#I haven’t even finished the first chapter tho | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 1 month ago

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(5) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

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note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift.

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you.

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home.

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him.

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl.

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him.

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises.

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population.

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

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peachglazewrites · 4 months ago

Note

Hiiii could you write for hyper fem reader abby? It's totally fine if you don't write for super feminine reader tho

𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: abby/femme!reader ��𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: none ♡︎ 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: established relationship, fluff 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n, outfit descriptions, modern au & canon 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.4k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Abby helps her overthinking femme with her cute little date outfit + a brain dump on how this dynamic would work in canon!

a/n: thank you so much for the request! this is my first one so i’m suuuper nervy posting it haha but I wanted to do this between writing chapter eleven of dream of us In a year!

i hope you enjoy! ✿

“Honey, I think you look fine.”

“Fine?” you ask, peeking around your closet door, eyebrow raised. “Just fine?”

Abby stutters from where she sits on your bed. “Not—” Bringing a hand up, she rubs at her forehead. “Fine as in good. Cute. Hot... I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

You laugh, crinkling your nose. “I know what you meant.” You retreat from the closet, stopping in front of your full-length mirror once more. It’s almost a struggle to see past all the stickers and photos pasted along the edges. “And thank you, I just…” you sigh, posing in the mirror, smoothing down your top. “I’m just not feeling the white, I don’t think.”

The two of you are in your bedroom, getting ready to go out for lunch. Well, you’re getting ready to go out— Abby’s been ready since before she got here. She even arrived extra early, early enough to catch you still in your pyjamas, hair curlers hanging on for dear life, smudges of yesterday’s mascara darkening under your eyes. You let her in, obviously, leading her by the hand as you sleepily shuffled back to your room.

She’s been sat there patiently the whole time, watching you pad around as you get ready for the day. It’s mesmerising to her, the way you do yourself up. Expertly brushing and pinning your hair in place, dabbing concealer and blush and a whole bunch of other things Abby doesn’t have the vocabulary to name along the soft planes of your pretty little face.

You’d just finished up, clipping a pair of sparkling earrings to your lobes when you caught your reflection in the mirror by your closet. Abby could tell just from the dip in your brows that you were second-guessing, overthinking the outfit that you had meticulously put together, deciding, ‘no, this wasn’t it.’

So, Abby keeps sitting, looking so out of place your bed, plush pink sheets threatening to swallow her up as she sinks into them, surrounded on all sides by an impressive wall of decorative pillows and plush toys— most of which have been won for you by Abby herself.

Her ripped denim jeans, loaded with too many pockets to be purely functional, are belted at her waist with an impressive buckle-- something that makes her look like she walked right off a ranch. Tucked in to the waist of her jeans is a plain white tee, short sleeves rolled up to show off more of her freckled arms, muscles bulging as she wraps them around a heart-shaped throw pillow. Her usual braid has been passed for a low bun this morning, keeping the hair off her neck in anticipation for today’s sunny weather.

The only accessory she wears is a simple necklace, a locket you got her for your anniversary, a photo of you on the inside. Technically there’s two photos, one hidden behind the other for a very particular reason, meant for her eyes only.

You turn again in the mirror, chewing on your glossy lip as you look over the white tennis skirt peeking out from under your ribbed top. It’s a delightful shade of pink with capped sleeves. You just received it in the mail the other day and haven’t had a chance to wear it, and what better time to debut it than on a lunch date with your love. The buttons along the front are shaped like hearts. It’s perfect.

Just not with this skirt.

The vision was to add something white, try and match the colour of Abby’s top, but it’s simply not working out.

With a sigh, you unzip the skirt, letting it fall off your hips and pool at your bare feet, stepping out of it and walking back into your closet. Your top is longer than usual, but not long enough to completely hide your naked thighs from Abby, let alone the peek of your underwear from her wandering eyes.

“I think I like this outfit the most,” Abby says, a sly smirk playing on her lips as she runs her gaze lazily across your bare legs.

Rolling your eyes, you grab the closest ball-shaped object (a pair of bundled up socks) and throw them at her. You manage to hit her square between the eyes with your impeccable aim. “Keep it in your pants.”

She chuckles, a low sound as she picks up the bundle from her lap. They’re a ribbed white pair, a delicate ruffle along the top. Abby hums in thought, chewing on her cheek, unrolling the socks and smoothing them out. They’re about knee high, and she recognises them from the few times she’s seen you wear them.

Her eyes flick up to you, on the tips of your toes as you shuffle through your hanging skirts, then back down to the fabric in her hands.

“Hey, babe?”

“Hm?” You keep shuffling through your skirts, metal hangers screeching as you slide them along the pole.

“Why don’t you…” she trails off, feeling a bit silly for even attempting to give you of all people clothing advice. She clears her throat, starting again. “Why don’t you wear these, and that uh—you know that denim skirt you have? With the layers? It’s got that--”

“Oh!” You pop your head out from your clothes, looking over to your girlfriend perched on the bed. “The one with the ribbon on the hem?”

“Yeah, that one. That way we’ll both be wearing denim, and your socks will match my top… right?” She tacks on, almost shyly.

Ugh. She looks so cute sitting there, socks in one hand, frilly heart pillow clutched to her chest with the other. Her lips are doing that pouting thing she does when she’s thinking, a pretty pink from all her chewing on them.

“Let me see if I can find it.”

