coaching, but I'm glad I came back for this."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Coaching? You're more like a mentor," she teased. "Plus, you're not that old to be called a coach."

Art chuckled. "Careful, or I'll make you run extra laps tomorrow," he replied, giving her a mock stern look. "I'm not that old, but I've seen a lot in my time."

"Sure, sure," Katrina said, rolling her eyes. "You're practically ancient."

They both laughed, the sound filling the room. As the conversation continued, they found themselves leaning closer to each other, the space between them shrinking with each passing minute. The flirting became more overt—the playful touches on the arm, the shared smiles, and the lingering glances.

Art felt the tension building and the pull growing stronger. He knew he should keep his distance, but the way Katrina looked at him, her eyes sparkling in the dim light, made it difficult to resist.

"You know," he said, his voice low and smooth, "you're more than just a talented player, Katrina.” He looked at her with a dark gaze. “There's something about you that makes it hard to stay away. Even when I know I should."

Katrina's eyes widened slightly, her heart racing at his words. The air between them felt electric and charged with anticipation. There were no words left to be said; they leaned in without even noticing, and there they were, on the hotel couch, lips smashed together. The wine glass in Katrina's hand tilted, spilling a few drops onto the couch, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.

The kiss was intense, filled with the desire that had been building for weeks. It was risky, even dangerous, given their roles as coach and athlete. But in that moment, none of it mattered. The world seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them caught in a whirlwind of emotion and longing.

Sprawled out like a couple of horny teenagers making out on their parent’s couch, it was almost comedic. 

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was ragged, and their eyes locked in a mix of surprise and exhilaration. The movie played on in the background, the noise a distant echo as they sat there, close together, knowing that everything had changed in a single moment.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Art broke the silence first.

“Yeah, we really shouldn't.” She pulled back for a moment. “But we already did.” She moved up to fix his nonexistent collar. “Unfortunately, I have this really good coach, and he’d hate to see me not finish something I started.” Sha gazed up at him as she finished giving him a cheeky smile.

She was giving him that look, a look that said nothing less than fuck me.

Art couldn’t do anything more than chuckle and give in. “Well, I’d hate to be the reason you disappoint him.“ He told her as he lifted her up into his lap.

“You’ve gotta live a little, you know.” She said it in-between kisses. His lips, his neck, and his jaw. There wasn’t an inch of him; she wasn’t going to kiss tonight.

“You’re right.” Their mouths dance together, their tongues fighting for dominance. Arts hands were taking all her in. Her dress pooled around her waist as he slipped his hands under it, grasping her tits. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, Katrina.” He breathes out in a hushed manner, biting at her lip.

“Prove it to me, Art.” She says she is pulling her dress over her head. He stopped taking a moment to drink her in; she was beautiful.

“Holly fuck.” He rasps out, unclasping her bra, leaving it to be forgotten, much like the wine.

Katrina could feel the raging hardness beneath her. Grinding into it, she lets out a moan as he kisses and sucked on her exposed breast. “Every time I’d walk on the court, and I’d see you wearing your tight little tennis outfits, god,” he rasped while bighting his lip. “All I could think about was how I wanted to bed you over and fuck you right then and there.” He picked her up and started walking to her bedroom. “Now, I get to be a good coach and teach you a thing or two.” He threw her on the bed, peering over her with hungry eyes and breathing heavily. “Will you be a good student and let coach fuck some knowledge into you, huh, baby?”

“I’ve never let you down, have I?” She answered him, looking up at him from the bed, her big doe eyes saying everything for her. “Show me how it’s done, coach.” She wet her lips seductively.

“Well, first, pretty girl, it’s important to get warmed up. You need help warming up, babe.” Art drags his finger from her thigh to her stomach and back down to her panties.  Slowly pulling them off. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he gazes up at her with hooded eyes. He kisses along her thighs, sucking now and then, making his way up to her sopping cunt. When he does reach her, he begins lapping at her like a man who’s been deprived of water for forty days and forty nights.

“Oh my God, Art, it feels so good.” She could feel herself getting short of breath. It was so good, better than anything she had fantasized about while taking the shower head for a spin. Grasping his hair in her hand, she can’t help but grind her pussy in his face, making both him and her a sloppy mess.”

“You’re so good for me; you've always been a fast learner, you know.” He pulled up, leaving trails of kisses as he made his way up and onto the bed. “My pretty girl,” he says, looking down at her with a smirk, his chin wet with her juices. He gets off the bed and starts to strip. His shirt comes up first, giving her the opportunity to get up on her knees and run her hands over his toned abs as she continues to kiss his neck. He follows with his. Belt slipped off his pants, his cock springing up, strained by his boxers. Katrina can’t help but feel her mouth damn near water. Pulling his boxers down, she lets a glob of her saliva leak on his cock before taking him into her mouth with a moan. Art only grabs her hair in his fist before letting out a deep moan and letting his eyes roll back. “Really got a mouth on you, huh, pretty girl.” He caresses her cheek. “Taking me all in.”

He pulls out, a string of saliva following, only to drip down from her chin onto her chest as he motions for her to lay back down on the bed. “You ready to get that pretty pussy fucked?” he leans down, sucking on her nipples. “You’ve warmed up enough, don’t you think?”

"Yes.” Its barley is above a whisper.

“What was that? You’ve got to use your words, Kat." He says, slightly pulling away from her lips, waiting for a better response.

“Please fuck me, Art.” She moans out, “I need you now."” She pulls him back down for a kiss, lining her hips up with his. He’s teasing at her entrance for a moment before she grabs his lower back and pulls him in the whole way. They both let out a sigh of relief as she felt her walls stretch around his length and he felt her wetness embrace him.

He’s fully thrusting now, with his whole strength, his hips snapping into hers with purpose. Grunts and moans are coming out of both their mouths.

"Switch,” she says, suddenly pushing him back a bit, only for her to get on top, grinding her hips in circles while riding him. “You’re so good, Art; you make me feel so good,” she’s breathless, guiding his veiny hands onto her chest. “I’ve ouched myself so many times fantasizing about this, thinking about how I’d take your cock.” She slips his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them for a second. “Even better than I dreamed,” she smirked. She could feel the pit inside her tighten; she was close, and she could tell that he was too.

She looked down at her and motioned for Art to open his mouth, and when she did, she let her spit trickle down into his mouth with a satisfied grin. That was it for him; after she did that, he started hammering on her mercilessly.

“Oh my god, harder art.” She says this with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. He obliged his vice like a grip.. Her ass was so hard, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it bruised tomorrow. His pace was uneven with labored breaths; he let out one loud moan before pulling out and cumming all over her stomach, some even getting on himself. She didn’t even have the time to process what happened before she was pushed onto her stomach. 

There he was again, nose deep in her aching pussy, only this time it was from behind, and he was going between her cunt and her asshole. Moaning into a pillow, it didn’t take long for her to finish all over his face, collapsing onto the bed, flat on her stomach.

After a long and hot shower, Art lay on his back, his arm around Katrina as they were in bed, enjoying the stillness of the night. The hotel room was dimly lit, casting a soft glow that created an intimate ambiance. Katrina's head rested on his shoulder, her hair cascading over his chest. It felt comfortable and natural, like they belonged there.

Art turned slightly to look down at Katrina, her face peaceful and relaxed. He traced his fingers gently along her arm, a simple, affectionate gesture that made her shiver slightly. It was a closeness that was rare for him, something he hadn't felt in years, and he cherished it.

"You're something else, you know that?" He said, his voice low and warm. "You've got this way of making me feel like I'm twenty again. I don't know what it is, but you bring out a side of me that I thought was long gone."

Katrina smiled, her eyes still closed as she nestled closer against him. "That's a good thing, right?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

Art chuckled, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Yeah, it's a good thing," he replied. "I really enjoyed tonight. It was... different from what I'm used to, but in the best possible way. I wasn't sure I wanted to get into coaching, but being your coach has been one of the best decisions I've made in a long time."

Katrina opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze warm and inviting. "I'm glad you did," she said. "I don't know where I'd be without you. It's not just about tennis—it's about everything else. You made me realize it’s not just hitting a ball with a stick."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, a simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes. "You've got a lot of talent, Katrina," he said.

Katrina blushed, feeling a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the physical closeness. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft. "That means a lot coming from you. I feel the same way, you know. You make everything seem a little easier, like it's all going to be okay."

Art nodded, his heart swelling with a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was more than just affection—it was a sense of connection, a bond that he knew was special.

Katrina sighed contentedly, her head resting against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was soothing, grounding her in the moment. She felt safe, secure, and genuinely happy. It was a feeling she hadn't had in a long time, and she wasn't ready to let it go.

Art tightened his arm around her, holding her a little closer. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the depth of their connection. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Katrina by his side, he felt like he could take on anything.

THE TOURNEMENT

Katrina woke up to an empty bed. The warm spot where Art had lain the night before had cooled, and there was no sign of him in the hotel room. She rubbed her eyes, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It was early, but she figured he had probably gone to start prepping for the tournament—they had a busy day ahead. It had been a long night.

She sat up, stretched, and looked around the room. Everything was in its usual place; nothing seemed out of order. Art's clothes were gone, and her things were neatly put away, almost as if he had never stayed there.

Strange

Katrina didn’t dwell on it. It made sense that he might have moved his things back to his room to get ready for the day. After all, he was her coach, and today was important.

She got dressed in her tennis gear, taking her time in the bathroom to brush her hair and freshen up. The uncertainty about where Art had gone was starting to creep in, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to get worked up—he'd turn up soon enough.

Katrina made her way to the living room and kitchen, expecting to find Art there, but he was nowhere to be seen. She checked her phone, but there were no messages from him. It was odd; usually, he'd leave some sort of note or text. She grabbed one of her pre-prepared meals from the fridge and ate it while waiting for him to return, her mind running through the drills they’d be doing later that day.

After what felt like an eternity, Art finally walked in, holding a cup of coffee from the café downstairs. Katrina felt a rush of relief. "Hey," she said, trying to sound casual. "You went out for coffee?"

Art nodded, but his demeanor was noticeably colder than usual. His eyes were distant, and his responses were curt. "Yeah," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. His tone was flat, lacking the warmth she had come to expect from him.

Katrina felt a flicker of anxiety. "Is everything okay?" she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. "You seem a little off."

Art shrugged, barely looking at her. "Just focused on the tournament," he said, his voice detached. "We've got a lot to do today."

Katrina felt a pang of confusion. This was a complete 180 from the night before. They had shared something special, something she thought was meaningful. She wasn’t expecting a proposal. But now he was acting as if it had never happened. So she pressed the issue.

"Art, why are you acting like this?" she asked, her tone edged with concern. "Last night was... well, it was nice. What changed."

Art set his coffee cup down, his expression hardening. "I'm being a responsible coach," he said, his voice cold. "You have important matches today. We can't afford distractions."

Katrina was taken aback by his abruptness. "Distractions? Is that what last night was to you?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

Art sighed, rubbing his temples. "Katrina, we can't do this. You need to be focused. What happened last night." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "It was a mistake, and I need you to be serious about this tournament."

Katrina felt a surge of anger and hurt. "A mistake?" she said, her voice sharp. "So that's it? We just pretend it never happened. You can't just switch like that!"

Art's expression was stern. "You need to act like you've got an important game today, because you do. And I have to be the coach you need, not something else."

Katrina felt her heart sink. This wasn't the Art she knew. The warmth and connection from the night before were gone, replaced by a wall of professionalism and distance. But there wasn't time to press further—they had to get to the court and start their warm-up drills.

The argument left Katrina feeling disoriented and hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. She had to focus on the tournament, even if her coach seemed to have turned into a different person overnight. As they headed out the door, she tried to shake off the feeling, knowing that the game ahead demanded her full attention.

FIRST MATCH

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, introducing the players for the Challenger tournament. The crowd applauded as Katrina King and Alexis Grace stepped onto the court, each acknowledging the fans with a wave. Art Donaldson watched from the sidelines, his eyes focused on Katrina as she moved to her position.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first match of the US Open," the announcer said, continuing on.

Art knew it would be a challenging game. Alexis was a good opponent who could hold her own, but based on states alone, this should be an easy win, for lack of better words. Art felt a pang of guilt for how he'd acted that morning. He'd been cold and distant, trying to maintain professionalism, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wished he could go back and handle things differently, but now wasn't the time for regrets—Katrina needed his support.

The first set began with Katrina serving. She delivered a somewhat strong shot, but Alexis returned it with ease, sending the ball back with a blistering forehand. Katrina scrambled to keep up, her movements swift but slightly off-balance. She managed to return the shot, but Alexis was already at the net, volleying the ball with precision.

Art watched, his heart racing. Katrina had the talent, but he could tell she was getting into her own head. The missed points seemed to weigh heavily on her, and she was starting to lose her composure. He couldn't blame her—his behavior hadn't helped.

