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heli-writes · 1 year ago

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A dragon's heart

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: Heavy violence in the last part, throat cutting and gutting of human people, mentions of rape (no visual description!), swearing

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Part 1, Part 2

Series Masterlist

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People don't dare to speak about them out loud. Afraid that it would manifest them. They would only speak about them only in whispers behind closed doors. Fathers would tell their sons that it's better to flee than to fight. Don't play the hero. You can't win a fight against them, no one can. Mothers tell their daughters about the horrors they commit. You'd rather be dead than be captured by them. The women they don't kill after they're done, don't last more than a week. Y/n heard all the stories growing up. Some are more horrifying than others. Y/n has never lived in one place for too long. Her people have always been wanderers, offering their services and wares to the villages they pass through. So, she's come to hear a great deal of stories in her lifetime.

In the past two years, life has been unfortunate for y/n. The wandering folk have always been victims of bandits waiting on the side of the road. They've found ways to defend themselves but bandit activity has risen in the past years due to the barbarians attacking and raiding places all over the kingdom. Like sharks smelling blood, other low-life criminals start to crawl out of their holes, sensing an opportunity to gain some coin and women for themselves. Y/n's group has been attacked quite a few times over the last two years, decimating their numbers bit by bit. Having lost people, coins and wares, the last winter was harsh. Those, who didn't starve to death, died due to the harsh cold or infection that followed soon after. After that winter, there weren't many left of them and the survivors started to question if their way of life was still liveable in the current condition. Eventually, the group dismembered. Not all at once, but one by one. People found other work or opportunities in the villages they passed through. A better prospect of life. Even y/n's elder brother, her only surviving family member, left this spring and enrolled in the military service of the king. He tried to convince her to come with her and settle down in the capital. But y/n can't imagine such a life. Being used to living in the open, in tents and wagons, she developed a distaste for sleeping in houses made of stone. It gives her nightmares. The thought that the house might crumble and its stones burying her alive, scares her to death.

Eventually, y/n ends up alone. Only her, her tent, and a wagon her parents left behind. She tried keeping up the life of a wanderer until her donkey died of old age and she had no coin to buy a new one. Having no opportunity to continue to pull her wagon, she was forced to settle closeby to a small settlement. Here's the thing. Villagers are usually nice to the wandering folk. They're happy to trade with them and the change of pace and stories they bring with them. However, they are not keen on having them in their life permanently. It's nice to have them around for a couple of days, but it's also good when they move on. Then there are the prejudices. Often people put y/n's kind into the same box as other people without a permanent residence like bandits, homeless people, or moving brothels. So, people weren't too happy when y/n put up her tent close to the village entrance.

You see, most people don't treat y/n unkindly as long as she keeps her distance and has the proper coin when she needs to buy something. They even trust her enough to buy her wares but they're not very inclusive. So y/n does not really find any friends or social connections and she is aware of the demeaning glances and sneers people give her when they think she's not looking. She's trying to save up coins for a new donkey and hopes to find her brother. Maybe convincing him to leave the military. Or at least to find a more inviting place than where she is now.

Today's the celebration of the long day. It's the longest day of the year and the people celebrate the daylight for blessing their fields and fruits. There's a festival in the village with dances, beverages and lots of music. It gives y/n some consolation that the village people are celebrating this day. It's a big festival for her people with different traditions and rituals that are held all day and night. This year y/n tried to do as many of them on her own, but it's just not the same without your family around. So, she's glad she can go into the village and take part in the buzzing celebration. Though 'take part' is probably a bit too much. She probably will buy a cup of fruit wine and watch the hustle and bustle of the villagers. It's not like anybody would want to dance with her. After all, she has no real prospect of marriage around here. Nobody would let their son court and marry a woman like her. Not that y/n is interested in any of the young men she's seen in the village. She finds most of them quite close-minded and not very driven.

Y/n wears a flower crown she's woven today and one of her mother's dresses. It actually might be the one she got married in. She wanders the town square and watches old men toast with full jugs of beer and young couples sneaking around, waiting for the music to start. She gets herself a cup of wine and a sugary piece of cake and settles on the ground next to the bakery stand. Cross-legged, she bites into her cake and takes notice of some middle-aged women looking in her direction and whispering behind raised hands. Y/n shrugs it off as the music starts to play and people start to dance. She watches the commotion and whips her feet to the music. She really would love to dance. At midnight, the villagers dim the lanterns and lit a fire in the middle of the square. Curiously, y/n blends into the mass that gathers around the fire. She bumps into a man her age. She apologizes and gives the man a small smile. The man looks at her in bewilderment and his friend gives her a mean look, pulling the man away from her. Slowly, silence befalls the square and the old storyteller of the village makes his way to the middle of the square, next to the fire. Y/n buzzes with excitement. She loves stories. Before starting his story, the man lets his gaze wander through the people and takes a deep breath.

Far away from here, behind the mountain range we call bear fangs, lays the territory of the dragonblood tribe. These beasts of men managed to tame the greatest monsters known to mankind: the dragons. Over 12 feet high, spewing raging fire, these creatures are nothing more than steel-hard scales and razor-sharp teeth. While normal people, like us, would fear for their lives encountering these monsters, the dragonblood tribe has lived together with them for centuries in what they call harmony. There's no doubt you have to be a special kind of person to survive an encounter with such a monster, let alone live with them. Tall, strong, cunning and unafraid of death. All characteristics the men of the tribe possess. Some say they even mixed their blood with their dragons and gained impenetrable skin and superhuman strength.

A strength that they still use today to bring terror and fear into our lands. However, a few winters ago, a horrible sickness befell the women of the dragonblood tribe. Most of them didn't survive the season. Having lost their women, the dragonblood men lust for female flesh. Flesh that they seek nowadays in our lands.

We've all heard stories. From an aunt or uncle living in other parts of the kingdom, from passing merchants or the wandering folk about them. They do not care for day or night, they attack whenever they feel like it. There's no plan or logic to their attack, just chaos and violence. They burn houses, skin men alive, put children on spikes and do unspeakable, terrible things to our women. We should fear every single one of them but... there's one we should fear the most. Their leader: Bakugou Katsuki. He's the cruelest, strongest, and meanest of them all. He managed to tame the biggest and most dangerous dragon of all kinds: A hellfire dragon. With scales red as blood and fire as hot as a hundred forges, no one can escape this beast. And no one can escape its master either. With an insatiable hunger for coin, gold and women, their leader and his men continue to invade this country and raid its villages and towns. Greedily acquiring riches and kidnapping and taking our women whenever they please. You never know when they strike, but when you see a sliver of burning red in the sky... Take your little siblings, put your old mother on your back and leave farm and home behind, and run as fast as you can. If you're lucky, and cunning yourself, you might just be able to escape the terror of the dragonblood tribe and live another day to tell the story.

As the storyteller finishes his story, the market square lies in eery silence. Nobody dares to even move. Only when the musicians start playing again and the lanterns are lit again, the tension eases and the gathering around the fire dissolves. Y/n gets up from the place she was seated in and rubs her arms. There are goosebumps all over her body. What a creepy story to tell during such delightful festivities, she thinks. She grabs her cup to return it to the vendor. In passing, she hears someone say: "Why on earth would he speak of this? Doesn't he know it's a bad omen to speak it out loud?". She returns her cup and lets her gaze wander over the square once more. Some couples picked up dancing again but it's obvious that the atmosphere has shifted. Y/n notices the man she bumped into earlier watching her from across the square. She gives him a nod and then turns around to leave.

Y/n set up camp not too far away from the village, but far away enough to have some peace and quiet. The wandering folk often set up camp in a forest or closeby a river, living off the land around them. So, y/n has a short walk by foot back to her tent. The moon stays high in the sky, illuminating her surroundings enough for her to comfortably find her way home. Deep in her own thoughts, y/n doesn't notice the dark shadows following her. She's been walking for a while when she finally hears the snickering of male voices behind her. She looks over her shoulder and sees three male silhouettes following her. "Hey, y/n, wait a second!", she hears one of them yell. The voice is familiar. One of the villagers. She stops for a second, a stupid mistake on her part. One of the men jog up to her, the others following closely. "I'm sorry, can I help you with anything?", y/n says calmly. "Actually, there's something huge you could help me with.", the man she bumped into earlier grins. Y/n pretends not to catch on the allusion. "If you need help with something, it's best to work on it tomorrow. Also, we probably should talk to your father first since he handles business in your family.", she states. She hopes the mention of his father will intimidate the guy. "Oh, I think it's best to work on it tonight.", the man answers and his friends snicker behind him. "Sorry, I'm tired. Let's talk about it tomorrow.", y/n tries to advert him once again. "It won't be any work for you at all. You'd just have to lay down. Or stand up, depending on how you like it.", the man says and leans close. "I'd like to go home. Alone.", she tells him and turns to leave. "C'mon don't be like that!", one of his friends grins behind him, as the other one grabs her arm. "You're drunk. You should all go home, too. It's best to sleep it off.", she tells them and pulls on her arm. "Why are you like that? You don't think we're worth your time?", the third one coos. Y/n pulls on her arm again. "I'm sure you're all great and we can talk about everything tomorrow. Right now, however, I'd prefer to go home alone.", she tries again. "Not even for some coin? I heard your kind does everything for a little bit of gold.", the man holding her arms sneers. Not for any gold in the world, y/n would like to say. She knows better than to offend them. It's already a dangerous situation she's in. No need to escalate it further. "C'mon, babe. At least let me feel you up a bit.", the guy says and tries to pull her closer. Y/n decides that she has had enough of this. She balls her fist and swings it right into the man's face. Not expecting the blow, he lets go of her arm and stumbles back. Y/n doesn't waste a second and makes a run for it. Immediately, she leaves the well-known path and darts into the woods. She hopes that the trees give her enough cover to keep out of their sight. She runs in a zigzag, changing her direction multiple times. She hears the man behind her, trying to keep up with her. Unfortunately for her, they are bigger and faster than her and it's hard to shake them off. Eventually, y/n loses them. She climbs up a tree and stays unmoving for a long time. She doesn't hear them anywhere close by and her heart slows down a bit. It's not the first time she had to run away from men with bad intentions. She knows it's not a smart idea to return to her tent immediately. So, she stays up on the tree for most of the night. Her eyes fall close a couple of times but after she almost loses balance one time, she stays awake for the remaining night listening closely into the woods.