Turning back to your skirts, you riffle through each one until you spot it, neatly pressed and folded over the hanger. It’s just how Abby remembers it, a washed denim in two layers, a lovely pink ribbon weaved in and out through the slightly ruffled hem.

Not wanting to give any room for your brain to overthink, you shuffle the skirt over your hips, buttoning and zipping it into place. It sits at that perfect length above your knee, just long enough to be modest, but short enough to be a bit flirty.

Abby lets out a whistle as you exit the closet, stepping in front of the mirror.

“There she is.” She grins, loving the way she can see you blush in the mirror, watching as your already pink cheeks darken in colour under your makeup. The shade matches your eyes, similar pinks and reds brushed over your lids, blended delicately and precisely.

She loves it when you coordinate like this, tying everything in from head to toe.

You’ve got to hand it to her, she did a really good job. Your top sits smooth along the skirt, not looking too lumpy or awkward along your middle. It hides a fair bit of the waistband, but just like the tennis skirt, it lets the bottom peek out in a way that you can’t help but find adorable.

You don’t even have to have the socks on to know that this is a winner.

“Not too shabby, Anderson.” You grin back, turning to face her properly.

Abby sits up a bit straighter, chest puffed out in pride. Letting the pillow fall to her lap she raises one of her hands, making a spinning motion. “Give us a twirl, pretty lady.”

You let out an embarrassed giggle, cheeks burning hotter as you give in, spinning in place and finishing with a pose. You meet her gaze, warmth blooming within your chest at her soft eyes, so clear and filled to the brim with affection.

“Perfect.”

“Not yet.” You reach out, making grabby hands you walk over to her spot on the bed. “The finishing touch.”

Abby removes the pillow from her lap, patting one of her muscled thighs as she holds the socks out for you to take, smirking.

“You’re impossible.” You huff playfully, making a big show of spinning on your heels before perching on your girlfriend’s lap, taking the socks from her hand.

She chuckles behind you, her strong arms coming to wrap around your middle, pulling you back to sit flush against her chest. You can feel the cool press of her locket between your shoulder blades, her hot breath fanning across your neck as she buries her face into your shoulder.

You have to navigate around her grip on you, but you eventually roll the socks up your calves, adjusting the ruffles so they’re sitting neatly under your knees.

There. Now it’s perfect.

Abby’s arms tighten around you, squeezing you gently. With a soft hum you lean back against her chest, bringing one manicured hand up to lightly scratch at her scalp. She won’t admit it out loud, but she loves the way your nails feel. It’s part of the reason she offers to pay for you to get them done. That, and the way you get so giddy over a fresh set, staring at them for hours after you come back from your appointment.

“Thank you for being so patient. This must get so annoying.”

“Never annoying,” Abby murmurs, tilting her head to press a soft kiss to the skin of your neck. You shudder lightly, sinking into the feeling. “Like watching you get all dressed up.”

You can’t help the sigh that leaves you as she kisses up your neck, pressing her strong nose into the skin, finding the source of the perfume you spritzed there. A sweet scent that contrasts the spicy cologne she likes to wear.

“Mm… Like it when you wear this one.”

You giggle, letting out a soft gasp as she nips the skin gently. “I know, it’s why I put it on.”

She continues her path up your neck, kissing along your jaw and cheek. Holding her head in place you tilt your own to meet her, pressing your lips together in a lingering kiss.

It’s sweet. She’s sweet. Unbelievably so.

“Love you,” she mumbles against your lips, pressing in for another kiss before you can answer.

You pull away, hand sliding from the back of her head to her cheek, cupping it gently. “Love you, too.” Your thumb swipes across her lips, wiping off the tacky residue of your tinted lip gloss. “Want to head out?”

Abby nods, pressing in for one last, quick kiss before unravelling herself from you, giving your hip a loving pat. “Let’s go, before they sell out of those muffins you like.”

𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗

Working in any capacity for the WLF doesn’t leave a lot of room or time for you to indulge in your physical appearance. Practicality always takes precedence, and you would never ever jeopardise yours or others safety because you were too stubborn to wear a pair of ugly cargo pants. Even as one of the dog trainers you don’t get a lot of leeway, having to be prepared and able to run, play, train, and bathe the couple dozen dogs you keep on site every day.

You live with what you can get, fussing over your hair and wearing the small amounts of makeup you have. It’s very DIY, a couple of the women in the stadium making kohl for the eyes, lip tints and blushes from extracts of things like beetroots. It’s not perfect, but it beats the expired stuff by a longshot. That’s just an infection waiting to happen.

The thing you take the most pride in are your nails. You have your routine perfected at this point, sitting down to file and shape them, rubbing oils into your hands to keep them nice and soft as you push back your cuticles. Your favourite part is painting them, switching out the colours each time you need to redo them.

No matter what you wear or what your hair looks like that day, you’ll have your nails pretty and painted, and that’s enough to get you through.

Your girlfriend Abby is the polar opposite to you, content to spend every waking (and even sleeping) moment in her cargos and muscle tanks. Not that you’re complaining. You both know she looks ridiculously good in them.

Everything about her is practical, and she doesn’t care for putting more effort into her appearance than she has to. Even her braid is entirely utilitarian, keeping her long hair out of her face. If she does it right, she can keep it in for the couple of days while she’s out on patrol, not needing to waste moments redoing the entire thing.

She doesn’t entirely get it, the want for femininity. She’s more than comfortable leaving it behind. If she’s being honest, she likes rejecting it— finding comfort in her broadness, the boxers she slides along her hips, the spicy cologne she spritzes after her showers.