Katrina's next serve was strong, but Alexis anticipated it, returning the ball with a slice that landed just out of Katrina's reach. The crowd murmured, sensing the momentum shift in Alexis's favor. Art clenched his fists, trying to stay calm. He needed to be there for Katrina, even if she didn't want to hear it right now. Her errors were becoming more frequent. A double fault here, a missed volley there—it was starting to add up.

Art's internal thoughts were filled with frustration and guilt. He knew he had to do something to help her, but he also knew her head wasn’t focused on the game. As the set progressed, the tension in the stadium grew. Katrina's shots were becoming more erratic, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake.

Finally, the set ended with a decisive point from Alexis, securing her the first set. The crowd erupted in applause, but Art felt a sinking feeling in his chest.

Katrina King sat on the bench, her racket resting between her knees, and tried to catch her breath. The set break was supposed to be a chance to reset, to gather her thoughts, and to prepare for the next game, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Her body felt tense, and her heart was heavy with doubt.

This match was supposed to be a warmup, and I’m making a complete fool of myself. She thought, scrunching her brows as she looked up at the sky.

Her hand gripped the racket tighter, the familiar texture offering a semblance of comfort.

A mistake

This morning kept replaying in her mind, each word like a weight pressing down on her. It had thrown her off and shaken her confidence. She couldn't understand why he'd suddenly turned so cold.

What the fuck did I get myself into? She wondered, feeling a mix of anger and confusion.

She glanced at the sidelines, where Art sat, his arms crossed, watching the court with a distant expression. He was focused, but not on her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and his detachment made her stomach twist. It felt like a betrayal, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was alone out there.

He's just a coach. I don't need him to win. I've been doing this on my own for years.

But the more she tried to convince herself, the more her emotions swirled. Last night felt like a turning point, like they were connecting on a deeper level. And now, all that warmth and all that understanding were gone. It left her feeling hollow and unsure of her next move.

Forget about this morning. Forget about last night. Forget about Art. Just play the game. That’s all you're good at anyway.

She couldn't forget, not when it felt like her world was shifting beneath her feet. The pressure of the tournament, the expectations from everyone, and now the unexpected 180—it was all too much. She needed to find her focus, but it felt like she was battling more than just an opponent on the court. She was battling her own doubts and her own insecurities, and it was starting to show.

The umpire's call signaled the end of the break, and Katrina stood up, her legs feeling heavier than usual. She couldn't afford to let this slip away. She had to find a way to center herself and regain the focus and determination that had brought her this far. But as she walked back onto the court, she knew it wouldn't be easy. The shadows of doubt were growing, and she wasn't sure if she had the strength to push them back.

The final set was about to begin, and the energy in the stadium was electric. Kat had lost the first set to Alexis, barely clawed her way back to win the second, and now faced the challenge of closing out the match.

A whirlpool of frustration was consuming her. She knew she should be playing better than this. Alexis was a competent player, but she shouldn't have been able to pressure Katrina like she was doing now. The missteps, the errant serves, the missed volleys—it was all spiraling out of control. She knew she had to get her head back in the game.

"Come on, Katrina," Art muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He knew he should’ve never said what he had this morning, and God did he regret it. Not even because it threw her off her game, but simply because it wasn’t true.

I didn’t mean it, Kat.

Alexis returned Katrina's second serve with a deep forehand, forcing Katrina to run to the back of the court. She managed to get the ball back, but it was a weak return, and Alexis took advantage, hitting a powerful backhand down the line. Katrina struggled to reach it, her footwork sloppy.

The crowd murmured, sensing the shift in momentum. Katrina felt her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Get it together," she told herself, trying to drown out the negativity in her mind. She took a deep breath and prepared for the next point, knowing she couldn't afford to lose her composure.

Art clenched his fists, watching Katrina's struggle. He wanted to shout words of encouragement; right now, he needed Katrina to find her focus and to play like he knew she could.

The next few points were a back-and-forth battle. Katrina managed to win a couple of rallies, showing glimpses of her usual skill, but Alexis was relentless. Katrina's errors were piling up, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake. A missed serve here, a poorly timed volley there—it was all adding up, and Katrina felt like she was falling apart.

He knew he had to do something to help her, but he wasn't sure what. She was slipping, and he could see it in her eyes—the doubt, the frustration. He wished he could just rewind the morning and start over.

Katrina's frustration boiled over as she missed yet another shot, sending the ball wide of the sideline. She clenched her racket, her anger turning inward.

What the actual fuck kat? She felt herself slipping.

Art watched as Katrina's confidence seemed to crumble. Every point felt like a battle, and she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. The crowd's cheers seemed distant, drowned out by her own inner turmoil. She needed to find her focus and remember why she loved the game in the first place.

Katrina King stood at the baseline, bouncing the tennis ball as she prepared to serve. The pressure was immense. The score was tied, but this was match point for Alexis.

"Just get this right," she told herself, bouncing the ball one more time. "Keep it simple, focus on your form, and breathe."

She threw the ball up and swung, her serve powerful but lacking the usual precision.

The umpire's call was clear: "In!"

Alexis immediately raised her hand, signaling her challenge.

Katrina tensed, holding her breath. Fuck. She had already accepted defeat.

The electronic system, designed to track the ball's trajectory, sprang into action. The large screen above the court displayed the replay, with the lines highlighted in bold white against the blue surface.

The slow-motion replay showed the ball’s descent, curving slightly in its flight. It landed, from this perspective, millimeters inside the line, causing the crowd to murmur in anticipation. The pause felt longer than it actually was, with everyone waiting for the official verdict.

Alexis stood with her racket resting on her shoulder, her expression tense and unimpressed. She glanced at Katrina, who remained at the baseline, her stance rigid.

The electronic system confirmed the umpire's call: "In!" The word flashed across the screen, accompanied by a graphic showing the ball's exact position—just inside the line. The crowd erupted in applause, and Katrina allowed herself a small smile. She was relieved that the serve was good, but she knew she couldn't let her focus slip.

Alexis nodded curtly; her challenge was unsuccessful. She adjusted her grip on her racket, preparing for the next point. The moment of doubt had passed, and the game resumed its intensity.

Art saw Katrina's moments of ease, but he also saw the hesitation in her footwork and the slight tremors in her hands.

Alexis's return was a deep shot to Katrina's backhand, forcing her to pivot quickly. Katrina reached for it, but her timing was slightly off. The ball clipped the net, but it went over. Katrina breathed a sigh of relief as Alexis scrambled to reach it. and get her racket under the ball just in time.

The volley was clumsy, but it kept the rally going. Katrina's heart raced as she tried to regain her rhythm. She could feel the momentum slipping away, and she knew she couldn't afford another mistake. Alexis, however, was relentless, keeping the pressure on with precise shots to the corners of the court.

Art clenched his fists, chewing his gum while watching Katrina's struggle. He felt the intensity of the moment, knowing that this point could determine the outcome of the match. He wanted to find a way to ease her nerves, but all he could do was watch and hope she could pull through.

The rally continued, with Katrina barely managing to keep up. Alexis played a drop shot, and Katrina lunged to reach it. She got there just in time, but her return was weak, giving Alexis the upper hand. Alexis moved in for the kill, smashing the ball toward the baseline.

Katrina dove to reach it, her body hitting the ground as her racket connected with the ball. It went over the net, but it was a high lob, an easy shot for Alexis. Alexis jumped, delivering a powerful overhead smash that Katrina couldn't hope to reach. The ball hit the court with a decisive thud, and the umpire called the point.

Art felt a pang of disappointment as the crowd erupted in applause. He knew Katrina had fought hard, but the internal turmoil had cost her the match. He saw the frustration on her face as she stood up, brushing off the dirt from her fall. She glanced toward him, her eyes filled with a mix of anger, defeat, and tears.

Katrina knew she had given it her all, but it hadn't been enough. She felt the weight of the loss, knowing that her own doubts and the fight with Art had played a part in her performance. As she walked off the court, she felt a mix of disappointment and a lingering sense of confusion about what had gone wrong—both on and off the court.

Art made his way down to talk to Katrina. She was sitting on the bench, her head down, a towel draped over her shoulders. Art approached, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his tone gentle. "It's just one game; you’ve got three more today. You can still turn this around. Just focus on your game, okay? Don't let this get in your head." He finished and tried to embrace her in his arms for some sort of comfort, but his efforts proved futile because before he could fully hug her, she pushed him off.

Katrina looked back at him, her eyes watery, cold, and distant. "Oh, now you're being supportive?" She shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What happened to the coach who was so concerned about being professional this morning?"

Art winced, feeling the sting of her words. He knew he deserved it, but it still hurt. "I know, I messed up," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Katrina shook her head, her expression hardening. "I don't need your fake support, Art," she said, standing up. "Just let me play my game."

“Kat, don’t be like that.” He said he was stepping forward, trying to get a hold of her.

“Be like what, Art?” she said, feeling her anger rise. “I shouldn’t act like you treated me as if I were a late-night tinder hookup.” She paused, her lips trembling. “I wouldn’t be like this if you would have had the human decency to treat me with a little respect, even if you regrated it!” She took a breath. “You know what the worst part is; you could have waited for the tournament to be over to shit on me, on us, like that. At least I would’ve left this stupid fucking weekend with a champion title and cup.” She started walking away from the locker rooms. “Guess once your balls are empty, you come to your senses, huh?” She hadn’t even bothered to turn around for the last bit.

"Kat, wait!" he said, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. "Please, just give me a minute."

Katrina turned, her eyes blazing with anger. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Haven't you done enough today? Did you finally decide to be a good coach?"

Art knew he deserved that, but he needed her to hear him out. "Just let me explain," he said, his voice desperate. "Not here. Let's go outside, away from everyone."

She hesitated, clearly still furious, but she didn't pull away. Art led her through a side door and out into the area behind the arena, where it was quiet and they could talk in private. He released her arm, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"Katrina, I'm sorry," he began, his voice soft but urgent. "I'm sorry for everything I said this morning and for telling you it was a mistake. I didn't mean it. I was just... scared."

"Scared?" Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Scared of what? Scared of actually caring about someone? Scared to give up the overdone, nonchalant act you’ve got going for you?"

Art shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I was scared that I was crossing a line," he said. "I was scared that I was too old for you and that being your coach and being with you would mess up your career. I was worried that we'd end up like... like me and Tashi."

Katrina's anger flared. "I'm not Tashi!" she shouted, stepping closer to him. "So stop comparing me to her; I'm my own person, and I'm nothing like her!"

"I know," Art replied, his voice gentle but firm. "I know you're not her. But that's what scared me. I don't want what happened to me and Tashi to happen to us. I didn't want to mess up your game, your career, or... anything."

Katrina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, you sure did a good job of that," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at what happened today! I lost because you couldn't make up your mind about what you wanted!"

Art felt a pang of guilt, knowing she was right. "I know," he said, his voice low. "I was selfish. I shouldn’t have acted like I did. I just didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. But now I see that I hurt you anyway, and that’s the last thing I wanted." He is groveling.

Katrina looked at him, her eyes still blazing. "So, what do you want now?" she asked. "Are you just going to apologize and then go back to being cold and distant?"

Art stepped forward, taking her cheek gently in his hand. "I don't know what we are, Katrina," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But I know I don't want to stop whatever this is. It's special. You make me feel things I haven't felt in a long time, and I can't keep ignoring that."

Katrina's anger softened, her eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. Art felt the connection between them, the tension that had been building for weeks, and he knew he couldn't let it end like this.

"I was wrong this morning," he continued. "I was scared, and I acted like an idiot. But you... you're amazing. You didn't deserve the way I treated you, and I know the game today was my fault. You were distracted because of me, and I'm sorry. But I know you're going to win this. I believe in you. I always have, and that hasn’t changed."

Katrina's expression softened, her anger giving way to something else—something that felt like forgiveness. Art leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss, his hand still gently cupping her cheek. She responded with equal intensity, her arms wrapping around his neck as they pressed against the concrete wall.

The kiss was long and intense, filled with the emotions they’d both been suppressing. When they finally pulled back, their breathing was heavy, and their eyes locked in a shared moment of understanding. Art pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before laying his against hers.

“Are you ready to bring another title home, pretty girl?” He says, gazing into her eyes.

She looked up, her eyes glistening with a familiar spark. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.” She held a soft smile, bringing him in for another kiss.

[ineylesian]

MY FRIEND IN MISERY

─ PHILLIP GRAVES X FEM! READER

AO3 | MASTERLIST | CODENAME: FANGS MASTERLIST

WORD COUNT | 7k+

SUMMARY | there are times when you draw the line, glorifying the cracks that sever right and wrong.

upon realization that you’d been trapped under ice, you had watched graves freeze over, hardening against the cruel world before him… until he cracked.