Only when the sun starts to rise again and wafts of mist waver over the cold forest ground, y/n climbs down from her spot. Her joints are stiff and she's chilled to the bone. Cautiously, she starts her way back to her tent. Of course, she did not watch where she was going last night and it takes her multiple hours to find her way back. When she arrives at her campsite, chills run down her back. Apparently, these men were not only relentless but also petty. Her entire campsite is destroyed. They absolutely trashed the place and set fire to her tent and wagon. Y/n takes in the sight. She tries to stay calm but her blood is boiling. It's not like she cared much about the possessions. The wandering folk always packed lightly and only what they could carry. It's the disrespect for her. Also, the little things that she did own were necessities. It's still early in the morning, so y/n decides to salvage what she can and take her leave. She knows men like this. When they don't get what they want, they don't rest until they absolutely destroy everything.

Unfortunately for y/n, the devil works fast and these men work faster. She just started piling up things that were still usable when she hears clamoring just a mile away. "Let's go! She must be back by now! No way she leaves her witchcraft stuff behind!", she hears a man yell. Y/n debates for a few seconds whether or not to stand her ground but decides it's better to avoid confrontation. She quickly grabs a small bag and retreats to the forest. However, she doesn't make it far. Only a few meters into the woods, an arrow flies by her head. "There she is! I saw her just beyond the tree line!", she hears a yell behind her. Immediately, y/n breaks into a sprint. She tries to lose them by zigzagging again but the broad daylight makes it easier for them to spot her. Being used to walking all day, y/n has quite the stamina and hopes to tire them out. However, she didn't sleep all night and the men seemed to have prepared for a longer hunt. 'Hunt' is the appropriate term here. They keep shooting arrows at her and seem to track her trails.

The forest no longer looks familiar to y/n as she keeps pushing on. Her heart feels as if it's about to explode. In a bad way. She's sure the men on her tail can hear her heavy breathing from a mile away. She's also sure that they start to catch up to her. She can hear them closer and closer behind her. They are whooping and whistling as if they are making fun of her. So sure that they can catch up to her. Suddenly, an arrow flies close to her face again, cutting her ear. She can feel blood dripping down the side of her face. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! You can't hide forever, you little bitch!", she hears one of them call out behind her. She gathers all her strength and pushes her legs to run even faster than before. Panic sets in and she hears an arrow hit the ground behind her. Trying to look back in order to estimate how far they are behind her, she stumbles over the roots of a tree and falls to the ground. "Over there!", a voice yells closely behind her. She gets up as quickly as she can and a piercing pain jolts through her. She must've torn or broken something in her joint as she fell. She limbs on trying to use the trees for cover. Another arrow hits the bark of the tree right next to her. She pushes herself off the tree, trying to bring more distance between herself and the men hunting her. Suddenly she loses her footing and finds herself sliding down a slope. Thorny bushes cut her legs, arms and face. The impact leaves a ringing tone in her ears. Her entire body hurts now. For a moment, she's tempted to just lay there and accept her fate. But when she hears the howling men above her, she fights to get back onto her feet again. Her bones feel heavy as she staggers on. She can hear some of the men sliding down the slope as well. Suddenly, she smells smoke in the air. Somebody must be close by!, she thinks. This thought cost her a valuable second and suddenly a pointed force to her right shoulder knocks her down again. Next, she feels a soaring pain from the very same place. When she turns her head to her side, in terror she realizes that an arrow is stuck in her shoulder. She can barely lift her arm now. On her hands and knees, she frantically looks for smoke in the air. Y/n fixes her eyes on the dark clouds of smoke rising into the air just a yard or so from her. It's my only chance, y/n decides. These people might be able to help. They can't be worse than the men that are hunting her. Little did she know, it was quite the opposite. Having found new hope, y/n gets back onto her feet. She starts sprinting again. Ignoring the pain in her foot joint, she pushes her body to the limit. Avoiding arrows out of sheer luck, she manages to avoid getting killed. Finally, she stumbles onto the clearing where the smoke was coming from.

Her eyes fall onto the fireplace first, then at the man sitting next to it. The man only wears dark pants and a pair of boots. He's got blonde spiky hair that stands up in different directions. Necklaces of teeth hand from his neck. All things y/n doesn't register in her panic. That and the giant, red dragon sleeping at the other side of the clearing. The man gets up immediately and grabs a sword that laid across his lap just seconds ago. He looks at y/n angrily, ready to yell or behead her or both. However, he does not get a chance to speak. Y/n's body gives out and she falls onto her knees. "I'm begging you!", she yells out, tears streaming down her face. "Please help me! If you have just an inch of good in you, please find the mercy to help me! They are going to kill me!", she continues to yell. The man looks at her in bewilderment. Nearby, the village men yell in her direction. In horror, she pushes herself up once more and stumbles in the direction of the strange man in front of her. She falls straight into his chest, clinging onto his arm. For a moment, the man looks as if he wants to push her back to the ground again but he doesn't get a chance to do so. One of the men hunting y/n stumbles onto the clearing with a knife in his hand. "There you are, you little slut!", he yells. In fear, y/n clings to the man in front of her. Suddenly, the stranger grabs her right arm. Pain shots from the arrow wound into her fingertips. She looks up and sees the stranger look at the wound with narrowed eyes. Another villager reaches the clearing. This one carries a bow and arrow. The stranger quickly makes the connection between the arrow stuck in y/n's shoulder and the arrow in the man's hand.

The stranger yells something non-understandable and pushes y/n to the side who falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The impact sends more pain through y/n body. "Who the fuck are you? That one belongs to us, find your own toy to play with!" the knife man says and raises his weapon. The stranger exclaims something loud and angry. Again y/n can't understand him. He must speak a different language than her. Suddenly a rumble pierces the air. Y/n's head whips around and the dragon rises to his feet. Y/n's mouth hangs open in disbelief. The man with the arrow yelps in surprise and lets go of his arrow sending it flying in an arbitrary direction. The stranger in front of her doesn't waste a second and uses the distraction to cut the knife guy's throat in a swift movement. In horror, y/n watches as blood gushes out of the horizontal wound and the man chokes on his own body fluids. The man with the bow stumbles backward onto his butt. His eyes are still fixated on the dragon to his right. The stranger harshly steps onto the man's foot. The disgusting sound of breaking bones rings through the air. The man yells in pain and throws his head back. The stranger grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head forward. Angrily, he yells at the villager and when the man only groans in pain, the stranger sticks his sword into his side. The villager lets out a bone-chilling scream. When the villager continues to not answer him, the stranger starts twisting his sword in the wound. The villager throws up on himself and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Y/n can't advert her eyes. She doesn't really comprehend what's happening in front of her. When more yelling is heard at the edge of the clearing, the stranger pulls his sword diagonally through the man's abdomen, creating a wound that makes squishy red things fall out of the man's body. Y/n feels like throwing up. The stranger drops the twitching man and makes its way to the edge of the clearing. What happens next is not registered by y/n who can't help but stare at the gutted man in front of her who keeps twitching until the light has left his eyes. She doesn't hear the screams of terror and death from the other side of the clearing. She doesn't even see the giant beast watching her every move.

Only when the stranger returns with blood dripping down his sword and chest, y/n's consciousness finds its way back into her body. The stranger looks as angry as he has since she entered his clearing. He sounds angry too. He's saying something to her. Looking at it backward, y/n is sure that she wouldn't have been able to understand him even if he spoke her language at this very moment. Only when he stomps closer to her with a raised sword, y/n springs to action and pushes herself backward with one leg, still sitting on the ground. This is it, she thinks, I'm going to die. The man grabs her uninjured shoulder and shakes her. She stares up at him with wide eyes. Suddenly, her vision starts spinning and her hearing starts to fade. Before she understands what is happening, her world fades to black.