She lives for the moments when you look up at her, eyes smudged dark and lips her favourite shade of pink, manicured hands running along the planes of her face or up to scratch the back of her head as you call her handsome. She’d do just about anything for you in those moments. Fuck everyone else, you’re the only thing she can think of.

Which is why, even though she doesn’t really get understand, she goes out of her way to find things for you, bring you home little bits and pieces from her patrols that she knows you’ll love.

She takes a few minutes to step away from the others and walk the aisles of that old pharmacy, eyes roaming the displays of nail polish. She ducks through broken windows to stuff a hairclip or hair tie into one of her pockets. She pretends to go take a piss when really, she’s jogging back to the jewellers she saw on the corner, snatching a dainty chain from a display cabinet.

And it’s all so worth it when she comes home after those long days, meeting you in darkened hallways or up in your favourite spot in the stadium bleachers, kissing your tinted lips as she presses her gifts into your palm. When she can watch the smile that breaks out over your face, eyes sparkling as you turn the items over in your hand, thanking her as you pull her in for another kiss.

She’s addicted to the way her heart thumps in her chest when she sees you the next time, newest colour on your nails or that clip she just got you holding your hair back. Almost as much as the grin she gets when you spot her looking, kissing the tips of your fingers before blowing it in her direction.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ request your own here! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

#abby anderson #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby tlou2 #abby the last of us part 2 #abby anderson x reader #abby x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby x femme!reader #femme reader #f!reader #the last of us #the last of us x reader #tlou #tlou x reader #request fill #requests open #peachglazewrites

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levissslutt · 1 month ago

Text

Mr. Officer

That son of a bitch cheated on you again. You were so fucking stupid how could you possibly think someone like that would change, you were too good for him and he fucking knew it. That’s fine.

He embarrassed you once, a second time was only a lesson learned and a chapter closed. You saw the pictures of him at a party, inhaling the face of some white girl whose makeup was too light for her complexion.

It didn’t matter tho. Fuck him, fuck the party, fuck that bitch ass white girl, fuck the lights that was hanging above them, fuck the camera, fuck the phone the picture was taken on. Double fuck whoever took the picture to begin with and fuck that raggedy ass frat house.

Fuck whoever reading this too tf.

Your foot was on the floor speeding through the city, not caring about a stop sign a horn or a light. Like you said fuck them lights. You had so much going for you and some bum ass nigga had you thinking anything but that.

You didn’t see the lights at first because the tears came. You hated that you cried when you were angry, hated that he was even able to dig as deep as he did.

You heard the sirens before anything, snapping out of it you checked your review, groaning at the sight. A cop car, lights flashing siren blaring, and your dumbass wasn’t even watching the road.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Then again what did you expect, you were going 120 in the middle of the city in a bright blue car, you might as well had called the cops on yourself.

You slowed, pulling over to the shoulder, you hands trembling as the reality set it in. Hopefully the cop would just give you a ticket and you’d be on your way.

Tuh.

It felt like an hour the officer was behind you. Finally after fifteen minutes he got out and rounded the car, your breathe hitching in your throat.

“Damn.” You muttered.

He lifted an eyebrow to the state of you, he quickly recovered asking if you knew how fast you were going and if you were under the influence.

You were listening to him but you weren’t. The officer that was leaning in your car filled out his uniform in the best ways, both arms littered in ink, it wasn’t normal ink they looked cultural maybe.

“Miss you listening?”

You weren’t.

“Uh y-yea.”

“I said drivers license and registration.”

Your heart slammed against your rib cage as you reached for the correct paperwork, trying your hardest to keep your fingers from shaking. It was no use.

A stray tear fell as you handed him the paper work, quickly wiping it he watched you silently for a beat.

“You don’t look too good, you sure you haven’t been drinking ?”

You shook your head quickly.

“I’ve just- had a long day sir, i’m sorry.”

He wasn’t buying it, but nonetheless he turned on his heel heading back to his cruiser.

Another fifteen minutes had gone by, and when he came back he had alot more paperwork with him this time, and a tight expression, jaw clenched.

He approached the window again slowly, leaning on both his hands, sighing heavily. This angle allowed you to see his name tag, ‘Officer Joshua Fatu.’

“I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

You almost thought he was joking at first. But he wasn’t, his eyes and posture were apologetic, but he didn’t back down.

“W-what, for what, why can’t you just give me a ticket and let me go.”

“Because your license is suspended, and it has been for over six months and you’ve failed to show up to two court appearances.”

Your chest was rising and falling because even though he had the softest expression on his face, he was opening your door.

“W- wait please don’t arrest me I mean I’m a college student I- I- please I can’t go to jail, my dad’s going to kill me, oh my god.”

You hated the way you kept stuttering every-time you opened your mouth, hated the way your lip was trembling and you hated the way this fine ass man was looking at you. With such pity.

By the time you finished talking you were hyperventilating, your entire body was shaking at this point and the poor cop in front of you was now torn on what he should do.

“Miss I’m sorry, but you need to step out the vehicle.”

He didn’t even sound serious himself, like he was hoping for something to happen, for you to keep pushing back.

Panicking you had the idea of a lifetime, but if you failed you were sure he was going to throw your ass in the back of his cruiser without a second thought.

You fed into that look you saw in his eyes, pity.

You exhaled, scooting closer to the edge of the seat. After he’d open the door, he hadn’t reached for you, once.