WARNINGS | smut, angst, brief descriptions of torture, finger fucking, unprotected p in v, slight oral asphyxiation, biting, hair pulling, switch! graves, semi clothed sex, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slightly shell shocked graves, blood kink (kinda), graves is a masochist

AUTHOR’S NOTE | AYYY i finally got around to writing for my babygirl graves,, we’re pushing along in the cobra series!! also, some parts of this are a lil sloppy, my bad, i’m tired.

THIS WORK IS MEANT TO BE WRITTEN IN AN ADULT READER’S POINT OF VIEW. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

AUGUST 13TH, 2020.

AL MAZRAH, SYRIA.

“SHEPHERD, we need to send in backup, now!”

“Negative, Shadow-2. You will use what. You. Have.”

Ragged breaths fought against faint waves of radio static, dying out with the start of a exasperated sigh. Your teeth grit furiously against one another at the sudden intrusion of Shepherd on your mens’ safety, digging one of your boots into the ground in a feeble attempt to contain your anger. He knew your entire squadron would die out there without help, and it was clear as the rising smoke in the ruins that he would make anyone else pay for his mistakes than himself.

It was good riddance and salvage, now. Avoid casualties, save the fortunate, and find Graves.

Your head turned at the rising sound of footsteps, sinking into the shallow channel at the sudden flash of light in your direction. Noisy sloshes rippled frigid water against your arms as two Russian soldiers approached, their proximity leading your hand to slide into the water, slowly pulling your pistol off of your waist.

A wave of murky water splashed against your face as you lunged forward, jabbing one solider in the knees with your elbow, swiftly putting a bullet in the other before his flashlight could piece your existence together. Screams of agony bubbled foam waves at the mercy of your knee, holding the less fortunate soldier under the surface while you unsheathed your knife. A messy slash reigned you safe, lifting yourself out of the water as droplets of muted red dripped off of your forearms.

“182, so you copy?”

Silence.

“Shadow-1, evac went dark.”

The soft buzz of grasshoppers answered your call, leading you to switch your comms off with a low string of curses. Fireflies danced along the wafting embers spreading to the arid valley around you, each spark followed by a distance chorus of explosions.

You shook your head, subconsciously raising a hand back to your shoulder before stepping off of the dead body beneath you, knees bending to tug at the zipper of the jacket.

“SC, this is Shadow-2 actual. Going dark.”

Cool water slithered over your chest as you lifted one of the Russian’s jackets over your own, feeling the soaked material sink into your skin. The helmet was next, followed by a pair of night vision goggles, and a scarcely damp ski mask pulled from one of the pockets. You bit back a cough at the scent filling your nostrils, traveling down to rest on the surface of your tongue, each breath leaving the faux residue of sand along your throat.

Each drag of your feet through the polar depths caused your teeth to dig further into the side flesh of your cheek, overpowering the taste of minced soil with blood with every numbing step. Upon reaching solid ground, your knees buckled, forcing you to grab onto a nearby column of debris, gloved fingers digging into the slight char to keep yourself standing. Stray winds of warmth flowed against the icy mass that consumed you, the first flush against your face so sickening you had no choice but to pull down your mask and retch.

Vile, warm, and filled to the brim with remorse on behalf of your dead soldiers.

You stood straight, wiping any signs of struggle off of your face. The last to go was your M16, American branding kicked deep into the mounds of sand below. Left with nothing but your own sopping facade, you stepped out into the main road, squinting down the stretch of rural ground. Not even a klick ahead sat a mass of hungry flames, igniting the winds billowing around you unsettlingly hot.

It was then that you felt the heat creeping along every dampened crevice of your — the Russian’s jacket, aggressive tendrils of changing temperature making your skin crawl. To make matters worse, you were approaching an entire field of aggravated hostiles. One mistake, and you would join the polluted sea of dead Shadows, marked up as one more KIA on Shepherd’s plate.

And just as much as you wanted him to suffer, you were not dying here. Not like this.

You were pulled from grasping thoughts of your general at the brief flicker of shells hitting a half crumbled wall not far off, followed by a ricochet of amused laughter. Dropping down, you cautiously approached the recoil pattern spread out across brick, sucking in a breath at the sound of footsteps just around the corner. The shuffles moved on, and you trailed, slipping a pistol from your waistline at the rise of a Russian voice.

Smiling, conceited teeth poking out from the faint dance of a cigar. The smoke wafted up in one last coil before plummeting down at the crude pluck of fingers, stopping to rest just below a quiet mass of black on the ground.

The cigarette fell gently to the ground beside him, resting trim against the bleeding hole in his collar. You pocketed your pistol, moving to stand above the two bodies and push the corpse to the side. Amidst the dust and blood, your eyes trailed to the embroidered patch on his shoulder. Shadow Company. Your mask was pulled down at the sight of widened eyes, shaking his shoulder lightly to ensure the dead’s gaze hadn’t mistaken you.

“Lieutenant..?”

He didn’t sound good, but bad was better alive. You swiftly nodded, pulling half a roll of gauze from your pocket.

“Listen, soldier.” Firm, yet coaxing words followed the tight pull of a bandage. “I need you to do something very important for me, can you do that?”

A curbed nod answered. Your radio was pulled from under the Russian’s jacket, placed in his slowly outstretching hand.

“You run, you don’t look back, and you get somewhere safe.” You waited for his nod, sighing once it was delivered. “When you’re safe, you flip to channel 11, get in contact with Task Force 141, and tell them we need a CASEVAC, ASAP.”

Anything would do at this point, but it didn’t hurt to be specific.

You pulled the solider up to his feet, sending him off with a harsh pat on the back and a reinforcing smile. Once he had disappeared from the outstretch of smog curtaining the area, you pulled your mask back up, turning for the main road. A quiet rip followed graveled footsteps, flipping a small patch in between your fingers, and curling them against your palm.

Two Russian soldiers, a mere 50 meters away. Your breath hitched at the sudden turn of one, hesitantly stopping to eye you whilst whispering to his comrade.

“HEY, THE HELL ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE LIKE THAT?”

It was a good thing the military prepared you well concerning foreign encounters. Countless missions in Russia had taught you plenty, but the problem didn’t lie there. It was the cruel reminder that you’d been ambushed in Syria that tied your tongue, biting back the spiting hatred coating your saliva at the sight of the Ultranationalist patches on their — your chest.

“GOT DISTRACTED, IT WAS WORTH IT!”

The soldiers turned their heads in curiosity as you approached, a self proclaimed smile falling to your lips at the unveiling of your hand.

“A real trophy, no?”

Shadow Company’s insignia, laced with thin lines of gold. A small strip on the bottom displayed a “L” in italics, bearing the title of second in commandment to whoever wore it. Silent prayers through fraught eyelashes held the hope that you’d get the chance to wear it again, that is, if you made it out of this alive.

Seeing the stretch of one’s arm out, you placed the insignia in his hand, watching as he lifted it just inches away from his face. The other joined his mindless ogling, sharing sneers of scorn towards the Shadow Company whilst laughing about how stupid their Lieutenant must have been.

If only they knew who was standing right in front of them.

“It’s not every day you get one of these, eh, drook?”

His arm hooked around your shoulder, pulling you between them as they began to walk.

“Seen any stragglers?”

The smoke logged in your throat was enough to neutralize any identifiable feminine vocals. While you did sound a bit strange, no questions were asked.

“Nah, wouldn’t be surprised if we killed them all!”

Nervous laughter joined in with the choruses beside you. The hood over your head provided enough cover for your eyebrows to knit coldly together, swallowing the rising tides of guilt that sloshed in your stomach.

Nearly 300 men had been sent on this exchange mission.

“The Commander.” The rise of your voice was sudden, barely concealing the panic within. “Is he alive?”

“Of course, boss wanted the American to have a little taste of Russian prison torture before we killed him.”

Prison torture. Russian prison torture.

You were blankly shoved into the transport car, left only to yourself for a moment before a hand wrapped itself around your neck once more. Your eyes were shaking in their sockets, blood beneath your hands buzzing with frenzied nerves as you looked over. Upon seeing your expression, the soldier laughed, jerking you to the side.

“You okay, comrade?”

A shake of your head upward and a small smile followed. Forced, almost painful.

“Fine.”

ONE WEEK LATER.

A PRISON IN AL MAZRAH.

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!”

A sea of encouraging cheers rose throughout the courtyard, booming in excited waves at every splatter of blood painted across concrete. You ran a hand over your face before stepping amidst the mass of men, firing a shot of your Saiga just centimeters away from their feet. The crowd went silent at this, shuffling to the side to reveal two prisoners lying next to one another, battered and bloody.

“You know what happens when you disrespect orders, no?” Your tone was chipper, coldly sliding a pair of handcuffs onto the first prisoner. “The chamber is waiting for you.”

“Wait, no .. no- PLEASE! DON’T SEND ME THER-“

Ragged breathing were silenced by the wrap of a cloth over his mouth, double knotted around his neck to keep him still. Another officer took the man beside you, dragging him up to his feet before sending a nod your way.

Sand crunched against boots and bare feet, rousing muffles of pain from the man in your grasp. His eyes widened in fear at the tug of your hand over his collar, discreetly pulling his ear next to your mouth.

“Tell you what. Make a scene, and I’ll make sure you get out of here alive.”

A desperate nod answered your whispers, leading your grip on his handcuffs to loosen. Your gaze hardened, watching as he lunged for your weapon, only receiving a crude stomp on the hand, slamming his skin into the blistering sand.

“Got quite the disrespect for authority, huh?” The guard beside you nodded, smiling down at the writhing disobedience underneath you. “Take him to sector 2.”

“Hear that? Today’s your lucky day.”

The words molded falsely aggressive, allowing you to breath a sigh of relief once the guard had started heading off.

“Once I drop you off, ask to use the bathroom.”

You straightened up, pulling him to walk steady at the loss of prying eyes. Words were no longer exchanged between the both of you, as nearing the compound ahead had captivated your attention plenty. A lone building amidst the desert’s barren landscape, appearing as nothing but a mirage to wanderers.

You’d seen Graves hauled this way countless times the past week, growing to serve as a searing case of déjà vu following the third day. Nerves found haven along your spine at the recollection of the change, the way he was stripped of resilience, snapping and snarling morphed to willful silence. In a matter of days, he had went from fighting guards to trailing lifelessly behind them, not sparing a look anywhere else but the sand that carried him as he was taken away, again and again.

For a man with such tough resolve, you feared for him.

Two heavily armored guards stood posted at the entrance of the building, waving their greetings to you at the clearance of whirling dust. You roughly pushed the prisoner forward, watching as he stumbled into the grasp of the man before you, crinkling eyes of amusement giving way to an invisible smile under the mask.

“Here again, durak?” The guard sneered, holding the slouched neck of the prisoner up. “Not gonna piss yourself this time, are you?”

Ironic.

“Maybe you should take me to the bathroom, first.”

His plead was answered by a malicious string of laughter, tugged forward to round the building in silent acknowledgment. The other guard followed suit, completely unaware of the extra spurts of sand being kicked up behind him.

Shoved up against the wall, the prisoner flicked a finger in your direction.

A quiet pattern of shuffles rang out from beside him as you grabbed the first guard, callously gliding a knife against the bare spot on his neck. The other turned to you, fumbling for his gun whilst wide eyes watched you pull a pistol from your chest holster. His movements fell stale at the addition of a bullet hole to fearful features, right between the eyes.

You stepped back, the corpse wrapped around your forearm slumping to the ground at its retraction.

“Get out of here, before I change my mind.”

His eyes shot open at the sudden change in language, frantically grabbing one of the guard’s guns before scurrying off. Deciding not to take your chances, you dragged the bodies beside a mound of sand behind the building, rutting your boots into the ground to cover the trail of blood that followed.

You didn’t know what your expected from a Russian torture hideout, but you definitely anticipated something less.. normal. The creak of your hand on the door roused at least 5 pairs of visible eyes, all reflected dimly off a large pane of glass.

“Another one. Man, boss really has it out for the American, huh?”

A harsh pat fell to the broad of your back before pulling you forward, eyes shifting to gaze past the glass.

There he was. Phillip Graves, slumped over in a small wooden chair. Dim light filtered over crimson streaks and purple bruises alike, his hair decently tussled and damp with blood.

“Come on, let’s see if you can get anything out of him before dinner.”

“Of course.”

The words mindlessly slipped past your lips, eyes glued to the ground with every step you took. Upon the sharp groan of metal scraping against concrete, his head raised all but a fraction, taking your presence in with complete stillness.

A small table sat in the corner of the room, every inch adorned with familiar and foreign weapons alike. Feeling the eyes of the guards hounding you from behind the glass, you stepped in front of the small armory, spinning a silver knife to your grasp.

Dirtied hair was taken in a harsh tug of fingers, lifting his head high enough to level with your own. The burning urge to reveal yourself to him ate at your every movement, yet the thought of his reaction was too big a risk to take.