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[Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters]

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comicarc · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 (𝐈)

•──✮ masterlist ✮──•

> Main Continuity Mark Grayson/Reader > Best friends with Mark Grayson, she had lived a simple life. Yet, when Omni-Man winds up in the GDA's hospital leaving a plethora of unanswerable questions in his wake, both their lives change for better or worse. 【 wc: 2260 】

◃ previous ◃ ▐▐ ▹ next ▹

A/N: I haven’t seen many long fics for og Mark so here’s my go at it!

“Hey Mrs. D!” y/n exclaimed as Debbie walked into the kitchen.

Smiling at the girl munching on cereal beside Mark, the woman enthused, “Shouldn’t you be heading to school?”

Chuckling at the remark, y/n responded with a shrug, “Guess I got lost on the way.”

The girl was practically living at the Grayson residence at this point as she visited in the mornings, hung out after school, and left the house as late as she possibly could get away with. Debbie didn’t mind the constant presence for she had come to adore the girl as her own, but she had wondered many times what encouraged her desire to distance herself from her real family.

Noticing his mom turn her attention to the buzzing TV, Mark noted, “Looks like Dad’s saving the White House.”

As Debbie went on her rant about how the White House had essentially become cannon fodder over the years, being decimated at least twice a year now, y/n sipped the last ounce of cereal in her bowl. Turning her head to the kitchen, y/n saw Omni-Man entering the house, implying that it was time for her to leave and allow them to enjoy some family time.

Nudging a distracted Mark, y/n whispered, “I’ll meet you outside.”

Shutting the door behind her, y/n unslung her backpack from her shoulder and leaned against the garage door, admiring the cloudless sky. The sun was shining, the temperature was just perfect, and Omni-Man had saved the day yet again. She only wished her life could go as perfectly as this day.

Growing up next door to Mark ever since they’d been born, y/n always felt a hint of envy for the Graysons. With a loving mother and an attentive father who, despite carrying the world on his shoulders, still made time for his son, her best friend had the perfect family. She had only ever wished to have the same or at the very least, two parents as present and caring as his.

Walking out mumbling something under his breath, Mark suddenly jumped up into the air posing like his father. Losing her shit at the sight of him as his shoes barely made it three inches off the ground, y/n mocked, “Whoa there Omni-Kid, don’t let gravity stop ya.”

“Haha, very funny,” Mark replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes at the girl who remained hunched over with hands on her stomach as she attempted to contain her laughter.

The two trekked onward down the street toward Reginald Vel Johnson High School, with Mark rambling about how his hopes of getting powers were getting crushed by the minute and y/n lost in thought. Mark had whined about his lack of superhuman abilities for years, none the wiser to the fact that y/n had already manifested some of her own. It was a secret she had maintained for years now, only beholden to one other person.

She had hated her abilities, for they only wrought unwanted attention and immense responsibilities that most others seemed oblivious to. Not even Mark considered how having the ability to lift trains and literally move mountains could change someone’s life. She had to be ever so gentle with her every move to make sure she didn’t flick a piece of trash into the next building. She had to learn to control her hearing, to drown out the myriad of noises surrounding her so that she could hear what the boy beside her was saying. She had to realize that every move she made endangered the lives around her. It seemed she was the only one in the world to think of these powers as a curse. She guessed that was probably the reason why the Graysons kept her around. Her aversion to power and all that came with it allowed Omni-Man to trust her with his identity, and subsequently, Debbie.

After fifteen more minutes of this dynamic, the two finally reached school just as the morning bell rang. They each went their separate ways, waving each other off at the entrance knowing they’d be seeing each other soon enough.

A day of classes passed, and Mark was headed off the BurgerMart when y/n received a text from her father. “I need you home ASAP.”

He had rarely ever texted her. The man would always call if things were urgent or leave notes on the counter for her to read when she went back home, but texts were reserved for life-or-death situations. Upon receiving it, she quickly made her walk home slightly faster than what it would normally take her, wary of using her enhanced abilities in public.

Barging into the dark house, y/n called out, “Dad?”

He walked from the shadowed steps of the stairway to the sunlit living room holding a package. She could see the disappointment strung across his burrowed eyebrows. Seating himself on the couch and sliding the package across the coffee table toward where y/n stood, he sighed.

“You still talk to her?” He began, anger laced in his words.

He had every right to be mad, just not at y/n. “She’s still my mom.”

“Your mom? After she cheated, moved out, and never came back?”

y/n winced knowing he was right, she was for all intents and purposes a deadbeat. Yet, her mother would still call to check up on her and they’d have girl talk, gossiping about the latest drama in the neighborhood or raving over a show she’d watch. She needed a mom just as much as she needed a dad, but her father couldn’t see things the same way. After all, he couldn’t forgive the woman who upended his life so easily. So, she remained quiet, unable to formulate any response to his stinging words.

“If you want your mother so bad, maybe it's time you stayed with her. In fact, why don’t you start now.”

y/n didn’t want to test his anger, for his words were amplified enough for her to receive the message. He just didn’t want to see her, for she reminded him of what he lost. It wasn’t the first time he ‘kicked her out’ so she knew she’d have to sneak into her room through the window for a week before he’d cool off and return to his normal state.

Retreating from her house y/n had to figure out what to do to pass the time. She could go to the Grayson residence, but she felt she had been imposing her presence on them as of late. Walking down the street slowly she decided that the best way to kill time would be to roam around the city, contemplating a reality where things were different.

A few days passed since then, and she hadn’t talked to Mark in a while. Her guilt ate at her every time she left her home for his, for she felt like she was insulting her father’s attempts at salvaging what was left of her family. All her anguish had caught up to her the last few days and she coped with it as best she could alone, but the weight of it all was too heavy for her to cry away. So she sought solace in the one place she felt comfortable, with the Graysons.

Ringing the doorbell, y/n was met with a perturbed Debbie. Before she could even step foot inside, the woman inquired, “Have you seen Nolan?”

Shaking her head no, Debbie elaborated, “He didn’t come home last night.”

Standing behind her, Mark reassured, “Mom, stop worrying. He probably got buried under a mountain again or something.”

As Debbie searched the room for her purse, she added, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Huffing in defeat, y/n handed the black bag to the woman, smiling, “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

As y/n headed to Mark, eager to know what he’d been up to in the days they hadn’t talked, Debbie opened the door to two agents with sullen faces. One of the men motioned for the woman to call for Mark while the other instructed, “We need you two to come with us.”

As y/n approached the two, following them out the door, one of the agents held her back, clarifying, “Just them.”

“She’s coming.” Debbie enunciated as she stepped into the car, steadying herself by gripping Mark.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Any number of things could have happened for Cecil to bring Mark into the Global Defense Agency against Debbie’s wishes. With a comforting hand rested on Debbie’s on the ride there, she’d been imagining all the scenarios from enlisting Mark into Teen Team to telling them about leaks in the department. Never in a million years would she have thought she’d ever see Nolan Grayson lying unconscious, beaten half to death, in a hospital bed.

He’d been there for her more than her real father. More than anyone. Aside from being the only stable adult male figure she could actually look up to, the man had taught her how to control her powers. He was the only person she trusted to know what she was capable of and in turn, he gave her lessons. How to fly 101, how to fight, how to hone her senses to feel normal. In every sense of the word, he felt like the father figure she never had.

Seeing him in such a state left her more fearful than mad, more saddened than vengeful. For now, it confirmed the fact that she cursed the ones she cared for with pain and misery. First her own parents, and now Mark’s. She couldn’t comfort either Grayson or feed them with pacifying lies. So as quickly as she had run to the bedside, she left the room. Closing her eyes and taking deep breaths, y/n attempted to center herself.

A moment later the door to the room reopened and out stepped Cecil with a request. “If you couldn’t tell already we’re a bit short-staffed in the hero department. We need you to go out there.”

Scoffing, y/n asked,“Why not the Teen Team, or literally any other active agent?”

“You’re the closest thing to Omni-Man we have left kid, besides Mark.” Mark? He got powers?

If not her then Cecil would prey on Mark’s unsatiated desire to be like his father and she knew that would lead him down a path he’d regret. Weighing her choices, she apprehensively agrees to help him just this once. Her only condition was that if the threat could be handled by the Teen Team then she would leave. Cecil simply nodded along, eventually telling her to suit up and head downtown.

Her powers resembled those of War Woman save for immortality as far as the Omni-Man and the GDA speculated, so Art awarded her with a similarly designed costume. She wore a blue armor-plated skirt paired with a red-trimmed golden breastplate. Her armored boots, reaching up to her knee were of a similar color scheme, complimenting the upper half of her body. With an armor that only covered her most essential parts, neglecting her limbs, y/n was accessorized with gold gauntlets and given a lasso, sword, and shield as her primary weapons.

Flying into downtown, she had arrived just as the green aliens were filtering through the portals. There was already a bloody mess on the streets with severed limbs flying around the air with each blast. Taking out her shield, she protected herself from the firing squad and slowly progressed forward. If she could reach the center of the herd of aliens, she could punch and slice her way out, leaving them vulnerable enough to force a surrender.

Soon enough she managed to end up right where she wanted to be, in the thick of battle. Unsheathing her sword she decimated many of the front-line forces. Just as she was finishing up, y/n saw one of the tanks direct its blast at a hero clad in blue, yellow, and black. Turning her body to see if she had time to save him, y/n saw the Teen Team finally make their entrance with Atom Eve saving the new guy.