You grabbed his forearm, plastering the biggest doe eyes you could, still sniffling as tears came down your face.

“I caught my boyfriend cheating on me, and I just want to go home Officer. Fatu.”

He flinched at the use of his name, his entire demeanor changed, but he said nothing at all.

You let go of his arm, staring at your lap as tears continued to fall. That part you weren’t faking , you was just a big ass cry baby.

He ran a hand down his face out of frustration, groaning loudly in the process.

“Is there something wrong officer ?”

“I really don’t want to arrest you, but I gots to mama.”

His voice trailed at the nickname, clearly not meaning to have said it.

You shook your head, refusing this outcome.

“Is there not something I can do, anyone I can talk to.”

“Well realistically you could’ve just paid off your tickets- but you didn’t, so here we are.”

Your shoulders dropped, he wasn’t letting up, so why the hell does he look so sad.

“You too fine to be in this situation.”

You thought you were hearing things, you blinked up at him, puffy eyed and pitiful looking. All the bark you had toward your ex was long gone.

"You heard me." His voice damn near carried away by the wind.

Your eyes widened at the realization of what you saw… his body cam was off. He caught the way your eyes flickered to the gadget on his chest, and you could've sworn you saw the corner of his lip twitch upward.

You were frozen in place, no longer knowing what to do.

The decision was made for you, the officer closed your driver door, and rounded the car to the passenger, opening that one instead, at first you were even more confused, almost growing impatient at the man for not saying anything.

"Come here."

Again, his voice was so quiet it was almost carried away by the wind, you and him both knew how wrong this was, and how many boundaries you where about to cross, but the way you caught the gold shimmering on his bottom row of teeth you honestly would have let him arrest you had he asked again.

You slid over to the passenger seat, knees brushing his. He said nothing almost as if he said something else it would take the moment away.

His finger tips brushed the inside of your thigh lightly.

"Who would give this up."

His head dipped, breathe fanning your neck. His fingers brushing soft strokes up and down your inner thigh.

"I bet he aint never fucked you right either, huh."

The situation was escalating quickly, all professionalism was out the window, it seemed whatever inner batter he was having in his head had taken over.

His fingers hiked higher and higher until they were at the edges of your panties, teasing the hem.

You watched each other silently, for the other to say something, anything, but neither of you did.

Two of his fingers moved to circle your covered cunt, already soaked through,making him chuckle darkly

“You this wet for me already hmm?”

He cooed at the base of your ear. Your hands flew up to his shoulders for stability.

There was absolutely no way the night was unfolding the way it was.

He growled into your ear.

“You gon make me loose my fucking job sitting pretty like this.”

Your head was spinning, his hands slipped past the soaked fabric, hooking into you slowly, deliberately, antagonizingly slow.

Cars whizzed past, completely unaware their tax dollars was fingering a college student on the side of the fucking street.

“Your so wet baby damn, that boy ain’t did you right at all huh?”

Words were no longer a thought in your mind, all you could do was nod, he chuckled darkly at the reaction.

His long thick fingers found the sweetest spot in your core. Teasing it immediately, his left hand was resting on your hip and his right was giving you the time of your life. You legs spread perfectly for him.

His cock growing by each second against your thigh, begging.

His mouth nipped at your neck, your shoulder, anything he had access to as he fingered you in your passenger seat.

“Fucking pretty ass lil girl, you got me hard asf right now.”

Whimpering against him was your only sign of life, eyes rolled to the back of your head, his fingers felt better than any dick you ever had.

He knew it too.

He suddenly grabbed both of your thighs dragging you down the seat, his mouth attached to you faster than you were able to keep up with, body squirming under his mouth.

His tongue flicked and sucked expertly on your sensitive bud, moans spilling from your mouth.

Two of his fingers hooked inside of you again as his tongue continued to circle around your clit.

He had his hands around your hips , knees on his shoulder, as he ate you out. He was groaning in between eating his meal, enjoying the taste. Devouring the taste.

You released in his mouth, hips bucking into him, fingers tugging at his scalp. It was so sudden and unexpected you couldn’t help the moans slipping from your lips.

He sat up, licking your lips, eyes eager and full of lust.

But to your surprise he pulled your panties back up, repositioning you in a sitting postion.

“As much as I want you right now girl I gotta go, imma let you go but you gots to get yo shit fixed, another officer will arrest you.”

Even dazed from your orgasm , you heard the seriousness in his voice.

“I- I can go?”

He nodded once his large hands lingering on your hips.

You started at him bewildered, he pulled you over expecting any other routine traffic stop instead he ate you out like his life was on the line, and then let you go?

“Are you for real?”

He was letting himself smirk now, showing that unmistakable gold on his bottom row.

“Can I get your number.”

The look of bewilderment on your face deepened at his request.

He was slightly chuckling at this point.

“Come on na before I get a call about my body cam being off.”

Your hands trembled reaching for your phone, his hands never leaving your body. You handed him the device, watching him closely.

He was really letting you go.

After he finished he handed you the device, eyeing you. His hands traveleled up from your hip all the way to your face, grabbing it to look at him.

“Keep driving reckless like that and Imma give yo ass something to cry about, call me.”

And with that Officer. Fatu was gone.