“How many times have you been tortured today, American?”

The heavy accent of Russia washed over your English, making a convincing argument to the slight use of broken nouns and slurred speech. His leer reflected glassy, clouded with boredom at your feeble attempt to scare him.

Graves had always been a pretty expressionate man, but all you saw now was the frozen over exterior of a wronged commander who had lost everything, including his dignity.

Your next breath was heavy, blinking at the thought of what you were about to do. As much as you didn’t want to, you had to present yourself. You had to make him talk.

Luckily, you were the only one in this country that knew what made Graves tick.

Gloved fingers slowly rose to grasp his chin, lifting the knife to dance along the mute lights hanging above. The tip of the blade shimmered against drifting particles of dust, moving to rest flat against the base of his right cheek.

“How about a token to remember this moment?”

The edge jutted upward, sliding into his skin at an agonizingly slow pace. You watched as his eyes began to part, teeth gritting in the slightest, just as you knew they would.

You remembered it, clear as day. The time he let it slip. He’d spent weeks obsessing over a nick on his forehead, threatening to shoot anyone who brought it up. A lack of clarification sat in the reason, but you knew it for sure.

Graves was horrified of scarring his face.

“Shadow Company.” The words came out dangerously nerved, eyes never leaving the blade dragging across his skin. “We were delivering missiles.”

You stopped in the middle, delving a little deeper. A shuddered breath responded, the flesh vibrating under your touch silently begging for you to stop.

“Who were the missiles for?”

Oh, he’d hate you for this. There wasn’t much doubt that he’d kill you, the chances only increasing with each droplet of blood streaking against his cheek.

“The Middle East.. the URA.”

Physically unable to continue, you stopped near the bottom of his eye, taking a step back before tossing the knife onto the table. The door creaked once more at your exit, welcoming you to a series of praise and cheers alike. Your stare was blank, fixed on the three soldiers surrounding you.

Cries of joy washed over grim at the first snap, followed briskly by your own blade to the nearest visible weak spot. Blood dampened your gloves, staining the noir fabric you grasped, pulling a guard in front of you to shield oncoming gunfire. Hearing the click of a dry mag, you ducked under the but of a gun, hurling your last knife across the room. In succession, the blade found its way nestled into the chest of the gunman, leaving you with two more close by.

You dodged the swipe of one’s arm, locking his wrist in your hand before stomping on his foot. The stagger sent him tumbling into the other, who had just finished loading his clip. Your eyes narrowed at the sight of his finger curling for the trigger, grasping the gun’s stock, and turning it away from you.

What you didn’t notice was the small canister of gasoline sitting against the crates of ammunition you had pointed the gun at. Eyes wide, you watched as the spark of flying bullets singed wood, horizontal recoil moving straight for the friction hungry fuel. You only cursed yourself for watching, as the guard had taken your extended hand before you could move, twisting your shoulder in perfect syngery with the knife in his hand. In a last ditch effort, you pried his hand off of the knife’s handle, pushing him toward the bullet just centimeters away from impending disaster.

You could only lift one foot before you were sent flying through the observation window, subconsciously crying out at the deafening explosion hammering into your ears. A dizzying hum erupted in your skull as you rolled against the concrete, welcoming your face to a scorching patch of fallen debris at rest. Your teeth clenched impossibly close together at the rising pain in your shoulder, only managing to scoot up against what was left of the wall, head hanging in an attempt to level yourself.

The ashes fell slowly, mixing your bloodied hands to a coat of muted grey. Flames licked at your back, illuminating the ravaged space before you, and pushing back against your shoulder in smoldering waves.

You raised a hand to the knife’s handle, curling it firmly against your fingers before tugging. A sharp hiss slipped through gritted teeth following the thick splat of blood amidst the darkness, your eyes fluttering in surprise at the sheer amount you were losing. You pressed a hand against the dampened patch of heat on your shoulder whilst the other moved up to your neck, clicking the flashlight nestled against your collar on.

Amongst the billows of smoke, you could see the chair Graves had been in. Only problem was, he was missing.

A shallow breath pushed its way from the depths of your smoke infested throat, wheezing out in protest at the grasp of your hands along a column of debris. Pulling yourself up, you stumbled forward, head spinning in acclimation to the blood-loss.

It wasn’t physically possible for you to hate the Russians more than you did now. This land had been a breeding ground for misery, leaving you just as defenseless as you had been the last time you were stranded here. Part of you wished you’d just been dumped into the fires back on that road, accepting a somewhat honorable death instead of.. this.

Rocks crumbled in unstable patterns, shaking the world around you in hefty crashes. You stepped past the metal table, now across the room, kicking weapons to the side in an attempt to preserve your boots. The black of night became visible as you emerged from the building, swirled alongside thick tendrils of smoke, allowing you only a moment to observe the sky before you were tackled to the ground.

Your hand mindlessly reached out, seizing the mystery weapon heading straight for your throat, and directing it to the sand beside you. Blinking against the rising swells of dust, you saw a familiar silhouette through the grit, prompting you to pull your mask down before it was too late.

The whisper of currents accounted for the silence, leaving you to watch as Graves backed away, eyes quivering in shock.

“…Fangs?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, taking in the flash of disbelief across his pupils. “It’s me”

You lay in strained wait, eyes scrolling over the discarded weapon just inches from your head. Certainly he’d kill you right here for what you did. It wasn’t like you could fight back, anyway, with his knee holding you against the ground.

The sight bestowed upon you resembled something much worse than death. His eyes were hung low, sunken further by the dark pools of sleepless nights settled beneath. You never thought he could look so.. lifeless, the stark, blank stare of his pupils making you squirm against the sand.

And then, he breathed. Low, quiet, scared.

He ran a hand over your hood, tugging it off to reveal the last of you. A swallow followed the full sight of your face, a look of contemplation dancing across his irises. You tensed, following the drift of his eyes to the weapon, and back to you.

“You.. forget it, shit.”

Unable to retaliate, you were pulled to your feet, left to reclaim your balance as his arms retracted, almost reacting as if your skin had burned him.

“Don’t..” His breathing slowed, a sigh following the ever so faint soften of his gaze upon straying over yours. “Don’t do that, ever again.“

“Graves, you’re not making any sense.”

You took a step back as he stumbled forward, holding back a hiss at the sudden grip of his hand on your forearm. Panicked breathing filled your ears at his notion, growing closer with every waking moment you stood there, eyes fixed on him with an inability to look away.

“I’m, I- fuck.. I don’t even know what I’m saying.” Solid words melted to a fevered string of mumbles, strengthening the hold on your wrists to keep himself standing. “I just know that I need you, Fangs.”

He was steadily shaking at this point, using the last of his energy to lean forward before his knees gave out. You staggered back at the mass entrusted to your hold, slowly setting him against a nearby crate before diving a hand into one of the pockets on your utility belt. Working past the clouds of confusion that dampened your mind, you flicked the cover off of an adrenaline shot, lifting one of his arms up to jab it against a non tense mass on the underside. The smaller supply was self dosed, finally giving you enough energy to think properly.

“We need to get out of here.” Your tone was low, quiet in the way hurried words slipped through a taut jaw. “Once we clear the area, we can call for.. shit.”

The adrenaline came too late to work effectively. In a matter of seconds, he had slumped over completely, heartbeat barely present against the slip of your hand under his shirt.

You swore, throwing the empty cartridges of stimulant to the side. Mustering all of what little strength you had, you pulled Graves up to rest against your back, stopping to pull a compass from your belt.

Settlements would be over the dunes, half a klick north. You just hoped your own adrenaline shot would last.

TWELVE HOURS LATER.

AN ABANDONED BUILDING SOMEWHERE ALONG THE OUTSKIRTS OF AL MAZRAH.

Click, click, click.

“Price? This is Cobra actual, come in.”

Static.

Your hand clenched against tepid air, unplugging the radio before shoving its port back into the socket. Dim rays of sunlight filtered against the table you sat at, bringing life to tiny particles of dust floating to rest against your gear. The Russian’s coat had long been dumped into the garbage, leaving you in a worn, dirty shell of your PMC, or what was left of it.

A faint spark from the radio pulled you back to reality, hovering your thumb over the PTS.

“This is Price, send traffic.”

You sighed in relief, pressing down on the button.

“I say again, this is Cobra. Immediate backup requested, Northeast Al Mazrah.”

A laugh followed.

“The Hell you doin’ in Syria?”

“I’ll tell you later, out here.”

The rise of footsteps captivated your attention, leading you to turn in your chair and set the radio down. From around the corner, you saw Graves peak his head into the room, blinking at the sight of you, as if he’d been looking for some time.

“Hey.”

You patted the side of the chair as you stood, reaching over the table to grab your utility belt. To your ease, over 10 hours of sleep had done him well. He looked much better, able to walk and move normally despite the lack of medical care given.

“How do you feel?”

Graves settled down into the chair, sending a reassuring smile your way, fading into the ghost of his lips curved upwards at the sight of you, still decently battered yourself. The stab wound on your shoulder had been sloppily bandaged, joined with the smudges of dirt and char along what skin he could see.

“I’ll live.”

What would’ve been a question to your own health was caught in his throat, pushed back down in a thick gulp at the sudden rise of your frame. Your face stopped a mere 5 inches away from his own, a hand covered in cloth steadily reaching out to close the distance. Blood caked eyelashes fluttered at the sensation of warm water, dragging down to smear days of torture down his cheek. Upon reaching the right side of his face, you stopped, frozen in abrupt fear at the sight — the thin line of your stigmata sitting firm along his cheekbone.

“Your face...” You blinked, mouth drawing into a thin line the more you looked at it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A hand crept along your forearm, stopping to clasp around your covered fingers.

“Don’t.” The cloth was guided down to press against the opening, rousing a light hiss from him. “You did what you had to.”

Hand lightly trembling, you watched blood trickle out of the stressed legion. He moved you down, soaking up the last of the grime on his face before letting you go.

Shifting back, Graves lifted his chin, allowing you to pop the top two buttons of his shirt off. Beneath the dark blue sat a nasty gash of contrast, glowing in agitation against pale skin. Your mouth parted in surprise, taking in the next, and the one after that, pulling his shirt down to expose a sea of heavy damage spread across his collarbone.

“Wait ‘til you see what’s below that.”

“Christ, Graves.” You muttered, fumbling for the disinfectant. “I should’ve been faster.”

Although the last words pushed off of your lips were practically silent, he heard you just fine. Before you could address his wounds any further, he grasped your chin, forcing your eyes to level with his.

“Listen, Fangs. I owe you my life, and then some.” His thumb dragged along your jaw, stopping just below your ear. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about things you had no control over.”

Your breath hitched at the sudden change in his demeanor, mouth drooping to the side in anticipation of what you’d do next.

On second thought, maybe he was just being stupid. You were just trying to clean his damn wounds, and he was letting himself get way too flustered over your proximity.

“You need me.”

Oh?

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

A lopsided smile joined raised eyebrows, completely aware that you had meant that as an inquiry. Your eyes narrowed at the rise of arrogance in his tone.

“Don’t fuck with me, Graves.”

The low bark in your throat gave away that you were on edge, and he was entirely the reason why. You never had liked when he teased you, but that wasn’t it, not this time. There was no room for that, anyway, as the subconscious press of your hand against his bruised chest was getting him more worked up than he liked to admit.

“I needed you then, and I need you now.” His head tilted, leaning up to sever most of the distance between you. “I want you, Fangs.”

The need — the want for you wasn’t new. For the past week, his thoughts had drifted to you countlessly, wondering if you were still out there, if you were as angry as he was concerning Shepherd. Guessing by the way you ruthlessly slaughtered those men for him, you were just as furious, maybe worse. After all, Shadow Company was yours just as much as it was his.

Whatever it was; between the both of you, something needed to alleviate, fast.

It was quick, his lips finding solace against your own. You sighed at the feeling, pooling warm air over his skin. He almost felt ashamed at how worked up you’d gotten him from doing almost nothing at all, latching onto your wrists to hold you against him.

Maybe the shame was partially from the guilt; he should be mourning right now, thinking of some way to get back at Shepherd for his fault in the massive loss at Al Mazrah.

He knew you were thinking the same, forcefully grasping at his hair to silence the internal war you were having with yourself. It was all solemn, mid thought, each stroke of his tongue against your teeth, sucking in every possible taste of you.

Maybe it wasn’t so wrong, then. Disaster had always loved your company, and now you had a someone to share that burden with.

Your friend in misery, perhaps.

You kissed until you could no longer feel the steady inflation of your lungs, breaking away from his face only when his fingers dug into your forearms. One of your hands was pulled up to run along the expanse of his right cheek, lathering now stale blood along your fingers as he pressed them against the laceration. Graves let out a soft groan at the sting, bringing your fingers to his mouth to lick at the mess of him sticking to your skin.