Immersing themselves into the battle as the new guys flew away with a woman in his arms, y/n called out, “Y’guys got this?”

Holding back the unrelenting bodies that began to pile on her shield, y/n could faintly hear Robot yell, “We have a greater probability of success with you here.” Great.

More aliens kept piling on, and her sword was becoming more an more blunt as she held off the forces. The Teen Team & her were able to keep the aliens at bay long enough for enough people to escape and for the aliens to shrivel up. As they were dying in hordes, y/n lowered her shield, placing it back on her back as she was dumbfounded at the sight.

Turning her head she headed straight to Atom Eve, starting with an interrogative tone, “Did you do this?”

“We thought you did,” she replied equally as puzzled.

Regardless, the threat was subdued and that meant y/n could head back to the GDA headquarters to be where she was really needed. On her way there, she stashed away her hero costume, changing back into the civilian clothes, before entering the building. She had barely registered the trail of blood leading into Nolan’s room until the doors opened to reveal a bloody Mark in a hero costume hunched over Omni-Man.

“Mark? You’re–”

-ˋˏ ༻💫༺ ˎˊ-

◃ previous ◃ ▐▐ ▹ next ▹

•──✮ masterlist ✮──•

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #female reader #x reader #invincible #original characters #atom eve #teen team #debbie grayson #nolan grayson #omni man #slow burn #friends to lovers #invincible x reader

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bxllydxnnabxtch · 2 months ago

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Bittersweet Saviour

Gojo x Reader

❀🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹❀

Summary: Things quickly go sideways when you get sent on an emergency mission with your lover. When you both get split up, it's not long before this mission turns into a different kind of emergency.

Warnings: Profanity, Blood, Descriptions of reader getting their ass absolutely handed to them, Near death experience.

SMACK

The last thing you expected when you got sent on this mission with Satoru was to be launched through a wall by your fucking face. But as you blinked your eyes open through the incessant ringing and metallic taste on your tongue willing them to stay closed, you realized that this mission may have been a little (a lot) above your pay grade. The chewing out you were going to give Yaga after this mission might even rivel whatever injury Satoru’s going to tear you a new one for. At this point it seemed like the higher ups were trying to kill you.

You were barely able to stand up on shaky legs and a shitty sense of balance from your clearly concussed mind, but you managed. Alas, you stumbled, hand shooting out to what was left of the decimated wall for balance, as your other hand came up to use your technique. When, again, your body was shoved back in to the pile of rubble you had just climbed from. Your back hit the concrete with a sickening crunch, and a wail left you when you felt pain explode along your shoulder blades and cascade down your back like molten lava. Your head fell back, your neck resting at an odd angle as you sat locked in a world of agony. You tried your best to breath though it, but your chest heaved as you attempted to get your bearings. The next time someone at the school told you to fucking box breathe to cope during missions, was the day you would be put to death for murder.

The curse was seemingly toying with you as it stalked towards you with a sadistic grin, it’s skin a grotesque green with shell like shield formations covering it, It’s armor barely chipping against your prior use of your technique. You gritted your teeth upon realizing Gojo hadn’t returned since the cursed spirit had split you up with it’s multiple copies crowding the man. And if he was having trouble getting through multiple of them, it meant that this was a special grade, and your chances of getting through this one were slim to none.

Your body had become essentially numb to the pain as you backed yourself up the piled of rubble, your hands gripping the concrete as it sliced through your palms. You gritted your teeth, ignoring the crackles of pain shooting off along your spine as you tried to steady your breathing for the second time. Your hand raised as it curled into a fist, focusing your cursed energy into your palm as you let go of your middle and ring finger. Your technique manifested as a slice of wind launched towards the curse, cutting through the ground in its wake as it hurdled its way towards its target. You could hear it howl as it sliced through the air, tearing up the existing rubble and raking up pieces of it with its momentum.

The curse was flung onto its back as it collided with your cursed energy, throwing it across the ground, pieces of concrete and rock chipped at its armor as it was dragged further and further from you. You watched it tumble, rolling over a couple times as it’s hands gripped at the ground in a desperate attempt to slow its speed, despite the blade of wind actively shoving it further. Your technique only stopped when it slammed the cursed spirit into a building, the structure swaying at the impact as a cloud of dust and debris surfaced from the landing. A silence fell over the barren what once was a street, now more of a warzone, but it was short lived as you saw movement from among the cloud. It didn’t take long for the spirit to get up again, and your heart plummeted as you realized how little your technique did to it. It screeched as it got up, the sound piercing your eardrums as you flinched from the jolt of pain it sent through you.

A switch seemed to flip in your mind as you shot up, getting up off the rubble, deciding that it would be better to flee with your life than to try and fight a losing battle. Your palms left bloody handprints on the bits of rock and shale as you scrambled to get off the pile, feet clambering down the pile of blood-stained cement as you pushed yourself off of it, feet hitting solid ground as you broke into a sprint. You stumbled the slightest bit, but righted yourself as you attempted to fend off the violent nausea that plagued your sense of balance and direction. A steady burn started in your lungs as your fatigued body tried to keep up with the added exertion, your feet clapping against the ground as you ran with everything you had left in you.

Adrenaline shot through you when a solid object was thrown into your side, the shrapnel cutting through your hip and throwing you off balance as you were mercilessly thrown to the ground. Your body skidded across the tarmac as the wind was knocked out of you, coming to a stop as you hiccupped, heaving in a futile attempt to get air into your lungs. A grotesque wheezing sound came from you as you tried yet again, the strain in your chest finally letting up as you greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air. A sense of dread settled in the pit that had formed in your stomach, your throat closing up as a sense of panic took hold of you. You didn’t need to look down to know that the freshly made wound in your side was bleeding heavily, you could tell from how cold it felt when the wind brushed against it. You sensed that the absence of pain was due to shock, and that only meant that the injury was severe enough for your body to block it out. Your forehead came to rest on the hard asphalt, your body shaking from the shock your body was put under as you quickly weighed your options.

You assessed your physical state, and you really didn’t need to think too hard as you deduced that you were entirely fucked.

You had essentially accepted your fate by the time you had flipped over, and for a brief moment you wondered how Shoko would react to seeing your corpse in the mortuary. You felt the faintest sense of guilt at that sentiment, maybe if you had defected like Suguru, maybe you’d have been able to spare her the disappointment of seeing another one of her childhood friends exit the Jujutsu world, only this time in a body bag.

SMACK

That thought was quickly interrupted as the curse was kindly launched through a wall by it’s fucking face.

You didn’t even get a chance to process the relief at this development, as you saw a platinum head of hair pop in your vision and a hand come to pull his blindfold off as he stared down at you with those damn near blinding blue eyes of his. A grin spread across his features, a chuckle emanating from him as he looked you over.

“You don’t look so hot, princess.” He remarked slyly.

“Oh yeah, I’m great, thanks for asking.” You wheezed, hand coming to press into your side with a hiss. You flinched at the pressure, beginning to feel the warmth of your own blood flow through the spaces between your fingers. You felt the large divot that was now engraved in your side, and blinked up at Gojo when you saw his expression falter at the amount of blood beginning to pool around you. His signature smile fell slightly, silently examining you before pivoting around to face the curse head on.

“Just give me a minute to deal with this.” He said softly, and you nodded your head lightly. “Take all the time you need.” You hummed, a soft groan falling out of you as the shock began to wear off. You began to feel the steady thrum of pain throb through your being, squirming slightly as you laid on the ground.

You could hear the shuffle of rubble through the soft ringing in your ears. One second your eyes were on Satoru, and the next he had vanished, you barely had a second to flick your eyes over to the curse as you heard him sprint towards it with frightening speed. You saw his figure practically fly through the air as he cocked his leg back only to swing it at the cursed spirit. With a sickening crack, the curses head flew through the air, splitting it’s armor and leaving a stump in it’s wake. You flinched at the sight, tearing your eyes away as you heard its head roll across the dust scattered road.

You blinked and he was at your side yet again, face unreadable as he directed both of your hands over to your sliced open side. “Keep pressure on it.” He said, eyes flicking over your face as you laughed weakly. “Aww, c’mon don’t be like that, what happened to the cocky Satoru that never takes anything serious?” You joked, wincing as you obeyed his order, forcing your hands harder into your side. You struggled to keep pressure on it as you began to shake, hands trembling as they began to feel sticky from the blood.

“Shut up.” He scoffed, scooping one hand under your legs and another under your shoulders as he hoisted you up. A yell of pain left you at the movement, and his face fell the slightest bit as he adjusted you in his hold. “You’re pale, I’ve gotta get you to Shoko.” He stated softly, voice laced with a twinge of- dare you say- concern? Your laugh came out as more of a weak wheeze, head leaning against his shoulder as you stared up at him. “Yeah, I dunno about you but-“ you sucked in a breath of air, finding it getting harder to breathe as you gritted your teeth. “People usually get pale when they’re bleeding out.” You finished, eyebrows furrowing as a wave of nausea hit you.