Leaving you sitting there, absolutely dumbfounded.

a/n: This was an actual draft I’ve been working on, I definitely plan on getting a pt 2 out, I love oneshots and mini series, but enjoy this for now 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

#jey uso #uceyjucey #big daddy uce #main event jey uso #jey uso imagine #black oc #jey uso fanfiction #jey uso one shot #jey uso smut

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muiitoloko · 7 months ago

Note

Hi, first of anything I love and ate up every single thing you wrote. That said I NEED a story where Sev is about to be a dad, they are both in the last week of pregnancy just waiting for the moment the little girl (why do we all see him as a baby girl dad tho?) and he's just reflexive on how his life is right now after suffering so much and thinking he would die alone. If you want to add the birth and baby birth that's even better 💔 thanks.

Title: The Twin Stars in Snape's World

Summary: Severus's world shifts entirely with the birth of his daughters, filling the shadows of his past with light and love that he never thought he’d experience.

Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: It’s not exactly what you asked for, but I was already working on a third chapter for my fanfic Daddy Snape's Dilemma, and your request totally nudged me to finish it up and post it! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

The final week of your pregnancy arrived, and Severus Snape was, without a doubt, more nervous than you had ever seen him. Over the past months, his protectiveness had gradually intensified, but now, as you neared the end, it had reached an almost comical extreme. He refused to let you out of his sight, shadowing your every move with the intensity of a hawk, his tall, lean figure looming close no matter where you went.

At Hogwarts, his vigilance took on a new form. Snape had all but bullied Dumbledore into hiring a temporary teacher to cover your Ancient Runes classes. You could tell Dumbledore found the whole thing rather amusing, indulging Snape’s demands with a patient, almost fatherly tolerance. As for Snape, there was no humor in it—his determination was fueled by what seemed to be genuine, bone-deep fear.

Instead of teaching, you were relegated to a bedroom at the back of the Potions classroom, with Snape popping in between his own lessons to check on you. You had never seen him so anxious, his usual stoic facade cracking more with each passing day. He would pace outside your quarters, shoulders tense, the dark circles under his eyes deepening. Despite his best efforts to hide it, he was deeply stressed, behaving as if he were the one about to give birth.

You noticed that this worry manifested in another unexpected way: the matter of naming your daughters. Every day he would bring you lists, scrolls of parchment filled with options he had painstakingly compiled, poring over the names with the same scrutiny he’d apply to brewing a delicate, dangerous potion. Each name had to be perfect, meaningful, and worthy.

He had presented you with everything from mythological names to obscure, poetic words he’d found in ancient texts. You, however, had a different approach. “Severus,” you said one evening as he handed you yet another list, his expression serious, “I know you want to have everything planned, but… we’ll know their names when we see them. Don’t you think?”

Snape’s gaze turned sharp, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if the suggestion was almost sacrilegious. “And what if we don’t?” he retorted, his voice low and pointed. “What if we look at them and realize we’ve failed to give them names that reflect who they are meant to be?”

You bit back a smile, reaching out to touch his hand, feeling the tension radiate from his slender, calloused fingers. “Severus, we won’t fail them just because we haven’t decided on names yet. They’re our daughters—they’ll be extraordinary no matter what we call them.”

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he looked down at you, the intensity in his gaze softening. “I’m merely trying to… prepare. It is my responsibility as their father to see to it that they have everything they need—even a name that will protect them from the start.”

His protectiveness tugged at your heart, and you squeezed his hand. “You’re already giving them everything they need, Severus. They’ll have you.”

Snape’s expression shifted, a rare vulnerability flickering across his angular face, though he quickly hid it. “Yes, well…” he muttered, glancing away. “I still believe we should at least shortlist a few options.”

Over the next few days, you managed to narrow down the lists together, though every time you thought you’d settled on something, he’d return with yet another alternative he deemed equally worthy. It became almost endearing, watching him struggle with his need for control over something as uncontrollable as birth.

You chuckled one evening, teasing him, “You do realize, Severus, that the girls might decide their names for us? They could arrive and look nothing like any of these.”

His frown deepened, though a hint of amusement flickered in his dark eyes. “They will look like you,” he replied, his voice almost possessive, as though that was an immutable fact. “And if they resemble you, then any name I choose will be worthy.”

In the quiet moments, you could see past his impatience, his need for everything to be just so. He was terrified. The great, imposing Severus Snape, who had faced dangers most wizards could scarcely imagine, was terrified of this unknown journey. And though he hid it behind his meticulous planning, his anxiety was evident in every line he wrote, every name he researched.

One night, as he sat beside you, poring over yet another scroll, you couldn’t help but place your hand over his, stilling his movements. “Severus,” you said softly, your voice gentle, “it’s all right to be scared.”

He didn’t pull his hand away, but he didn’t meet your eyes, his jaw tight. “I am not afraid,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction. His voice was softer, almost strained. “I simply… cannot afford any mistakes. Not with them. Not with you.”

You placed a hand on your belly, feeling a gentle kick as if one of the babies could sense his unease. You guided his hand to the spot, letting him feel the movement.

“They’re already telling us they’re fine,” you whispered, smiling as his eyes softened, a faint blush creeping up his pale cheeks. “And you’re going to be an incredible father.”

For a brief moment, the tension melted from his face, replaced by a rare, unguarded expression. He watched you, his hand lingering on your belly, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles over the spot where he’d felt the kick.

“Two girls,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with a strange mixture of awe and dread. “I don’t know if I’m prepared for this.”

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, your heart swelling with love for this man who had, against all odds, become so much more than you’d ever dreamed possible. “You’ll be ready, Severus,” you assured him, your voice full of conviction. “They’re already lucky to have you.”