The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue as he let go of your arm, lowering his hands to circle around your waist. You were blindly set onto the edge of the couch in the living room, left devoid of prying teeth as he lifted himself off of you.

Graves’ eyes wandered down from your coat, falling to watch your hands circle around the hem of your jeans, popping the button free before tugging the zipper down. The very sight was mesmerizing, forcing him to push your hands up before he got too carried away.

“The things you do to me..”

You sighed at the feeling of his hands on your bare skin, hastily tugging your jeans off with one hand, and using the other to slide your underwear down with it. Slender fingers crawled up your thigh, stopping to rest on the inner curve.

“May I?”

Always a gentleman.

“Yes.” You whispered, thighs clenching around his arm. “Hurry.”

A soft laugh slipped from his lips at your desperation, wasting no time in dipping his fingers where you so desperately wanted them to go. You bit the inside of your cheek at the invasion of him against your folds, eagerly lathering up your arousal before prodding at your hole. Graves couldn’t help but groan himself as he pushed two fingers inside of you, now plenty aware of the painful strain of his erection against his pants.

What a great way to pay someone back.

“Taking me so well, darl’.”

Your eyes closed at the thickening of his accent on the last word, threatening to leak all over him right then and there. Graves was too busy to notice, thankfully, as his eyes yet pulled away from the sight of his fingers slipping in and out of you, canines clamping down against his lips as his skin grew more drenched with each thrust.

“Mmph, Graves.” You drawled out, pathetically moaning at the presence of him pressed knuckle deep inside you. “Gonna… cum.”

“Atta girl.” His fingers abruptly curled, rolling your eyes backward in shock. “Cum for me, Fangs.”

A low whistle pooled from his lips as you soaked his hand, glancing up to look up at you, smiling lightly at the feverish look on your face. Before you could even think of settling down from your high, Graves slinked a hand down to your thigh, softly groping the flesh as he spread you out.

You audibly gasped at the sudden glide of his tongue over your pussy, mulling over your glistening folds in needy apprehension of tasting you further. A hum vibrated against your skin as you coated his tastebuds, perfectly sweet, yet too short lived.

Without warning, his tongue snaked into your hole, greedily slithering along the shallow of your walls. One of your thighs was released of his grip as his fingers traveled up, stopping to rub harsh circles against your bud.

You’d never taken Graves as a man to shamelessly eat someone out like this. Yet here he was, licking you up like you were the last thing he’d ever taste.

His eyes drifted up at the ragged shift in your moans, growing hoarse with every ministration of his tongue against your pussy. Seeing the coats of sweat beginning to shine along your face, he winked, stuffing himself further against your walls, effectively making you cry out.

Cocky bastard.

Graves increased his pace almost knowingly, eyes drifting back down to focus on his fingers, furiously rubbing at your folds. You felt your second orgasm wash over you in blistering ripples, feeling his tongue slide out of you. He rested at your folds, lapping any of your juices that missed his mouth.

When he was satisfied, he stood from your legs, wiping the back of his hand over the tip of his nose, moving down to his mouth next. Sitting up, you pulled him to sit beside you, lashes fluttering at the pure look of haze returned. Sighing, you slowly pushed him against the arm of the couch, watching his eyes flick upward, never leaving your apprehending grasp.

A soft hiss followed the graze of your hand along his clothed erection, moving to tug at his zipper in your own anticipation. Your mouth parted in the slightest at the drag of his boxers downward, frankly taken aback at the size of him.

“Fangs..” Graves mumbled, feebly pulling one of your shoulders forward. “Need to be inside you now, honey.”

The low whine in his tone forced you to swallow a line of drool back, grasping his dick whilst sliding closer to him. You sank down onto him agonizingly slow, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan biting its way from your lips. Impossibly full was the only way to describe it, his dick stretching your walls wider than you envisioned possible.

“That’s it, baby. Taking me so well.”

Graves pulled you forward, cursing at the pained bliss working up in his shoulders. Each stretch of his wounds elicited a sweet moan from his lips, falling into a rasped symphony with your cries at his erratic pace. Your neck lowered to nip at his jaw, lightly twisting his skin between your teeth as you worked your way up. Upon reaching his lips, your teeth retracted, eagerly swallowing the pitiful vibrations pooling into your throat.

The lack of oxygen was nearly calming, pulling you away from the raging fires of blame in your head. Deep inside, you knew the shame and remorse of what happened would never go away. You’d have to learn to accept it, but accepting wasn’t always the easiest choice.

It meant going after Shepherd; sticking a deadly target on your back that would never disappear. Ending the possibility of you and Graves before you even got a real taste of it.

It was selfish, really. But who were you without that need?

Nothing. Such a simple word being the catalyst of the scorch in your chest, the fresh scar on Graves’ cheek, the raging forest fire of agony melted into desire.

Your lack of hesitation when it came to Graves wasn’t due to the stress, however. Each drag of his tongue along your skin proved you’d been pulled into the undertow long ago, as had he.

After all, it was common knowledge that you do crazy things for the people you love. And, maybe you could learn to love Graves in time.

Tears pricked against the corners of your eyes, washing salty streams of heated frustration down your face. Graves continued to devour every inch of your mouth, sucking the low song of sorrow into his own being as you cried. His own vexations fell to the ruthless piston of his cock in and out of your overspent walls, sparking a match to the kerosene coil in your abdomen once again. You spasmed against his dick, nails curling against the rough material of his shirt in a weak attempt to stay grounded.

Sensing your struggle, Graves dropped his hands down to your waist, dipping under your coat to roughly squeeze at the scalding flesh underneath. The coarse sensation of his hands on you sent your body into overdrive, crying out against his neck as you came over his dick. He was quick to follow, messily rutting into you a handful of times before pulling out, swiftly lifting your coat up to come on your stomach.

The two of you sat still, quietly panting amidst the cool dawn air. Minutes of stiff silence held you in place, breaking reluctantly at the shift of Graves against you, slowly peeling your coat off the prevent it from dirtying any further. Slightly trembling legs fell to gentle hands, setting you down where he had been as he stood, tucking himself together before leaving the room.

You stared up at the ceiling, listening to the hushed click of shoes on wood as Graves moved about. Upon his return, a damp cloth was pressed against your abdomen, wiping his mess up before folding it in half, lightly patting cool water against your face.

“What are we gonna do about Shepherd?”

The burning question, one that he had been mulling over for some time himself. Yet, despite how much he tried to craft a solution, he was left empty handed, and utterly helpless.

The couch dipped, you lifted you legs momentarily so he could sit beside you.

“I don’t know, Fangs.” He muttered, following your gaze up to the barren ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Accept it, we’re utterly screwed.

Right?

“Do you regret what we just did?”

Your eyes dropped, his followed suite. His pupils were still slightly wide, hair sticking up in unruly strands, shirt wrinkled beyond repair. He almost looked normal — you almost felt normal.

“Do you really take me for that kind of man?”

You shrugged, watching with a fleeting glint of amusement passing your eyes as he rolled his own. Silently, you beckoned him forward, allowing him to flip you over while his back took the couch’s surface. Your hands drifted up to his neck, resting in a loop around it.

The faint thrum of his heart fell intimately privy to your ears, effortlessly draping the serenity of much needed sleep over your eyes, welcoming you to the darkness as they finally shut. Seeing this, Graves slid one of his hands above your chest, stopping to brush a strand of hair out of your face before draping it around your shoulder.

“I didn’t regret it, Fangs. Not a single second.”

4 HOURS LATER.

Click, click.

“Cobra, this is Price, over. What’s your 20?”

Your eyes squinted against the fresh light of dawn, raising a hand to rub over your face. As quietly as you could, you pried yourself from Graves’ hold, pulling your clothes on before heading for the radio.

“This is Cobra. Ready to deploy a flare on your word.”

“Ready when you are.”

You tugged your utility belt forward, pulling a small red stick out of one of the pockets.

“Roger that.”

Low tides of dust greeted your skin as you stepped outdoors, popping the cap off of the pyrotechnic. A sharp scrape of the surface and the flare sparked, enveloping the area around you in a violent sea of red as it was dropped to the ground. You stepped away from the signal, watching the clouds nearly two klicks off shift, welcoming you to the sight of helicopter blades.

A quiet shuffle roused your attention away from the sky, looking back to see Graves leaning against the doorframe. Your utility belt was handed over at his approach, leading his arms to cross, eyes never leaving the approaching aircraft.

“You sure you trust these guys, Fangs?”

You nodded, waving up to the shadowed figures now visible amongst the sky. Upon touchdown, you beckoned for Graves to follow, stopping at the foot of the helicopter at the sight of Price, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the man beside you.

“I’m supposing he’s with you?”

“Yeah.” You reached up, grasping his outstretched hand. “American Special Forces mission went to shit, thanks for the help.”

Your blatant lie passed without question as Price nodded, leading you to share a look of relief with Graves before pulling him into the aircraft. A brief handshake was shared between the supposed ASF and TSF captain before he sat down beside you, biting back a laugh at the prying scroll of Price’s eyes over your injuries. Before you could spit out any excuses, he sat across from the two of you, nodding questioningly to the patch of red under your shoulder.

“So, got a story to share?”

[wangxianficrecs]

like blue flame over my fingertips by tangerinechar

like blue flame over my fingertips

by tangerinechar

T, 37k, Wangxian

Part of the 2020 MXTX Mini Bang

Summary: Lan Wangji’s roommate is brash, noisy, messy, annoying, and — absolutely terrible at feeding himself properly. (Or: food as a metaphor for love, featuring Lan Wangji’s A++ cooking skills, five times Lan Wangji cooked for Wei Wuxian, and one time Wei Wuxian reciprocated.) Kay's comments: Lan Wangji falls in love like a cat falling into a filled bathtub or however the saying goes, but ah, I absolutely love this! Wangxian college roommates and we have Lan Wangji's POV of him coming to know Wei Wuxian slowly and starting to care for him and showing that care by cooking for him. This story feels like a comforting bowl of soup for me, tbh. I just really like it. Excerpt: Lan Wangji is, he realizes, stabbing into the slim shoot of a scallion, annoyed. Really, truly, annoyed. Why won’t Wei Wuxian just take care of himself? Another stab, but well placed, so he can pretend he meant to slice the scallion up all along. Why does Wei Wuxian insist on doing these self-destructive things — why does Wei Wuxian not sleep, and not eat well, and laugh it all off — why is Wei Wuxian so smart and good and amazing, yet so infuriating — Oh. Lan Wangji’s water is boiling over. He slides the udon into the pot with a vague sense of detachment. If this itching, antsy feeling is annoyance, then what has he been feeling for Wei Wuxian, the past month and a half? Because this — this is something Lan Wangji can easily categorize. It’s a version of the distant annoyance he’s felt at his classmates, at loud and garish places, at people talking in libraries. A version that slices his tendons with iced knives and slams against his ribcage with the force of a typhoon. But for the past month, there have been silkworms in his lungs and mulberry leaves crested along his collarbone, a nervous and inevitable explosion of feeling from his trachea that Lan Wangji is too scared to acknowledge. And now. Now, Lan Wangji is cooking at 9:45 PM in the silent frost of winter for his irresponsible, irritating, incredibly and irresistibly beautiful roommate. When, Lan Wangji thinks, draining the udon and scattering the garlic-ginger-oil mix in the wok to sizzle, did I start caring this much about Wei Wuxian?

pov lan wangji, modern setting, modern no powers, college/university, roommates, mutual pining, 5+1 things, food as a metaphor for love, jin zixuan & lan wangji friendship, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, falling in love, college student wei wuxian, college student lan wangji, living together, domestic fluff, fanart

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[help-an-alter]

hi, i’m a fictive alter (i think) whose looking for help finding my identity. my believed source is dabi from my hero academia, and some general ‘keywords’ are fire, blue, burnt/burning, frosty (in a weird way?? i can’t really explain it) and just kinda darker vibes. i hope that’s enough explanation.

thanks in advance

heyo anon !! we'd be happy to help :D we'll give some names, pronouns, genders, and potential interests

everything is under the cut just to make the blog easier to navigate for followers (as it'll be quite the long post)

Names

blue themed ,,, (these are taken directly from my last post)