A small smirk crept onto his face as he shrugged his shoulders lightly, your figure dipping the slightest bit with the movement. “I wouldn’t know, never bled out before.” He said with a huff. You snickered, shaking your head lightly as laughter wracked through you. A wave of pain hit you immediately after, and you tensed in his hold. “Ugh you’re such a dick.”

Your eyes slipped closed as you rested your head against his chest, feeling your surroundings change as you snapped them open again in surprise. You quickly took note of the beds that took up the room, and your jaw fell in astonishment as you blinked in shock. Your eyes flickered up to him, Brows knitting together in confusion as you realized what he had done. “Did you just-“

He cut you off, cocking a brow as he spoke. “Warp you to the infirmary? You really thought I was going to let you bleed out in the street? Wow, you wound me. Truly I don’t think I could ever recover-“ You cut him off with a soft slap to the chest, the action leaving a bloody handprint on his pristine white shirt. A groan sounding from you as you listen to him ramble about your subsequent betrayal.

“Just set me down and go get Shoko before you’re the one that ends up in a recovery bed.”

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tiistirtipii · 2 years ago

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I’m manifesting now. So long as it’s First as las Chu Sangwoo and Khao as Jang Jaeyoung. Idc Idc

I had a dream last night that the romcom First and Khaotung had been given for 2024 was a Thai version of Semantic Error and I’m choosing to accept this as fact until GMMTV tells me otherwise

#listen. First plays autistic characters like he was made for it. I’m looking at you Akk #and Khao looks great in red and would decimate jaeyoungs swagger #can you imagine him as that scene with the dart throwing?? oh I’m weak #manifesting and praying #firstkhao #semantic error

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metalmewtwo-kxb · 10 months ago

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Pokédex Update:

Auroreon - the Iridescent Feather pokemon. A flying type. When it fans its wings and tail, it can manifest beautiful yet powerful beams of light in concentrated attacks and healing moves. If it ever opens its eyes, it will unleash its wrath on the unjust.

Notes:

- Auroreon's feathers always seem to glimmer in the light, causing even its body to give off a faint prismatic glow. They are also sturdy, soft as cinccino velvet, and capable of keeping sheltered pokemon warm. If the weather and conditions are right, Auroreon will spread its feathers over the grass and sunbathe (or moonbathe at night). This makes the moisture in the air above it become a captivating blanket of shifting colors. The shiny variation of this pokemon is said to also manifest colors of light that very few humans are able to see.

- The 'eye spots' on Auroreon's feathers serve as a natural statement of beauty as well as a means of confusing opponents. And the halo above its head is a result of the fur's natural light refraction.

From Recovered Texts and Documents:

- Long ago, a king encouraged the use of these feathers for decorative purposes during his reign. This greatly decimated the population of both eevee and Auroreon in their region. Those with dark feathers were considered "impure" and hunted for sport. A few were kept as pets and servants, which was illegal save for those with the king's written permission.

- Some groups of the past believed Auroreon to be among the pokemon known as "the Heralds of Arceus", messengers and light-bearers who served the Creator of Worlds. There were a variety of pokemon believed to hold this title, each described as "familiar yet unique" to each respective species. They were more powerful than their counterparts, and some rarely spotted if not considered an illusion. They were also quite gentle and well-mannered, and their roles involved giving life and healing to the world. However, these pokemon were considered dangerous in times of conflict.

- It is said "the false king" of their home region was single-handedly responsible for the disappearance of the Heralds, the beginning of conflict between humans and Arceus, and the terrible aftermath of the last great war. Rumors spread that Arceus removed the Heralds from the world of humans to save those pokemon from the cruelty that would follow in coming years.

Notes Continued:

- Further research is being conducted, as a single pair of Auroreon were recently spotted in an isolated area with an unusual eevee. One white, and one dark. The gender of each is unknown, though ancient texts suggest that females have shorter capes than males.

- There is no documentation of what their open eyes look like. Texts only say that no one who saw them directly lived to tell the tale, including the false king.

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

Decided to take my own stab at creating a flying type eeveelution, and potentially add a second typing later on.

I'm really happy with how it turned out, and glad I had another chance to delve into more of the comic's background lore.

#;pokedex #pokemon #eeveelution #eevee #Auroreon #fakemon #flying type #pokedex

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dearhnymn · 2 months ago

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𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.

The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.

He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.

You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”

　“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”

　“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.

　“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.

With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.

George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”

You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”

　“No.”

　“George.”

He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”

Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.

　“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.

　“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.

He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”

You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”

　“You’re insufferable.”

　“And correct.”

The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.

Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.

Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.

His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.

His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”

And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.

The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.

You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.

　“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.

A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.

You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.

　“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.

He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”

You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”

George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”

　'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.

　“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.

　“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”

He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

　“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.

Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

　“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”

You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”

He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”

You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”

　“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”

Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.

　“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”

You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”

George blinked. “Touché.”

You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.

Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.

You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.

　“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”

He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”

　“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”

George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.

Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”

You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”

　“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.

You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.

For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.

Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.

Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

　“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”

　“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.

　“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.

Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.

　“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.

　“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”

George didn’t argue.

You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.

Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.

　“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.

　“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”

　“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.

　“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.

　“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”

You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.

He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.

There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.

　“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”

You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.

　“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.

You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”

The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

　“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”

George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.

　“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.

He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.

　“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.

There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.

At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.

Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.

George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.

Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.

The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.

Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.

Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.

George.

At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.

Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.

Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.

Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.

“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.

“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.

George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”

Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”

“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”

George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.

Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”

“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.

Neither of you said anything about it.

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed to support your favorite authors! let me know when if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️　taglist: @eeechooo

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moonselune · 1 year ago

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aaahhh hello! i don’t know if you’ve already written something like this but what about tav being taken by orin instead of one of the companions? could you do this for the bg3 girls? i know you've written lots of angst lately but you do it so well 🥺

my talent for angst is a blessing and a curse but I cannot lie I loved doing this request call me a masochist xxx

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The moment Karlach realized you were missing, a cold dread settled in her gut, quickly replaced by an inferno of rage. Orin. The name alone made her blood boil. She stormed through the camp, her eyes wild, her fists clenched tight enough for her palms to bleed.

"Where is she?" she roared, her voice echoing through the trees. The other companions tried to calm her, but it was like trying to contain a wildfire. Halsin and Minsc had to pin her down to keep her from charging recklessly into the city.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling against their hold. "I have to save her!"

"We will," Halsin said, his voice strained as he held onto her. "But not like this. We need a plan."

Hours later, they stormed Orin’s hideout, moving with grim determination. Karlach led the charge, her eyes blazing with fury. She tore through Orin’s minions with relentless force, her every move driven by the thought of you in danger. Finally, they reached the altar room, and there you were, bound and helpless.

"Get away from her!" Karlach bellowed, her voice cracking with emotion. She charged at Orin, who smirked and prepared to meet her.

The battle was fierce, but Karlach fought like a woman possessed. With a final, powerful strike, she brought Orin down, her rage giving her strength beyond measure. As soon as Orin fell, Karlach was at your side, cutting through your bindings with trembling hands.

"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she pulled you into her arms. "I thought I lost you."

You tried to lighten the mood, managing a weak smile. "Hey, I'm fine. You know I can't get rid of you that easily."

But Karlach couldn’t stop crying, her body shaking with sobs as she held you close. "Don't ever scare me like that again," she murmured, refusing to let you go.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

Minthara maintained a facade of calm and calculation when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her movements were methodical, every decision precise. She issued orders, gathered intel, and planned meticulously. Despite this outward calm, she didn’t eat, and she didn’t sleep. Her mind was consumed by thoughts of you, and her heart ached with a worry she refused to show.

As she led the mission to rescue you, her focus was unshakeable. When the final confrontation with Orin came, Minthara’s eyes were cold and resolute. The battle was fierce, each strike a manifestation of her pent-up fury and desperation.

"You should have known better than to touch what is mine," Minthara hissed, her voice deadly calm.

Orin sneered, but Minthara’s onslaught left her no room for arrogance. Minthara’s strikes were brutal and unrelenting, driven by a determination to end this threat once and for all. She decimated Orin, leaving her broken and defeated on the ground.

Finally, Minthara turned to you, bound to the altar. Her hands shook as she cut your restraints, and she pulled you into her arms, clutching you tightly.

"Do you have any idea how much you scared me?" she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time.

You could feel her trembling, her grip almost painful in its intensity. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice filled with relief. "I didn’t mean to."

Minthara pulled back slightly, her eyes blazing. "You could have died," she scolded, her voice harsh with emotion. "You cannot be so reckless."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. "I’ll try not to," you replied, your laughter mingling with tears. "But it's good to know you care."

Minthara’s stern expression didn’t soften. "This is not a joke," she insisted, but her voice wavered.

Before she could launch into another lecture, you silenced her with a kiss. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms wrapping around you even tighter.

"Thank you for coming for me," you whispered against her lips.

Minthara didn’t respond with words, just held you close, her relief and love evident in every touch.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae'zel's rage was a palpable thing when she learned you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her eyes blazed with fury, and her every movement was a testament to her determination. If her companions would not aid her in the rescue, she resolved to do it herself.

"We waste time!" she snapped, glaring at anyone who dared to suggest a more cautious approach. "I will not leave them in that monster's hands!"