In that moment, as he held you close, his face buried in your shoulder, you knew that no matter what names were chosen, no matter how unprepared he felt, your daughters would be loved beyond measure. And for Severus, that was the truest magic of all.

Snape sat at his desk, his gaze flickering over the rows of students carefully attempting the day’s potion. A faint curl of distaste tugged at his lips as he caught sight of Potter, who, as usual, seemed perilously close to ruining his cauldron’s contents. Snape had already reprimanded him once that morning, his words slicing through the dungeon air with the sharpness he reserved for the boy. Yet now, as he sat in silence, the other students barely daring to breathe, his attention drifted elsewhere, pulled toward thoughts far removed from the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Just behind him, a faint rustle and creak filtered through the door to your shared quarters. The faint sounds of movement as you stirred from sleep. A warmth crept into his chest, breaking through the stoic shell he maintained with such precision.

As his gaze returned to the students before him, he felt the familiar, bittersweet pang of Lily’s memory—his first love, and his greatest regret. For so long, her shadow had been his constant companion, filling him with a cold, unrelenting ache. Protecting her son had become his purpose, his penance. And after her death, he had accepted that this mission would likely be the only meaning his life would ever have. There had been a time when he thought he might die carrying it out—perhaps even hoped for it.

But then you had entered his life.

A sigh escaped his lips, almost inaudible beneath the simmering of potions and the scratch of quills. The world had shifted when you came into it, and now, with the prospect of your daughters’ arrival in only three days, he felt that shift more acutely than ever. A sense of purpose, something wholly separate from his debt to Lily, had taken root within him.

You had given him a reason to live that went beyond atonement. The life growing within you, two delicate lives entwined with his own, felt like a redemption he had never believed possible. For the first time, he could imagine a future not defined by sacrifice and solitude, but by something richer, something gentler.

Snape’s hand tightened briefly around the edge of his desk, and he watched his students, their heads bent over their cauldrons, oblivious to his thoughts. He had spent years mastering his emotions, transforming them into weapons, shields, armor against the outside world. But now, he realized that he could no longer afford to wield that armor so thoughtlessly.

These children, his daughters—they would be born into a world fractured by war, a world where he had a role to play in the coming darkness. Yet for them, he could not allow himself the luxury of despair or surrender. For the first time, he couldn’t imagine simply fading away into the shadows after Voldemort’s defeat. It was no longer an option to leave this life without knowing that his daughters would grow up strong, safe, and surrounded by the kind of love he had never known.

As the thought took root, Snape’s jaw tightened, a new resolve settling over him like a cloak. He would survive this war. He would survive, not because of some duty to the past, but because of a responsibility to the future—to his family. He would see his daughters grow up; he would teach them, protect them, stand by their side as they learned about the world and perhaps even found their own places in it.

For once, the prospect of living beyond the war held something other than pain. A faint vision of two young girls, with bright eyes and curious minds, drifted through his mind. His daughters, growing up, asking questions about the stars, about potions, perhaps even about love. And you—by his side, guiding them with the warmth he could only hope to echo.

The shrill sound of a student’s cauldron hissing sharply brought him back to the present. He narrowed his eyes at the offending student, who paled under his glare and quickly adjusted the heat, stammering an apology. Snape stood up abruptly, his dark eyes narrowing as he prepared to address the room. But before he could say a word, a loud crash echoed through the dungeons as the door to his quarters burst open.

He whipped around, dark eyes narrowing, but whatever sharp retort had been on his lips vanished as he took in the sight before him.

There you stood, gripping the doorway, your face flushed, one hand braced against your lower back and the other cradling your rounded belly. The look on your face was equal parts determination and alarm, but it was the words that followed that sent his heart racing.

“It’s happening,” you gasped, your voice shaky but clear.

For a moment, Snape stood frozen, your words echoing in his mind, the meaning of them almost surreal. Happening? He glanced down, his mind racing. Surely not—

His thoughts halted abruptly as Ron Weasley’s voice, loud and tactless, filled the silence. “Why’s she peeing herself in front of everyone?”

Hermione’s horrified gasp quickly followed, and she smacked him on the arm, whispering furiously, “She’s not peeing herself, Ron! Her water’s broken! She’s giving birth!”

That was all it took to snap Snape out of his stunned stupor. The babies were coming—now. Much earlier than planned. His eyes widened, and he lunged from behind his desk, moving to your side in an instant, his usual composure nowhere in sight.

“Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, one hand hovering awkwardly near you, unsure whether to support you or hold back in case he only made things worse. “You… you’re sure?” he stammered, though he immediately realized how absurd that question was.

You managed a small, pained laugh. “Quite sure, Severus.”

His mind raced as he attempted to regain his bearings. The portkey to St. Mungo’s—they’d had it prepared weeks ago, but it had seemed more like an overcautious precaution at the time. Now, with the urgency of the situation hitting him, he felt his calm shatter.

He shot a look around the classroom, and his gaze landed on the nearest student—Hermione Granger, who was watching with wide eyes, clearly understanding the seriousness of the situation. “Miss Granger,” he barked, his voice laced with barely concealed panic, “fetch Professor McGonagall. Tell her to cover this class immediately.”

Hermione jumped to her feet, nodding fervently as she dashed from the room, her own nervous energy amplifying the urgency. Meanwhile, Snape turned back to you, his heart racing as he tried to mask his worry.