Cobalt, Periwinkle, Oxford, CornFlower, Cerulean, Sapphire, Alice, Bleu, Maya, Tiffany, Blizzard

burnt / burning themed ,,,

Blaze, Flame, Fire, Alight, Incinerate, Match, Ardent, Ignited, Kindling, Ash / Ashe, Smolder, Glow, Flash, Flicker, Scorch, Flare

frost / frosty themed ,,,

Ice, Crystal, Verglas, Hoar, Rime, Frigid, Arctic, Wintry, Bitter, Cool, Chilly, Rimy, Icy, Glacier, Glacial

darker vibes themed ,,,

Raven, Damian , Lilith / Lillith / Lilithe / Lillithe, Branwen, Darcy, Cain, Adrienne, Blake, Blaise, Draco, Ebony, Morticia, Amaris, Arachne, Salem, Delaney, Bellatrix, Narcissa / Narcissus, Dusk

pronouns

blue themed ,,,

blu/blue ,, teal/teals ,, ind/indigo ,, aqu/aqua ,, cy/cyan ,, cy/an

burnt / burning themed ,,,

haze/hazey ,, swirl/swirls ,, explo/explosion ,, boo/boom ,, ars/arson ,, arson/arsonist ,, fla/flare

frost / frosty themed ,,,

fog/fogs ,, mi/mist ,, silver/silvers ,, ice/ices

darker vibes themed ,,,

nyct/nycto ,, dark/darks ,, hor/horror ,, death/deadly ,, null/nulls ,, null/nullify ,, bo/bones ,, bone/boney ,, merci/merciless ,, peril/perish ,, peril/perilous ,, peril/perils ,, reap/reapers ,, tomb/stone ,, cof/coffin ,, grave/gravestone ,, grave/graveyard ,, grave/graves ,, gra/graves ,, gloo/glooms ,, gloom/gloomy

potential interests (not separated by theme, rather separated by type of activity)

Research topics ,,,

The Salem Witch Trials ,, Wicca, Witchcraft, or Paganism ,, History of Lobotomies ,, History of Asylums or Mental Institutions ,, Serial Killers ,, History of Cannibalism ,, History of Cults

Movies ,,,

Rise of the Guardians (2012) ,, A Christmas Carol (1938) ,, Original Home Alone Series (1990, 1992, 1997, and 2002) ,, Miss Peregrines Home for Peculiar Children (2016) Paranormal Activity Series (2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2014, 2015, and 2021) [rating from my mum : its just freaky shit that happens - she has apparently never seen any of them, though] ,, The Grudge (2004) ,, Talk to Me (2023) ,, The Others (2001) ,, Burning (2018) ,, Backdraft (1991) ,, Money Train (1995)

TV Shows ,,,

Supernatural (2005-2020) ,, The Original Addams Family (1964-1966) ,, Wednesday (2022-current with a new season confirmed) ,, Stranger Things (2016-current with a new season confirmed coming out in 2025) ,, Peaky Blinders (2013-2022)

Books ,,,

Wheel of Time Series (Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson) ,, Children of the Night (Dan Simmons) ,, Mortal Instruments Series (Cassandra Clare) ,, Miss Peregrine Series (Ransom Riggs)

Games ,,,

Life is Strange (Square Enix) ,, Fran Bow (Kill Monday Games) ,, Little Nightmares (Bandai Namco Entertainment) ,, Little Misfortune (Kill Monday Games)

Please search for trigger warning for any and all media recommended !! /lh

[purplehanfu]

Self Indulgent Birthday Post: 2023

notes: Spoilers!, probably. Yay, it's my birthday again! Enjoy some of my finest unfinished work!

Oh? You have both my interest and attention!

Booooo.... (this disappointment brought to you by The Young Brewmaster’s Adventure, which happens to be the prequel to Blood of Youth)

Recap Recycle Bin

So many dramas and never enough time to write a full review. Read on! 

Dominator of Martial Gods

tl:dr for this drama

Each episode is 35 minutes long, feels like 3,500 minutes, and delivers maybe 10 minutes worth of story. Impressive! 

We waste a great deal of time in the first few episodes watching Qin Chen and the bootlicking alchemist refine a needle that will allow our hero to activate his bloodline. Intriguing, because you often hear dramas refer to treasures being refined into weapons, but you never see the process. There's a reason for this- it does not make for compelling viewing. But that does not stop us from standing around arguing about the specs and adding things to the oven. This process was more fun when Chu Wanning just takes you up to the lake. On a technical note, I am enamored of the way the ever present green screened background makes no attempt to be in scale with the human actors.

My Deepest Dream

Ooh, a plot with a time loop, evil birds, superpowers, getting sucked into the Marianas Trench when you just wanted to go on a scuba diving excursion and JIN HAN!!! But, as always, there's a glitch in the matrix.

Our heroine realizes she has lost a year of her life and no one has noticed. No one except the astrophysics PhD candidate turned car mechanic Wu Yu (JIN HAN!!!). Wu Yu divulges that he can read a phone screen at 10 kilometers. But mostly he uses his special eyes to keep an elaborate dossier on the comings and goings of the FL, who lives across the street from the garage he works at. Is that creepy or romantic?

don’t be silly, if it were a Marvel movie we’d be having an interminable CGI sky battle 

Till the End of the Moon

Meet Tantai Jin. As you may have noticed from his costume design, he's totally evil.

He's a goal-oriented CEO who's turned the Devil Sect into a high reliability organization that generates impactful customer experiences (annihilation). I bet he's evil enough to use six sigma. But where Tantai Jin truly shines is personal branding. You may not be buying what he's selling, but product recognition is through the roof.

Tantai Jin seen here working out of his travel office: a flaming, flying boudoir with melting skull detail. This is why CEOs should never make more than 10x what the average worker does.

Circle of Love

I can see why the Republican period was relatively short. Everybody setting fire to each other's estates, staying out late ballroom dancing, getting uniforms tailored, making sure there are enough manacles to chain the female lead to a bed... it doesn't really leave a lot of time for governance.

We start out, as we generally do, with a clean sweep of the FL's family, in this case via a big ol' raging house fire. Where is everyone? Or even anyone? Even Maid's Revenge scraped up some extras to be dead family members.

My Kung Fu Girlfriend

Slow your roll, it ain't GL.

You know what they say- it's not whether you win or lose the MMORPG, it's how you min max all your stats and then act like an ass in chat about it.

Meet Huang Xiao Yu. She clearly did not pay to win because she is the low XP real life martial sister of a kung fu champion. In this drama, she'll level up in love and life with the help of an OP MMO NPC who escapes her game and shows up uninvited in the real world.

The Antarctic Octopus

Not to be confused with the 2020 film Big Octopus. I guess that's the great thing about having an audience of over a billion people- even the most niche interest has plenty of content.

This is how you dress when you visit your Uncle Pete in Antarctica.

In this movie: monsters, explosions, a supercharged ice jalopy and a dedicated ignorance of the laws of physics usually only seen in a Fast and Furious film. But credit where it's due: The Antarctic Octopus delivers. Only 12 seconds in and we get our first tentacle!

available free on youtube although how bravely they were fighting is up for debate

Bonus Content: Superlatives

In the Day We Flipped

My post of the year!

Getting over 500 likes on a review? Unexpected.

Forgetting to add a link back to my other recaps? Priceless.

Bloody Romance

still my favorite drama

when your grandma’s a zombie and she was left in a cave to guard a tiny box with one (1) restorative pill in it and she’s suspended by her hair but her hair is also like tentacles that can kill people and she thinks you’re your mom but she still loves you. 💚💚💚 But then she starts screaming and tries to strangle you with her hair.

Heroes

2nd favorite drama

you know something’s good when you have a file called ‘sappy su mengzhen yang wuxie edits.txt’

go get your man, Wuxie!

pinboard full of recaps!

[vintagerpg]

Black Sites (2020) is a collection of shorter adventures that were all original published separately. There are some bangers in here.

First is PX Poker Night, which involves weird goings on at a barely used military base with a skeleton crew. It’s designed as an scenario that introduces pre-gen characters to their first taste of the supernatural and the world of conspiracy, with Delta Green recruitment happening later, for the survivors. It’s a bonkers scenario and I love it. Kali Gati details more trouble in Afghanistan. This one has clearer stakes that are underscored the reality of the mess US forces made there, I think it works better than the Afghanistan mission in Control Group.

The Last Equation is one of the best DG scenarios, featuring a supernatural meme. It is surprising and clever and challenging to succeed at without moral compromise. Love in the Ice is sort of a body horror/sexuality riff on The Thing, probably my least favorite in the book. Sweetness is so good, though, involving a broken family and shadow people. Hourglass is an investigate-the-cult that touches interestingly on legacy and community. It’s good but strikes me as tricky to run. Ex Oblivione is an explosive scenario that kind of wraps up the loose threads of the Innsmouth storyline (Delta Green was founded in the wake of the 1928 raid on Innsmouth). It seems a touch cruel — I don’t see many players coming out the other side alive. The last thing in the book is The Child, a creepy two-page complication for the already complicated lives of the agents.

Lots of spooky art, and plenty of hours of horror for you here.

[omaskit]

Challenge log Session 3

Hello! This is should cover Ophilia's Chap 1 and maybe Cyrus's if I have time. We'll see. Rules for the challenge are here. I'm worried about spamming the octopath traveler tag so if you don't wanna see these I'm marking all of them with 'octo traveler 1 quest log' Feel free to block that tag.

Side quest time

Ha, now you're blind

Now we're both blind

Oh I beat that guy up for nothing

Travel time

No one is weak to sword or knife and that makes me sad

Ophilia time. Fun Fact! Ophilia was my main on my first ever playthrough.

I can't get over Ophilia taking Lianna's job like I get it's so she can be by father's side but her entire life has been leading up to this and Ophilia just swoops in and takes it WITHOUT ASKING HER! That's insane

"I'll do your entire job so you don't have to worry about it"

"Your Excellency" JUST CALL HIM DAD! Literally no one else cares that you're adopted! Call him Father! H'aanit has a better time calling her dad 'dad' then you AND SHE'S HIS APRENTICE

She acts like they hang 'Adopted' over her head everyday BUT SHE THE ONLY ONE WHO CARES

Watching Ophilia interact with 'His Excellency' just makes me remember H'aanit and Z'aanta's relationship

#Z'aanta's best dad 2020

Dang she's laying in on him!

Bro got posioned

BRO WAS POSIONED AND DID NOT CARE

Maybe if you saw a doctor earlier you wouldn't have died

OPHILIA GIRL YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CARES THAT YOU WERE ADOPTED

I'm calling it. Josef's a bad dad

Why the fuck you lying

bro dying. bro dying fr

I feel like this cleric's in on it

Why you always lying

All these clerics are sus as fuck. I don't trust any of them.

Jails are only in select few towns and the cozy church is one of them

Poor Lianna. I get why Ophilia didn't ask now

Also the explanation on why is "There are centeries of tradition we must obey" and not "Galdera will be freed and the whole world will end. One of those things is slightly more important

"We are together in this" Leaves her behind

Little Lianna's like "I gave you flower why are you still depressed?"

YOU WERE CONVINCED AS A FIVE YEAR OLD THAT YOU WERE GONNA BE ALONE AND MISERABLE FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS?? GIRL

Dungeon time.

TECHNICALLY WE'RE NOT IN THE DUNGEON YET SO I'M ALLOWED TO USE ALFYN TO RUN AWAY! Shut up my rules!

Pretty! But there's nothing up here and every step leads to death

The dungeon is level 7 that's not a good sign

NEW RULE: if the game throws 4 enemies at you you can use your second character

Ophila has 80sp at level 5?!?! Alfyn has 67 at level 13!!

Girl's leveling up fast

I'mma edit my rules to say that your main can join the cleric and dancer boss fights since octo 2 had extra characters.

Honestly not sure if she'll need it though.

Phili's got this

I'm feeling cocky let's try the boss fight!

OH NO IT'S A STONE GOLLUM

IT'S WEAK TO ICE?!?!?! WHY????

What does "three more turns" mean?!

oH!

Take 2: let's not explode

Bitch get back here

Shhhhiiitt Alfyn died

Take 3: I'm so close

Take 4: Does reflective veil affect explosion?

Take 5: No, no it doesn't

FINE I'LL LEVEL UP!

Take 6: The wiki states the shadow things are based on how many party members you bring in but it's actually how many you've collected. Big difference.

Take 7: Last attempt before I'm bringing out the boys

WE'RE BRINGING OUT THE BOYS!

THEY'RE WEAK TO ARROWSS!!!! Life is good life is great life is spectacular. Ophilia's no longer alone

"Egades"? Alfyn everyone is almost dead!

It Dieeeedd oh my gooooosh finally!

Aww, dad woke up

Oh I'm in trouble

Prophethetic dreaams!

SHE CALLED HIM DAD! LET'S GOO!

Game? Saved. Session? Over. Hotel? Trivago.

[luuurien]

Avalon Emerson - & the Charm

(Indietronica, Dream Pop, Downtempo)

Trading techno for lush indietronica, Avalon Emerson’s debut album embraces pop song structures, explosive shoegaze, misty balearic beat, and atmospheric alt-dance with existential lyricism and an eye for ‘80s and ‘90s retro charm. Gentle, inventive, and full of personality, & the Charm is exactly what its title promises.