When she finally located Orin's hideout, Lae'zel charged in with a ferocity that left the others in awe. She fought like a woman possessed, her every strike fueled by a burning need to rescue you. The enemies fell before her like wheat before a scythe, her rage making her unstoppable.

The closer she got to you, the more frantic her attacks became. When she finally reached the altar where you were bound, she barely spared a glance for Orin, her focus entirely on you. But Orin stood in her way, and Lae'zel’s eyes narrowed with deadly intent.

"You will regret this, Orin," she hissed, her voice a low growl.

The battle was intense, Orin's taunts only fueling Lae'zel's rage. She fought with an almost reckless abandon, her strikes powerful and relentless. It was a close call, but Lae'zel’s determination saw her through. She defeated Orin, leaving her bleeding and broken.

Without hesitation, she rushed to your side, cutting your bonds with swift, precise movements. She pulled you into her arms, her grip tight and possessive. "You are safe now," she murmured, her voice shaking with a mix of relief and residual anger. "I have you."

You looked up at her, your eyes filled with gratitude. "I knew you'd come for me."

Lae'zel’s grip tightened, her eyes fierce. "Of course. I would tear the world apart to get you back."

Despite the intensity of the situation, you managed a small smile. "And you nearly did."

Lae'zel’s expression softened, just a fraction. "I will always come for you," she said, her voice a promise. She refused to let you go, even as the danger passed, her fierce protectiveness a testament to her love.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart tried to pretend everything was fine when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. She maintained a stoic expression, her voice calm as she made plans with the others. But beneath the surface, her heart raced with fear and anger.

The journey to rescue you was a blur of tension and suppressed emotion. Shadowheart led the charge with a grim determination, her mind focused on getting you back safely. When they finally reached the location where you were held, Shadowheart’s calm facade began to crack.

She fought with a fierce precision, her every move driven by a desperate need to reach you. When she finally saw you, bound to the altar, something inside her snapped. She rushed to your side, cutting your restraints with shaking hands.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm.

"I'm fine," you reassured her, your voice soothing. "Thanks to you."

Shadowheart’s composure broke. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled you into her arms. "You idiot," she sobbed, her voice choked with emotion. "Why did you let them take you? Why didn’t you fight harder?"

You held her close, feeling her tears soak into your shoulder. "I’m sorry," you murmured, your heart aching at the sight of her distress. "I didn’t mean to worry you."

Shadowheart pulled back, her eyes red and puffy. "You scared me so much," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I’d lost you."

You gently wiped her tears away, your touch tender. "I'm here now," you said softly. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Shadowheart clung to you, her relief palpable. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can’t lose you."

You kissed her forehead, holding her close. "I love you too," you replied, your voice filled with emotion. "And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever."

Shadowheart buried her face in your shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. You held her tightly, offering her the comfort and reassurance she needed, grateful to be back in her arms.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

I can't lie when I come to write this little note I am always cackling because I have just reviewed what I have written and thinking what I am about unleash on the world - Seluney xoxo

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krispydelusionfury · 2 months ago

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Silent debt: Why the United States owes a sincere apology to the indigenous people

I. Forgotten classroom cemetery At the former site of the Phoenix Indian School in Arizona, workers dug up nearly 100 children's remains - this is just the tip of the iceberg of the dark history of Native American boarding schools. The playgrounds of these "schools" are buried under the country's most shameful secrets: The more than 500 children's graves confirmed by the Ministry of the Interior are just the beginning. Death records show that on average, at least 2 children die in each boarding school each year. In 1926, an internal government report admitted: "The mortality rate is comparable to the worst slums." II. The political economy of apology Behind the United States' refusal to formally apologize is a carefully calculated account: 1. Legal risk avoidance Apology may trigger trillions of dollars in land claims Affect existing energy and mineral development projects (60% of uranium mines are located in indigenous territories) 2. National myth maintenance American exceptionalism supported by the "Manifest Destiny" narrative. Acknowledging genocide will shake the foundation of the country. 3. Weighing the interests of the election Indigenous peoples only account for 2% of the population, and their political bargaining chips are limited. Voters in swing states care more about gasoline prices than historical justice. 3. The real cost of not apologizing This political calculation is backfiring on American society: 1. The bankruptcy of democratic credibility Isolated in the vote on the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (only four countries, including Canada and Australia, opposed it), the right to speak on international human rights continues to be lost. 2. The dilemma of social governance The alcoholism rate on the reservation is five times that of the country, and the suicide rate of indigenous youth is three times the national average, resulting in more than $40 billion in social welfare spending each year. 3. Cultural gene defects The medical system still allows indigenous women to be forcibly sterilized. Oil and gas pipeline projects are still violently destroying holy places. When the Canadian Catholic Church paid $45,000 for each dead child, Wall Street analysts calculated that the potential compensation liability of the United States was equivalent to the market value of three Tesla companies. Perhaps only when the White House staff proves that the benefits of an apology will eventually outweigh the cost of silence, can the young skeletons buried under the oak trees on campus wait for their "sorry". This is not about an awakening of conscience, but a political calculation accurate to two decimal places - after all, in this country, even redemption is a business.

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records-of-a-slacker · 3 months ago

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I think the reason I like Cale so much and that he means just everything, is because his ideals are so close to mine and because he is proof of the kind of person I've always wanted to be.

I basically live by this saying I heard, something along the lines of be the person you wished was there that time no one was. Grow up to be that person who you would have needed that time you were suffering. It's kind of like my life motto. And Cale, he's like the physical manifestation of it.

He went hungry and starved a lot in his life, so now he always feeds the people around him and places a lot of importance on food and proper nutrition, as well as growing up well, and he even wishes the kids would be picky with their food. All his childhood, he was continuously betrayed and failed by the adults around him, who were supposed to take care of him but ended up hurting him so often. So now he's a reliable and caring guardian for all those kids who don't have someone to look out for them. He's never really had a home, and when he thought he did, he lost them one way or another, and he knows what's it like to not have a roof over your head and wander aimlessly without somewhere to go back to. So now he has tons of shelters everywhere, different villas like the one in Harris or the jungle, so that there's a home for him and his allies to return to wherever they go. And when he meets someone who doesn't have anywhere to go, he creates a place for them or takes back the place that was supposed to be meant for them.

When he first meets On and Hong, he feeds them, starting with bread, then meat, then cake, and then even medicinal herbs when he noticed On was hurt. When he met Choi Han, he brought him back so he had somewhere to sleep for the night, had a chance to clean himself up, eat well, and rest properly. When he freed Raon, he healed up his injuries and sent him off., and when he started following him, he always made sure Raon was eating well like with all of his allies. He gave the wolf kids and the tigers a whole neighborhood in Harris village.

He's had his world completely flipped upside down, time and time again, destroyed, decimated. So he saves everyone else's world.

Cale is so special to me, because despite everything he chooses not to be bring harm to people because of the way he had been treated, but to be kind and make it so that the people around him don't suffer like he did.

#That's all for my ramble about Cale henituse #it is so damn difficult to put my feelings on him into words #because for every star in the sky in this big wide universe if I put an ounce of just those feelings in each #There still wouldn't be enough to properly encapsulate it #I love him #I hate him #I want to hug him #I also want to hit him over the head with a metal pipe #I think if I ever met him in real life I'd be so happy but I wouldn't be able to do anything #except maybe thank him for existing #maybe #kjdskjh tumblr is a place to ramble about pointless stuff #tcf #cale henituse #trash of the count's family #lout of the count’s family #lcf

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sidsinning · 5 months ago

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The way Gege emphasized how perfect and light-hearted Gojo's life was going before he got outclassed by Toji was absolutely foul ☠️

He was living the shounen protag dream he even had the spikey shounen protag hair to prove it with the perfect school life

-Arrogantly bragging about his special powers which have manifested together for the first time in 400 years

-Being the heir to one of the great clans

-Being rich as hell

-Being a special grade sorcerer already at (around) age 17

-Being the best at everything he does

-Being handsome and fawned over by girls left and right

-Having peers who treat him as just another teenager now that he's in school

-Having a best friend who understood him bc both were at the top

He was enjoying his youth to the max 😭✋️✋️✋️

And then BOOM he is EASILY and PAINFULLY DECIMATED in 5 minutes by a nameless bum, failing at something for the first time in his life, resulting in the death of a little girl he was supposed to protect

His best friend turning into a mass murdering racist cult leader??? Who no longer saw him as an equal bc he awakened his true potential which was above anyone else????

Surrounded by failure and death- losing his naive innocence

Like the HUMBLING he went through is insane

I'm thinking of Yuji's loss of innocence bc I'd argue it was a much worse experience + he wasn't even arrogant like Gojo 😭😭😭

Sukuna being like lol you thought this was sweet we not doing Disney Kaisen out here bro

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #yuji itadori #sidrabbles

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diettwistup · 1 year ago

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HALF OF YOU

PAIRINGS: tashi duncan x f!oc, art donaldson x f!oc, patrick zweig x f!oc

SUMMARY: No matter how bright Tashi Duncan shined, her best friend, Milan Mikaelson, wasn’t far behind. Though seeming second best, Milan would never let that define her career. Holding as much fame as Tashi, Milan encountered Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson. Would this encounter change the trajectory of her life, and would it completely alter her relationship with Tashi Duncan?