“Severus,” you breathed, clutching his arm. “The portkey—”

He nodded quickly, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yes, of course.” His hand moved to his robes, fingers fumbling as he retrieved the small, inconspicuous glass vial enchanted to transport you both directly to St. Mungo’s.

He held the vial up to you, and you grabbed it, your other hand gripping his arm tightly as the room around you vanished in a whirl of colors. The bustling noise of Hogwarts faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of the St. Mungo’s ward as you both landed in the reception area, nearly stumbling from the sudden shift in location.

A Healer rushed toward you both, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. “Mrs. Snape—oh my, it’s early!” she exclaimed, gesturing to an available stretcher as she signaled to her colleagues. “Let’s get you to a delivery room.”

Snape’s hands hovered near you, his face a mixture of worry and focus as he helped you onto the stretcher. As the Healers moved you down the hallway, he kept pace beside you, his long strides easily matching their quick pace. He reached out to take your hand, gripping it tightly as you squeezed back, the intensity of the contractions beginning to set in.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his deep voice steadier than he felt. “Just breathe.”

A faint smile crossed your face despite the pain. “Severus Snape, giving breathing advice. Now I’ve seen everything.”

He quirked an eyebrow, though his expression softened. “Mock me all you like, but keep breathing.”

The Healers moved efficiently, ushering you into the delivery room and setting you up as Snape hovered close, his dark gaze flicking anxiously between you and the medical staff. He could feel the old fear surfacing—the fear of the unknown, the helplessness of standing by while others took over. But your hand in his grounded him, your presence reminding him that he was exactly where he needed to be.

A Healer turned to him, her expression calm and reassuring. “It may take a few hours, Professor. These things are rarely quick, and with twins…”

Snape’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, settling into a chair beside you, his hand never leaving yours.

Hours passed, though they felt like mere minutes to him. He was acutely aware of every moment—the sound of your breathing, the tightening of your grip during contractions, the reassuring words from the Healers. He remained silent, his face a mask of concentration, his own discomfort forgotten in his focus on you.

The hours stretched, each contraction increasing the tension in the room. Severus remained by your side, his hand firmly gripping yours, his dark eyes watching every move the Healers made with suspicion. But the moment the lead Healer suggested you get up and walk to help progress the labor, his calm snapped.

“Walk?” His voice, usually controlled and low, rose sharply, filled with uncharacteristic alarm. “You expect her to walk in this state? Are you out of your minds?”

The Healer, a kindly-looking witch with graying hair, gave Severus a reassuring smile, accustomed to nervous fathers. “Professor Snape,” she began gently, “encouraging movement can help speed things along. It’s quite common, especially with twins.”

Severus’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his face paling even more. “Common?” he echoed incredulously, his gaze darting from you to the Healer. “My wife is in labor, Madam, with twins, and you want her to walk about like she’s merely out for a stroll?”

Despite the contractions, you couldn’t help but chuckle at his outburst. “Severus,” you managed between breaths, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “It’s fine. I can walk a little.”

He looked at you, his dark eyes wide with concern, clearly torn. The thought of you enduring even the smallest discomfort was driving him nearly mad. “If—if you’re certain…” he muttered, though his grip on your arm was firm as he helped you out of bed, as if preparing to catch you at the slightest misstep.

The Healer guided you both down the hall for a short, careful walk, Severus muttering under his breath with every step, shooting fierce looks at any Healer who dared suggest you keep moving. When you paused, wincing as another contraction hit, he practically growled at the Healer. “If there’s any risk to my wife or our daughters…” He let the threat linger, his face a mask of furious protectiveness.

Finally, you were able to return to the bed, and though the labor continued slowly, Severus remained at your side, holding your hand and murmuring soft reassurances. His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed back your hair, the love and worry in his gaze evident even as he tried to keep his composure.

It was nearly dawn when the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a cheerful voice that could only belong to Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster entered, his arms laden with trinkets, including tiny stuffed owls, a miniature cauldron, and a set of rattles that jingled softly. He looked as though he had raided the entire children’s section of Diagon Alley.

“Severus, my boy!” he called warmly, his blue eyes twinkling as he approached. “I heard there was a new arrival or two on the way. Ah, and Minerva!” He turned, gesturing as Professor McGonagall entered, a faintly amused smile on her face as she took in Severus’s tense form by your bedside.

Dumbledore began to hand out trinkets, placing the little toys on the table near your bed, each accompanied by a soft hum and a lemon drop he popped into his mouth with relish. “The finest wares from Diagon Alley,” he declared, his tone bright. “Only the best for the future Misses Snape!”

Minerva moved closer to you, her expression softening as she reached for your hand. “How are you holding up, dear?” she asked, her Scottish accent laced with warmth. “Severus here has kept us all quite informed on your progress. I daresay I’ve never seen him in such a state.”

“Nor has anyone else, I assure you,” you replied, managing a tired smile. Severus shot Minerva a look that could have melted cauldrons, though his hand never left yours.

Dumbledore continued to rummage through his collection, holding up a small toy wand that emitted a shower of harmless sparks. “I thought this might suit,” he said with a wink. “We must start their magical education early.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Healers gave the signal. Severus held your hand tightly, his face a mix of awe and terror as the final stage of labor began. You saw a single tear slip down his usually composed face, his grip tightening as he whispered, “You’re incredible. I— I am so proud of you.”