☆☆☆☆☆

By the time Avalon Emerson and her wife, guitarist Hunter Lombard, moved out to San Francisco in February 2020, they already had to change all their plans. Initially heading there to branch out as a producer and spend a few months around L.A., where she could escape the constant touring and international DJ gigs that had subsumed her life after becoming one of the most in-demand performers with her energetic but sensitive take on techno, the 15-month lockdown that went into place took away both her inspiration to DJ and her ability to collaborate in the city. So, Emerson and Lombard took a lengthy 2,700 mile drive across the U.S. to New York City (where Lombard had family) and set up camp there, holed up in a small Brooklyn studio and inspired by the ethereal ‘90s pop of The Magnetic Fields and Cocteau Twins, the resulting album a collection of misty indie pop with an eye for ‘80s and ‘90s retro charm. Techno breakbeats and her signature synth work are still present, but they’re wrapped around pop song structures with warm chord progressions and lush chamber instrumentation; Emerson still knows her way around a hypnotic beat, but it’s no longer the sole focus of her songs. & the Charm constructs itself around the warm, crisp sound of old downtempo and dream pop bands, but Emerson makes it her own with writing focused on her anxieties as an artist and an individual, the breeziness of these nine songs helping to cushion those fears with some of the prettiest production this year. It’s a softspoken album where much of the magic comes from how subtly Emerson and her team let these songs bloom into gorgeous, heartfelt indie pop.

The album’s debut single, Sandrail Silhouette, makes it immediately clear the album is a dive into new waters for Emerson, jangly guitar chords from Lombard accentuated with a rich string section and soft synth swells, imagery of deserts and travel and technology letting Emerson drift into the sunset even as her worries follow her (“Any conversation will do, really / Or we don’t have to talk at all / …Hot dunes, an oasis / More ancient than the rocks between us”). The following eight tracks keep in lockstep by way of swirling ambient pop (Entombed in Ice, The Stone), bubbly dance pop (A Vision, Hot Evening), and surprise stylistic detours (Dreamliner, A Dam Will Always Divide), Emerson using her time working as a detail-oriented DJ with unusual sample sources and from Coil to Alicia Keys to stay in touch with her influences and imparting bits of herself onto them along the way. She makes it easy to fall into & the Charm’s ebb and flow, keeping a steady stream of groovy pop tunes going in between the quieter, experimental sections: The Stone makes use of Keivon Hobeheidar’s gorgeous cello tone to split the album in two, placed between the synthpop jam Astrology Poisoning and moody house highlight Dreamliner, and the penultimate Karaoke Song makes for a final moment of reminiscence between Hot Evening’s romantic 2-step and the nine minute shoegaze closer A Dam Will Always Divide. Making these songs provided her with a sense of balance and drive throughout her hectic time in lockdown, and the renewed spirit in her music is evident in every track and how they connect back to the same core ideals.

Club artists going pop isn’t an especially new thing in recent years - Everything But the Girl returned after an over 20 year stint with the dark alt-R&B of Fuse and Alison Goldfrapp’s May release The Love Invention went full on electropop - but unlike those older artists making a return to the music scene, Avalon’s only been around since the mid-2010s, her creative stream uninterrupted and only changing its course here. Entombed in Ice, for how minimal it is up until the drums pick up in its second half with a smooth electric guitar solo, is bursting with exciting musical ideas, the soft digital hand drums reminiscent of old balearic beat, and even the straightforward pop structure of Karaoke Song is outfitted with light vocal filters and crunchy synth patches, Emerson still toying with texture and atmosphere even with her eye turned towards more conventional music styles. In this effort to keep the music light and easy to listen to, the little things are all the more meaningful: the prominent bassline in A Vision lends the song a playfulness found nowhere else on the album, letting the phaser-covered drums guide A Dam Will Always Divide into its vast expanse of fuzzy synths and chugging guitars (it bears some resemblance to her remix of Slowdive’s Sugar for the Pill, but trades breakbeats and synth pads for a hypnotic rock beat and intricate arrangement work). & the Charm comes right after the many years Emerson’s spent touring and playing live sets, and you can hear her excitement at getting to sit down and really dig into the meaty bits of song composition, the album’s gorgeous textures and incredible ear for detail a direct result of Emerson slowing down and letting her music truly breathe for the first time.

There couldn’t have been a better time for Emerson to make an album like & the Charm. Had she not been stuck in lockdown, she might have kept up with her plans in Los Angeles, working behind the scenes for other musicians and learning how to work around the ideas of others and bending her production skills for them. Instead, she was given the opportunity to define her music as an individual outside of her idiosyncratic DJ sets, keeping her love of different genres and soft, ethereal music and making it for herself. It’s as creative, ambitious and full of life as any of her best techno work - it’s easy to find similarities between tracks like Dreamliner and One More Fluorescent Rush - and works to all her strengths while stretching out into new territory she’s never gone before. She always allows her music to speak for itself, & the Charm accepting of the future she never got to explore, but it’s also creating her a new future, one of moody pop choruses and strummed guitars and earthy synth tones. & the Charm is exactly what its title promises, and revels in bringing Emerson’s music to a whole new dimension.

[coochiequeens]

“ in 2020 found that some immigrant women held by U.S. immigration officials at a Georgia detention center likely underwent "unnecessary" invasive gynecological procedures, according to a report released Tuesday.”

Washington — A congressional investigation into medical abuse allegations that garnered national attention in 2020 found that some immigrant women held by U.S. immigration officials at a Georgia detention center likely underwent "unnecessary" invasive gynecological procedures, according to a report released Tuesday.

The 18-month bipartisan investigation by the Senate's Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations reviewed allegations that women detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) at the Irwin County Detention Center in Ocilla, Georgia had endured medical neglect, lax coronavirus mitigation policies and questionable procedures, including hysterectomies. 

The allegations first surfaced in an explosive Sept. 2020 whistleblower complaint by Dawn Wooten, who worked as a nurse at the Ocilla detention facility. 

The investigation's 108-page report is set to be formally presented by Georgia Democratic Senator Jon Ossoff, the chair of the subcommittee, later on Tuesday during a hearing in which officials from ICE, the Homeland Security Inspector General and LaSalle Corrections, the private company operating the Ocilla facility, are set to testify following testimony from Wooten as well as a former immigrant detainee and physicians.

Tuesday's report said investigators did not corroborate "allegations of mass hysterectomies." But investigators said they did find "serious issues" regarding medical procedures and policies at the Georgia facility and the conduct of Mahendra Amin, a doctor whom Irwin County detainees accused in 2020 of performing questionable medical procedures, including, in some cases, without the patients' full consent.

The Biden administration in May 2021 ordered ICE to stop holding immigrants at the Irwin County facility as part of an effort to reform immigration detention. ICE did not immediately respond to a request to comment on the subcommittee's findings. CBS News also reached out to representatives for Amin and LaSalle Corrections, which still runs the Ocilla facility under a contract with the U.S. Marshals Service.

Citing a medical review it commissioned of over 16,600 pages of medical records pertaining to 94 women treated by Amin, the congressional subcommittee concluded that "female detainees appear to have undergone excessive, invasive, and often unnecessary gynecological procedures."

Dr. Peter Cherouny, the obstetrician-gynecologist tasked with reviewing the women's medical records, said Amin's approach to surgical procedures was "too aggressive," investigators said. Cherouny found Amin's care to be antiquated, calling it "pretty good medicine for the 1980s, but we're not there anymore."

"Dr. Cherouny explained that 40 patient records—of the 94 examined—indicated the patients had benign ovarian cysts removed by Dr. Amin, despite the fact that benign ovarian cysts 'generally resolve without surgical intervention,'" the report said.

Cherouny, the report noted, said the risks associated with these surgeries include infection, bleeding, pain and even infertility.

The report said six formerly detained women told investigators that Amin was "rough and insensitive" during medical procedures and failed to be forthcoming about his diagnoses and treatment plans. 

"These women described feeling confused, afraid, and violated after their treatment by Dr. Amin," investigators said. "Several reported that they still live with physical pain and uncertainty regarding the effect of his treatments on their fertility."

The subcommittee called Amin a "a clear outlier" in the number and types of gynecological procedures he performed on ICE detainees. "Ultimately, the Subcommittee's investigation found that Dr. Amin performed just two hysterectomies, one in 2017 and one in 2019, which ICE deemed to be medically necessary," the report said. "However, the Subcommittee did find that Dr. Amin performed an unusually high number of  other gynecological procedures on ICDC detainees."

While the Irwin County detention center held 4% of women in ICE custody between 2017 and 2020, the report said, Amin performed over 80% of certain gynecological procedures on detainees across the U.S. during that time, including laparoscopies, Depo-Provera injections, limited pelvic exams and dilation and curettage procedures.

According to the report, investigators tried to interview Amin, but their requests for voluntary testimony were denied. After the subcommittee issued a subpoena for his testimony, Amin, through his lawyer, said he "declined to provide testimony pursuant to his Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination."

Investigators said Amin was under criminal investigation by the federal government as of earlier this year. A separate internal investigation by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and a federal lawsuit related to medical procedures for immigrants held at the Irwin County facility remain ongoing, the subcommittee said.

Tuesday's report found that ICE does not have a policy of securing immigrants' consent for medical procedures conducted outside of facilities overseen by the agency. ICE officials, the report said, "stated to the Subcommittee that it is the sole professional obligation of the off-site provider to obtain informed consent from patients."

The investigation also uncovered 659 reports from detainees who described "delayed or deficient medical care" at the Irwin County detention center between 2018 and 2020. Investigators said ICE and LaSalle Corrections, the private company that oversees the Georgia detention facility, "failed to take effective corrective action" to address the grievances.

Moreover, the report raised questions about ICE's vetting and oversight procedures for medical providers. The subcommittee said ICE was not aware of several malpractice claims against Amin and other physicians or a federal lawsuit against him before the Sept. 2020 whistleblower complaint.

Investigators noted that Amin was not board certified, and had been sued in 2013 by officials in Georgia and the Justice Department, who claimed he committed Medicaid fraud by "ordering unnecessary and excessive medical procedures." The case was settled in 2015, with Amin and his codefendants paying $520,000, but not admitting any wrongdoing, the report said.

[reticent-writer]

The little heros

i made this back in like 2020 on my old Wattpad account. bnha season 6 got me into the show again and then I remembered this.

------------

Izumi Midoriya (female)

Sagiri Todoroki (Female)

Misuji and Kisumi Bakugou (male and female)

Arashi Ashido (male)

 koichi Jirou (male)

--------

-Izumi Midoriya- 

hair color: black

eye color:dark green

age:4

personality:shy but kind hearted 

________________________

Quirk:mind reader

type:emitter

ability: she can read the mind of anyone she made eye contact with unil that person goes to sleep

drawbacks: if used on more than 4 people at one time user can build up headaches and it doesn't stop till every person goes to sleep. 

________________________

_states_

power:3/5   C

speed:2/5    D

stamina:4/5   B

intelligence:4/5   B

cooperativeness:4/5   B

_____________________________________________________

-Sagiri Todoroki-

hair color:white w/t red highlights

eye color:grey

scar:around the neck and right foot. It happened when she first activated her quirk she didn't know how to stop it. fuyumi wrapped her in wet towels and held her until she passed out from the pain.

age:9

personality:laid back and introverted

________________________

Quirk: blue flames + red ice

type: emitter

ability: blue flames can turn extremely cold or hot 

drawbacks: easy to lose control and when control is lost user burns themself or get frostbite 

________________________

_states_

power:3/5   C

speed:3.5/5   C+

stamina:3/5   C

intelligence:5/5   A

cooperativeness:6/5   A+

_____________________________________________________

    boy               girl                       

-Misuji and Kisumi bakugou-

hair color: both ash blonde

eye color: Misuji has brown eyes while kisumi has red

age:4

personality: Misuji is more docile and laid back while kisumi is hot-headed and more aggressive

________________________

Quirk: Twin Bomber

type:emitter 

ability:they can take hits and dish it back 10 times as hard but as explosings. when one takes a hit the other get the power from it and sends it back. usually Misuji takes the hit and Kisumi hit them back. and when they get hit my an inanimate object they can turn that into stored power for themselves(When they fall or something that stores of power for themselves)

drawbacks:N/A

________________________

_states_(Misuji)

power:2/5   D

speed:5/5   A

stamina:5/5    A

intelligence:3/5   C

cooperativeness:5/5   A

________________________

_states_(kisumi)

power:6/5   A+

speed:5/5   A

stamina:3/5   C

intelligence:4/5  B

cooperativeness:2/5  D

_____________________________________________________

-Arashi Ashido-

hair color:pink

eye color:yellow

Age:4

________________________

Quirk:Dragon

type:mutant

ability:has the appearance and skills of a dragon

drawbacks:unknown

________________________

_states_

power:4/5   B

speed:5/5   A

stamina:2/5   D

intelligence:3/5   C

cooperativeness:4/5   B

_____________________________________________________

-Koichi Jirou-

hair color:light gold

eye color:black

Age:10

personality:easy going, problem solver, emotional

________________________

Quirk: N/A

type:N/A

ability:N/A

drawbacks:N/A

________________________

_states_

power:2.5/5  D+

speed:3/5   C

stamina:2/5   D

intelligence:3/5  C

cooperativeness:6/5   A+

---------

If I do doesn't have to follow the story it could just be random scenarios

[irispublisherscivilengineering]