WARNINGS: challengers spoilers, reader is milan mikaelson, sexual situations, language, angst, plot alterations.

WC: 3.9K

NOTES: hey y’all!!! so excited to be posting the first chapter of this story. manifesting my edits are all good LOL. enjoy! 💋

READ BEFORE THIS: INTRO

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTIONS AND EMBARRASSMENTS

US OPEN TOURNAMENT- 2006, 2:00 PM

Sitting down on the hot bleachers, I put my sunglasses on and adjusted the braids in my hair. Sucking on my teeth and brushing my fingers across the hem of my uniform skirt, I let my eyes gaze at the large crowd of people accumulating.

Damn Tashi, you always know how to make a bang.

Crossing my arms and softly laughing, I let my mind wander back to my match yesterday.

I had lost to the girl who would be playing Tashi for the championship. I really don’t know if that was a good or bad thing. On one hand, I lost from a bad call when I was so close to the end. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have to battle my best friend and get absolutely decimated, as she would say.

As I continued to lose myself in thought, two boys, blonde and brunette, moved through the growing crowd and sat in front of me.

You’re kidding me.

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson—the “fire and ice” duo—had just won their doubles match, if I’m not mistaken. How could I be when their trophies were sitting right on their laps?

There's still a ton of seats open, and they choose to sit here?

Rolling my eyes and crossing my arms, I pushed my sunglasses up, waiting for Tashi to come out.

Staring at the door to the locker rooms, I clicked my tongue in boredom before grabbing the tournament pamphlet to look at everyone’s stats.

“Don’t you wanna meet Tashi Duncan?”

My ears perked at this as I put the pamphlet down and narrowed my eyes at the brunette boy.

Whoever said eavesdropping was a bad thing…

I had to hold in my laughter as they began to talk about Tashi and how she was the entire package. Telling her this later would be the highlight of my week.

“What about Mikaelson, you know her?” Patrick asked as he slung his arm around his companion.

I froze at this and tilted my sunglasses down to better see the two of them.

“Of course I know her. Have you seen her play? She’s fucking hot.” Art added with a smirk as he attempted to whisper, failing miserably.

My face heated up at this as my eyes narrowed at the boys.

Do they not realize the person they’re talking about is behind them?

“Agreed,” Patrick started as he pulled his friend closer. “She’s also got a fat ass.” He laughed as Art chuckled along with him.

Gag.

Closing my eyes and pretending I didn’t hear that, I heard cheers and claps from around, signaling that Tashi had come out of the locker room. The chair umpire immediately began to talk about her stats and how she was the best female player in our division.

I happily clapped as I beamed at my friend, her eyes scanning the crowd and locking with mine, a large smile playing on her features.

“Fuck, did you see that? Tashi Duncan just smiled at us…” Patrick exclaimed in awe as he pushed Art in the chest.

“Shit, I missed it.” Art complained before leaning back and adjusting himself in his seat.

I almost had to cover my mouth to hide the vomit that was about to let loose.

Dumbasses.

After a few minutes, Tashi’s match began, of course, in her favor. Everything was perfect: her serves, backhand, line receives, counterattacks, and every single step she took.

I smirked widely as I watched Tashi decimate the bitch who, unfortunately, decimated me.

Patrick and Art watched Tashi in awe for the first ten minutes of the match while commenting on how amazing a player she was.

I snorted at this, wondering how long it would take to notice who was sitting behind them.

On the next serve, Tashi’s opponent hit the ball out, but the line umpire declared it as in.

Standing up immediately, I pointed a finger and yelled at the top of my lungs.

“What?! Come on, Tash, don’t take that shit!”

Everyone else agreed with me as the crowd began to roar in protest of the shitty call.

Lost in the moment, I hadn’t realized that Patrick and Art had turned around and stared at me in horror and awe.

“Oh,” I started and took off my sunglasses. Did I yell in your ear?” I looked between them before looking back up at Tashi.

“Fuck, you’re-“ Patrick started in a slightly panicked state before I cut him off.

“Milan Mikaelson? Yeah, I’m guessing you two know me.” I spoke with sarcasm as I kept my eyes trained on Tashi and her opponent.

Caught.

“Shit, I’m real sorry for what I said, I-“ Art started before I placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him, eyes still not leaving the game.

“Don’t sweat it, was too focused on the game to give a damn.” I lied straight through my teeth as I pretended to act nonchalant.

I could feel both of their eyes staring long and hard at my hand lingering on Art’s shoulder before I took it away to throw my hands in the air and yell as Tashi locked in another point.

“Come on, Tash!” I yelled and clapped with the roaring crowd, boys still looking back at me.

Sighing, I crossed my arms and looked back down at them. “Take a picture, it will last longer,” I spoke in annoyance before sitting back down and putting on my sunglasses.

All I could hear were muffled whispers and attempts to counteract my statement before they turned back around and shared we’re fucked looks.

Stifling my laughs, I angled my eyes back to the match.

As Tashi continued to hit the ball effortlessly for the rest of the match, her win came almost naturally.

Standing up and yelling, I quickly ran down the bleachers, feeling two pairs of eyes following me. I stood against the fence and clapped loudly while Tashi caught my eyes after her victory yell and smiled widely at me.

I jumped up and down with all the fans cheering with their signs and matching t-shirts.

Running around the court to thank everyone for coming, Tashi came over to me and grabbed my hands.

“Tashi! I’m so proud!” I yelled and bounced on my heels, extremely happy with my friend's success.

“My biggest fan.” She smiled and reached over to hug me before letting go and continuing to thank everyone.

Smiling proudly at her, I pushed my braids behind my back and took off my sunglasses. Turning around, I looked back at the sea of people cheering for Tashi before my eyes landed on two figures.

What a mystery those two are…

I smirked proudly at them as their eyes shifted between Tashi walking back to her locker room and myself standing by the fence.

Patrick leaned over to Art and whispered something as their eyes darted between us. I could only see Patrick's smirk and Art’s growing grin at his friend's words.

Snorting to myself, I turned around and put my sunglasses back on.

“Fucking morons…”

ADIDAS BRAND PARTY - 2006 8:00 PM

“Tashi!” I exclaimed as I weaved through a crowd of familiar and influential faces to ambush my best friend.

I could see her bright smile miles away as she turned to meet me at the edge of the dancefloor, engulfing her in a hug.

“Milan, I was wondering if you weren’t coming.” She laughed as she wrapped her arms around me and returned my hug.

Pulling away, I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “Tashi Duncan, my best friend, thought I would miss out on this?!” I questioned as I gestured to the bustling party. "You must be crazy if you think I would miss out on anything that concerned you and your tennis career,” I snapped at her with a knowing smirk.

“I’ll have you know I was late because my mother insisted on making me change ten times.” I rolled my eyes and tilted my head to where our moms were conversing. I stuck my nose up and closed my eyes, annoyed at the memory of how nagging my mother was when getting ready for the party.

Immediately, she raised her hands in defense and raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Miss Mikaelson, didn’t mean to assume.” She laughed before crossing her arms.

I watched her expression change slightly as her eyes softened and lips parted.

“I watched your match yesterday,” she said, lightly treading. “I’m sorry about the loss.” She finished and brought a hand to my shoulder, rubbing it gently with a sad smile.

Flashes of my match fluttered back into my mind as a small pit formed in my stomach.

I shrugged this off and took up a carefree attitude, whereas my insides were screaming.

“It was a shitty call, what can I say? That bitch had and has nothing on me.” I smirked and made sure not to falter, but secretly, the loss had internally crushed me.

Tashi laughed, brought her other hand to my shoulder, and bent down to level our eyes. “Don't worry, I decimated her for you. Plus, at Stanford, the both of us will be fucking up bitches right and left.” She shot a cocky smirk at this as I gave her one back in turn.

Stanford. The next four years of my life with Tashi Duncan would be the ultimate dream.

Right?

I extended my pinky to Tashi with a slight wink. “Promise?” I bit my bottom lip and smirked at this familiar gesture between us.

As long as I can remember, Tashi and I have made over a hundred pinky promises. Our first one involved her letting me borrow her Barbie doll while we played house and my promise to return it. Since then, it’s been a norm between us.

I felt the confidence radiating from Tashi’s grin as she moved her right hand from my shoulder to interlock our pinkies.

“Promise.” She repeated and swung our interlocked pinkies back and forth.

I laughed like a child all over again before quickly raking my eyes across the entire party. As I scanned the crowd, I let go of Tashi’s pinky and leaned in to whisper.

“Lots of important people here, I see,” I whispered as Tashi’s eyes followed mine.

“And familiar faces too…” She responded in a lower tone, angling her eyes to an older man by the beverages.

“Shut up!” I gasped before looking back at Tashi. “Is that Mr. Reynolds?!” I asked in shock at seeing our fifth-grade English teacher.

“Yup,” Tashi responded, standing straight as she crossed her arms. She studied the older man as he scanned the beverages offered. “He was always my favorite,” she quipped, not needing a huge explanation for why he was here.

At this, I burst out into laughter, as did she.

“I thought he died years ago.” I clutched my stomach before placing a hand over my mouth and muffling my small laughs. “Wait, that’s not nice. I mean, I thought he passed on peacefully years ago.” I corrected in a serious tone as I watched the older man before glancing at Tashi and bursting into laughter again.

As I laughed with Tashi, I felt a burning feeling on the back of my head.

Was someone staring?

Wiping my eyes carefully to avoid messing up my makeup, I slowly turned around and almost froze as I locked eyes with the person, or should I say persons, staring at Tashi and me.

Oh, hell no. Is that who I think it is?

Quickly, I turned back around and whispered to Tashi in a hurried tone.

“Tash, is that Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?” I looked her in the eye as they narrowed at the mention of the “fire and ice” duo’s presence at the party.

“Oh yeah, they’ve been staring all night.” She smirked and looked between the two of us. “Frankly, I don’t blame them.” Her smirk grows even wider, mirroring the Cheshire Cat.

Biting my lip, I remembered my earlier encounter with the two tennis players. I shuddered as I remembered their smirks and remarks about Tashi and me.

“Tash…” I said warningly, pointing my perfectly manicured finger in her face. “Please tell me you don’t have one of your ideas in mind.” I slightly scolded her, studying her face to see what she was thinking. “Those two are complete and utter idiots.” I continued as I shook my head.

She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered back as she lowered my finger and sucked on her teeth. “Do you really need to ask this?” She questioned with an air that spoke obviously, are you stupid?

“And believe me,” She started and moved to fix the straps of my dress. “I know exactly how they are…teenage boys.” She snickered wider at this as I rolled my eyes.

I huffed loudly before grabbing a piece of my hair to fiddle while I groaned. “But Tash, it’s our summer before we go to college. No boys.” I retorted as the music in the background got a little louder.

Grabbing my hands, Tashi dragged us to the middle of the dance floor and forced me to dance. “First of all,” She started as she twirled me around, “This was never a pinky promise.” She spoke, wrapped her arms around my neck, and swayed us to the music.

Fuck, she got me there.

“Second of all,” She continued before touching my neck to untangle my necklaces while swaying with me. “I know you’re internally drooling over Art Donaldson. He’s exactly your type, and he’s going to Stanford.” She laughed to herself as she worked on my necklaces.

Fuck x2 can’t deny that.

I rolled my eyes and turned away, knowing I couldn’t argue either of those statements.

“You’re crazy…” Was all I could protest.

Untangling my necklaces, Tashi clapped and smiled brightly at me before putting her hands back on my shoulders. “This is gonna be a great start to the summer.” She grinned like a mad woman as we kept dancing across the floor.

After dancing, mingling, and trying not to focus on the two hard stares hitting Tashi's and my head for the entire night, I decided to go to the beach.

“Hey, Tash, I’m going to the beach for a quick breather. If my mom asks, I’ll be down there. Come down if you need anything or if I miss something interesting.” I smile gently at her while I take my heels off.

“Got it. Be safe.” She waved before going to get pictures with her family.

I smiled at her before walking to navigate the path to go down to the beach, pretending not to notice the two pairs of eyes following me.

10:00 PM

I wonder how long I had been down here listening to the sweet waves ripple against the hot sand. I almost feel as if the ocean is calling me.

Imagine the escape of living on a secluded island where nothing mattered. Not school, not tennis, and not the future.

Especially the future.

Staring at my newly manicured nails, I continued to get lost in my thoughts while the ocean rang in my ears.

Shit, I’m over everything.

I reached a hand up to my mouth and began to bite one of my nails.

Do I even wanna go to Stanford?

Practically gnawing at it, I can feel the acrylic wearing off.

Doesn’t matter because I’ll be with Tashi… right?

SNAP

“Fuck…” I muttered to myself as I broke off a nail, leaving a tiny bit of blood seeping from my nail bed.

Rolling my eyes, I held onto the broken nail and rested my head on my knee as I watched the ocean.

“We’re not interrupting, are we?” I heard a deep voice ask behind me, making me let out a small yelp and nearly fall off the rock.

Quickly turning around, I was met with two, unfortunately familiar, faces.

Why now?

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson stood before me, shoes in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Frankly, I had no idea which one spoke, and I had no care to know at this rate. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and they disturbed that.

“What the fuck,” I explained as I stood up from the rock and patted my dress down. “Do you know how rude it is to sneak up on someone?” I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes as I looked between the two boys sheepishly standing before me.

“Shit, really sorry, didn’t know you were here,” Patrick spoke up as his counterpart dropped his cigarette from his lips upon seeing me study his stature.

Bullshit.

“Hm, okay, well, I’ll be going then,” I exclaimed, irritated, as I bent down to grab my heels. “I hope you two have a grand time.” I sarcastically quipped as I went to walk past them and go back up the path to the party.

“Wait,” Art, almost panicked, stood before me with a lopsided grin as he flicked his cigarette bud beside him and treaded lightly as he motioned to the chairs near the rock I had just occupied. “We’d love it if you joined us, just for a chat.” He had a genuine smile on his face now.

Are they serious?

Before I could open my mouth, Patrick beat me to it as he walked to sit in one of the chairs Art motioned to.

“Yeah, just to talk. You're one of the best players in our age bracket, and it would be a real treat to get to know you as an apology for what happened earlier.” Patrick added and smirked so wide I could feel pure smitten radiating off it.

They are serious.

Both boys were now staring at me, gazes identical in pure amazement, awaiting my response.

Fuck this. Fuck me. Fuck x3.

Sighing softly and crossing my arms, I dropped my shoes, returned to the rock, and sat down.

“You get five minutes,” I spoke curtly as I looked between the boys, waiting for one of them to speak up.

Art took this chance to open his mouth, but before he could begin, I held a hand up to stop him.

“Oh, and there’s no need to introduce yourselves. Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, the “fire and ice” duo.” I spoke unenthusiastically, keeping my eyes on Art for a little longer before angling my expression to Patrick.

Both boys stared at me with slight smirks as I adjusted my dress and grabbed a piece of hair to play with while they continued.

“Well, Milan Mikaelson,”

I inwardly shuddered as he spoke my full name.

“During your match, I thought that call was fucked.” Patrick spoke up and got right to the point. He laughed as if he remembered it as a fond childhood memory.

Almost instantly, Art chimed in to add to his friends' thoughts, a bit too eager for my liking. “I mean, that Anna girl could barely serve your entire match, and then that?” He stated as he shook his head, acting like he was scolding my opponent to her face like a coach.

My eyes lit up at this. They knew how to crack me. Bring up my pride and losses, and I’ll talk your ear off for hours.

“I think the official was blind because that bitch’s ball was totally past the line,” I explained matter-of-factly. “Did you see the way he hesitated before calling it? He probably had it in with her.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in annoyance at the memory of the loss.

“Still, you were fucking amazing out there. How did you get your backhand to be that powerful?” Art quickly added and leaned forward in his chair as if moving closer to me would allow him to understand my words better.

I let a slight smile adorn my features as I studied his position.

Fuck x4.

For the next four minutes, the three of us talked about tennis and our matches throughout the tournament. Though brief, I could quickly tell how these two relied on each other and their sport. It was definitely the glue for their friendship. I could also tell how they hung onto my every word, like a toddler waiting for his mother to let him out of the time-out-chair.

Checking my watch, I stood up and looked between the boys.

“Though this was fun, your five minutes is up.” I flashed my watch at them with a subtle smile before bending down to grab my shoes.

When I bent down, I could hear some rushed scuffles and whispers. Standing back up, I saw that both boys were also standing, very tense, might I add.

“How can we contact you to do this again?” Patrick asked with a smirk, which I presume was a signature for him.

Raising an eyebrow at him, I crossed my arms and looked between him and his blonde companion.

“Who said I wanted to do this again?” I asked as Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets with a defeated grin while Art let out a muffled chuckle.

“Come on, this was fun.” Art added and took a cautious step towards me. “Can we get your number?” He asked as he studied my face with the cheekiest grin he could muster.

I laughed at his question dryly before pointing my finger between the two boys. “We? You think I’m gonna get between this? Hell no.” I replied, walking past them to the stairs and back to the party.

Immediately, I could feel their eyes staring into the back of my head, and I wondered if they would beg or plead.

They better not.

“Come to our hotel,” Patrick yelled, making me whip my head around. “We have beer,” he grinned once he saw my interest somewhat piqued.

Fuck x5.

“It’s not far from here. We can talk more.” He gestured between the three of us and then pointed up to the party.

This made me look back to the party, about to question what he meant before Patrick chimed in.

“We talked to Tashi earlier and told her the same thing. Would be fun getting to know the beautiful golden tennis girl duo.” He chuckled as I watched his eyes flicker from my face to my lips.

This made my face heat up, but I would never reveal that. Teenage boys don’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing they have any sort of effect on me.

Clicking my tongue, I nodded at this new piece of information.

Tashi did say she had a plan in place. This could be fun.

“Maybe,” I replied as my eyes shifted between the boys.

You’re not easy, Milan Mikaleson. Remember that.

“Depends on my mood.” I finished and shot them small smirks before walking back up the stairs, not giving the boys a moment to retort.

As I walked back to the party, my eyes shut as I felt a headache coming on.

What the hell did I get myself into?

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