2021 Sea level rise projections by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change for Coastal Design

Introduction

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) delayed its normal six-year publication cycle of climate assessments after its Fifth Assessment Report (AR5) was published in 2013 [1] because there was an explosion of research on climate change that needed to be evaluated. IPCC’s full Sixth Assessment Report (AR6) will be published in 2022. However, in August 2021, IPCC published the portion of AR6 [2] that deals with the physical basis for climate change including sea level rise. IPCC [2] was supported by updated projections of the contributions of Antarctica [3] and Greenland (The Ice Sheet Mass Balance Inter-Exercise 2020) to sea level rise. IPCC [2] has been per reviewed extensively with the first draft receiving comments from 750 reviewers and the second draft from 1279 peer reviewers [4]. IPCC [1] used temperatures that were projected for 2100 based on Representative Concentration Pathways (RCPs) that describe different climate-scenario futures. Scenario labelling is based on possible radiative forcing values by 2100. For example, RCP1.9 and RCP8.5 are scenarios with radiative forcing values in 2100 of 1.9 and 8.5 watts/m2 respectively. Shared Socio-economic Pathways (SSPs) are the climate-scenario futures used in IPCC (2021a), but except for some minor differences relating to climate, SSPs are the same as RCPs. They were the same for sea level rise projections. Table 1 shows IPCC [2] projections to 2100 relative to sea level in 1995-2014. Projections are mean rises with parenthetical numbers representing standard deviations from the means (Table 1).

Read More about this article: https://irispublishers.com/ctcse/fulltext/2021-sea-level-rise-projections-by-the-intergovernmental-panel-on-climate-change-for-coastal-design.ID.000680.php

Read More about Iris Publishers Google scholar Articles: https://scholar.google.com/citations?view_op=view_citation&hl=en&user=LoZ6uCQAAAAJ&cstart=20&pagesize=80&citation_for_view=LoZ6uCQAAAAJ:NJ774b8OgUMC

[palomahasenteredthechat]

https://www.tumblr.com/palomahasenteredthechat/760834895565176832/httpswwwtumblrcompalomahasenteredthechat7608

Doja and Meghan aren’t beefing as far as I know. Doja is actually (surprisingly) very good at staying out of beef with other female rappers.

Doja did a song with Nicki Minaj back in 2020, and Doja has been vocal about being grateful to Nicki for it helping out her on the map. Nicki however has beef with pretty much everyone, infamously with Cardi B, and then explosively falling out with Meghan earlier this year. She recently unfollowed Ice Spice and JT who she previously was cool with (I’m not sure why though, may have something to do with Meghan)

Nicki sort of has a history of taking women under her wing in the rap industry and then blowing up at them later on, but Doja has remained safe from Nicki’s wrath lol.

Doja seems to be friendly with mostly everyone, and keeps to herself when it comes to getting involved with others songs. She doesn’t really do features and just does her own thing I think that helps keep her out of beef with other rappers

That's probably pretty smart. Thank you so much for the history, Nonny.

[cosmic-cannon-ocs]

@itashiro-hitsuchiha asked // 27 Oct, 2020

"Fight!" (Xaitok from Perix cuz it seems fun. XD)

Send “FIGHT!” and I’ll fill out the fields below as if our characters where fighting in a fighting game!

-

Intro Quote(Versus): "Let's see if I can slow you down to my level." Intro Quote(Team Up): "Let's take them down together, Perix!" Taunt: "You can go faster than that, right?" Special Attack: Blizzard Blast: Xaitok shoots a blast of ice from his hands, it has a chance to freeze the target on impact. Assist: "You cannot escape!" // Xaitok uses slow magic on the target, and can use stop magic with double the assist cost Ultimate Attack: Blzzaga Storm - Xaitok stalls the target (with stop/slow magic) so he can set up numerous shards of ice around them, then sends the ice crashing into the target with his magic. Ultimate Team Attack: Speeding Ice Blitz Barrage: Xaitok sets Perix up by surrounding the target with ice platforms so Perix can attack them multiple times with her speed. After her combo is finished, Xaitok attacks the target with those platforms to form an ice explosion. Win Quote(Versus): "Guess even I can catch you despite your speed." Win Quote(Team Up): "We make a good team, don't we?" Lose Quote(Versus): "You really are, as fast as ever...." Lose Quote(Team Up): "I'm sorry, I guess I was not fast enough..." Knock Out Quote(Team Up Self): "The rest is up to you, Perix..." Knock Out Quote(Team Up Partner): "I will make you pay for what you did to her."

// from Kaito's FT blog, works well for my fan game too, lmao

[metalshockfinland]

BODY COUNT Drop Chilling Single 'Psychopath' Feat. Joe Bad

Body Count is back with Psychopath – their first new single since 2020’s Bum-Rush, which won a GRAMMY®Award for Best Metal Performance. The explosive new track, which features Fit for An Autopsy vocalist Joe Bad , shows Ice-T and crew on maximum killing overdrive and primed for the next chapter of the legendary L.A.-based band’s 35+ year career. Longtime collaborator Will Putney (Knocked Loose,…

[ncenvs3000semester]

Volcanic Lightning

Hi everyone! 

I hope this last week has been good for everyone and everyone now has some relief given that our podcasts are submitted! This week, we were asked to interpret the most amazing thing about nature. It took me a second to figure out what that was, so I did a little bit of research and found out all about something called volcanic lightning. Volcanic lightning is a charge of lightning that occurs as a result of a volcanic eruption, instead of a regular thunderstorm. Imagine the 2 things in nature that people are typically afraid of. It's crazy! Don’t think that's cool enough? Let me give you some more information about them.

Alright so how does this happen? Well, it took a long time for scientists to figure out its exact cause. It occurs at the beginning of a volcanic eruption in 2 places; either close to the ground in thick ash clouds or high up near the stratosphere within the fumes of volcanic smoke. Their locations have different reasons behind them occurring. 

For the volcanic lightning that happens near the ground in thick ash clouds, studies show that when the volcanic eruption begins, individual ash particles rub together, which then creates enough static electricity for a lightning bolt to occur (Fearon, 2020). The volcanic lightning that occurs high up near the stratosphere is a little more unordinary. The cause of this type of volcanic lightning is actually the opposite of what you would think, it's because of ice (Fearon, 2020). Research shows that both the smoke and water vapor rises from the volcano, causing ice to form at very high levels (Fearon, 2020). From that point, lightning is generated with the same mechanism as it does in a thunderstorm - ice crystals collide and then generate enough electric charge to initiate a lightning bolt (Fearon, 2020). Who would have thought that the opposite of fire and lava would actually initiate that? It's so cool! 

Other reasons for this phenomenon would be fractoemission and radioactive charging (SciTechDaily.com Authors, 2022). Fractoemission is when the rock particles break apart during the explosion, causing charged particles and static charge to form (SciTechDaily.com Authors, 2022). This also happens closer to the volcano’s base since it is something that happens in high energy places (SciTechDaily.com Authors, 2022). The ash particles have a natural radioactivity that is above the normal level, and charged areas are created once they decay. This is called radioactive charging (SciTechDaily.com Authors, 2022). Scientists are fairly unsure of this mechanism, but do believe it is a contributing factor in some cases. 

While I can describe this phenomenon for ages, nothing will truly explain how cool these are until you get to see them for yourselves. So, I’ve attached a few photos and a video for you guys to see how fascinating it is. 

Photos and videos are from Vulkane.net. 

Thank you guys for tuning in and hope that you guys have a good rest of the week!

Until next time,

Natasa

References

Fearon, R. (May 28 2020). Volcanology: The Study of Volcanic Activity and Predicting Eruptions. Discovery. www.discovery.com/science/volcanology--the-study-of-volcanic-activity-and-predicting-erupt.  

SciTechDaily.com Authors. (May 9 2022). Volcanic Lightning: The Science behind This Spectacular Phenomenon. SciTechDaily.  scitechdaily.com/volcanic-lightning-the-science-behind-this-spectacular-phenomenon/.  Vulkane.net Authors. Volcanic Lightning and Dirty Thunderstorms. Vulkane. www.vulkane.net/en/volcanism/volcanic-lightnings.html.

[spacenutspod]

Astronomers say there’s a wave rippling through our galactic neighborhood that’s playing a part in the birth and death of stars — and perhaps in Earth’s history as well. The cosmic ripple, known as the Radcliffe Wave, was identified in astronomical data four years ago — but in a follow-up study published today by the journal Nature, a research team lays out fresh evidence that the wave is actually waving, like the wave that fans in a sports stadium create by taking turns standing up and sitting down. “Similar to how fans in a stadium are being pulled back to their seats by the Earth’s gravity, the Radcliffe Wave oscillates due to the gravity of the Milky Way,” study lead author Ralf Konietzka, a researcher at Harvard and the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, or CfA, said in a news release.  The wave — which is named in honor of Harvard Radcliffe Institute, where the undulation was discovered — consists of a string of star clusters spread out over a stretch of the Milky Way measuring about 9,000 light-years in length. Astronomers reported in 2020 that they identified the wavy pattern by correlating the 3-D locations of the clusters in data from the European Space Agency’s Gaia space telescope, plus observations of dust and gas clouds in the same region. “It’s the largest coherent structure that we know of, and it’s really, really close to us,” said study co-author Catherine Zucker, an astrophysicist with the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory at the CfA. “It’s been there the whole time. We just didn’t know about it, because we couldn’t build these high-resolution models of the distribution of gaseous clouds near the sun, in 3-D.” At the time, the astronomers didn’t have enough data to determine whether the peak of the wave was rolling down the line. That’s what’s known as a traveling wave, as opposed to a stationary wave — the kind of wave that’s set off, for example, by a vibrating guitar string. Since then, additional readings about the motion of the star clusters have led the astronomers to conclude that the Radcliffe Wave is indeed a traveling wave that rises to a maximum height of more than 700 light-years and has a mean wavelength of roughly 6,500 light-years. “Now we can go and test all these different theories for why the wave formed in the first place,” Zucker said. Konietzka said the potential explanations range from “explosions of massive stars, called supernovae, to out-of-galaxy disturbances like a dwarf satellite galaxy colliding with our Milky Way.” Astronomers say the wave’s rippling effect could in turn trigger bursts of supernovae and swarms of star formation within the gas and dust clouds of the interstellar medium. In earlier research, Zucker and other astronomers suggested that sometime around 14 million years ago, just such a burst gave rise to the “Local Bubble,” a star-forming shell that surrounds our own solar system.  Other researchers have proposed that the long-lasting fallout from all those supernovae could have affected Earth’s geology and climate — for example, by showering our planet with radioactive dust or perhaps even triggering an ice age. The Radcliffe Wave is currently about 980 light-years away from our own solar system, and appears to be drifting outward at a speed of about 11,000 mph (5 km/sec). “The measured drift of the Radcliffe Wave radially outward from the galactic center suggests that the cluster whose supernovae ultimately created today’s expanding Local Bubble may have been born in the Radcliffe Wave,” authors of the newly published paper say. Study co-author Alyssa Goodman, an astronomer at the CfA, said the evidence supports the case for claiming that the Radcliffe Wave had an effect on Earth and its cosmic neighborhood.  “Passage of the sun through over-dense material like the Radcliffe Wave and the Local Bubble does affect the heliosphere,” she wrote in an email, “and the timing does work out that some of the peaks in radioactivity on Earth (e.g., iron-60) line up time-wise with when the sun would have crossed the RadWave, Local Bubble surface, and other ‘Local Fluff’ clouds as well.” Now the study’s authors are wondering whether the Radcliffe Wave is merely a local phenomenon. Could such waves be common? “The question is, what caused the displacement giving rise to the waving we see?” Goodman said. “And does it happen all over the galaxy? In all galaxies? Does it happen occasionally? Does it happen all the time?” In addition to Konietzka, Goodman and Zucker, authors of the Nature paper, titled “The Radcliffe Wave Is Oscillating,” include Andreas Burkert, João Alves, Michael Foley, Cameren Swiggum, Maria Koller and Núria Miret-Roig. The research is the focus of a BornCurious podcast titled “Riding the Radcliffe Wave,” as well an online 3-D interactive presented by Cosmic Data Stories and WorldWide Telescope. The post Scientists Track How a Giant Wave Moved Through Our Galactic Backyard appeared first on Universe Today.