The Healers wheeled you down a quiet, dimly lit corridor, Severus’s tall, shadowy form looming beside you, never letting you out of his sight. His dark eyes, usually hardened and calculating, were softened with a mixture of awe and profound vulnerability as he took in every detail of the room being prepared for the birth of your daughters.

The faint echoes of magical murmurs from the Healers filled the room as they adjusted the equipment and spells needed. Severus moved to your side, his long, slender fingers brushing against your hand with a tentative gentleness. You could feel his nervous energy, the intense worry that he tried so desperately to mask beneath his stoic exterior.

As the contractions intensified, he bent down, his pale, angular face close to yours, his hair falling forward to shield his expression. His deep voice, usually sharp and guarded, softened as he whispered, “I’m here. You’re not alone, amore.”

The Healers instructed him to step back slightly, readying themselves for the delivery. Though he complied, his piercing gaze never left you, as if he were willing every ounce of his strength to help you through this moment.

Moments later, the room filled with a powerful, almost sacred silence as the first cry rang out—a thin, wailing sound that sent a tremor through Severus. One of the Healers approached, cradling a tiny, wriggling form swaddled in soft white fabric, and extended her towards Severus. His expression froze, and for a split second, he seemed almost paralyzed by fear.

The Healer’s voice was gentle. “Would you like to hold your daughter, Professor Snape?”

He nodded, though his hands trembled as he reached out. Carefully, she placed the baby in his arms, her tiny face peeking out from the blanket, her features so delicate and small they seemed otherworldly. Severus looked down at her, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. His usually cold demeanor melted away, replaced by an intense, overwhelming tenderness that softened every line of his face.

“She’s…” His voice faltered, thick with emotion. His eyes glistened, and he swallowed hard, blinking back tears as he took in every detail—the soft curve of her cheeks, her tiny fingers curling into fists, her miniature nose. She was perfect, and in that moment, he realized he would do anything to protect her. He bent his head, his deep voice a reverent whisper. “You’re perfect.”

Just as Severus seemed to settle into the awe of holding his daughter, your voice cut through, strained yet filled with strength as the next contraction began. He looked up, his dark gaze flickering between you and the tiny life cradled in his arms, torn between staying with his newborn daughter and being by your side.

“Severus,” you managed, breathless, a smile breaking through the exhaustion, “go on… be there for her.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a beat, his expression raw with admiration, before he gently passed the baby to a nearby Healer, ensuring she would be safe. He crossed the room quickly, his dark robes sweeping behind him as he returned to your side, his long fingers slipping back into yours. You felt his grip, firm and unyielding, grounding you, as he whispered encouragements, his voice unsteady yet filled with pride.

Minutes later, a second cry filled the room, high and clear, and you saw Severus’s shoulders tremble with relief and elation. One of the Healers brought over the second newborn, a twin as delicate and perfect as her sister, and Severus stared at her, his heart swelling in his chest.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice choked with a depth of feeling he rarely revealed. He took her into his arms, his slender fingers cradling her small head, his thumb gently tracing her cheek. His usually cold, intimidating face softened into something unrecognizable, a fierce love that lit his dark eyes with an intensity that left you breathless.

As he held her, the first Healer approached, bringing the other twin over to you, her tiny face nestled in the blanket. Your heart filled as you looked down at her, at the small, precious life you had brought into the world. In that moment, the room felt full of magic, not the kind that could be taught or brewed, but the kind that was born out of love, pure and unconditional.

Severus looked over at you, his expression softened beyond recognition, his piercing gaze filled with an almost painful tenderness as he watched you holding your daughter. For once, his stoic mask was gone, replaced by the vulnerability of a man who had finally found something worth living—and dying—for.

“They have your eyes,” you whispered, noting the dark lashes and tiny features, a hint of his unmistakable presence in them already.

He nodded, speechless, his voice catching as he tried to speak. When he finally found his words, they were barely above a whisper, his voice thick with emotion. “They’ll have your spirit… your kindness. And they’ll know they are loved.” His gaze met yours, a profound, unspoken promise shimmering in his eyes.

He reached out, his long fingers gently touching your cheek, and for the first time, you saw the walls he had so carefully built around his heart crumble, replaced by the love he had tried so hard to hide. Here, in this room, with his daughters in his arms and you by his side, Severus Snape had found his redemption. And it was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #severus snape x reader #severus snape

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sierrale8ne · 7 months ago

Text

40 DAY AND 40 NIGHTS CHAPTER FIVE

thought i’d be lying if i said ‘i didn’t want you to myself.’ when you look me in my eyes and, tell me that it’s mine, i…

pairing wnba!paige bueckers x singer!oc

taglist @thaatdigitaldiary @rosemariiaa @ohbueckers @makethemhoesmad @patscorner @tndaqlifwy @wbbgetsmewetter @xxloveralways14 @authentic-girl03

kalena speakss 🪽! ju and kennedy was threatening my life for this so HERE. take it! 🙄

June 2025 — Atlanta, Georgia

It’s a couple hours after my show. I sat with my back against the counter of whatever bar Julian and a few of his friends dragged me out to.

The concert tonight was something I still haven’t fully processed. Even after having shows all over the country, performing in my hometown just hours ago was unreal.

The energy was indescribable. Loud would be the closest thing to label it. But after the event, a meet and greet, and an outfit change, I find myself under flashing lights and bass booming music.

I’m all by my lonesome at the bar, a lemon drop in my hands as my head slowly bops along with the trap music that fills my ears. Julian is somewhere across the floor with some friends from college, giving me a much needed break from him for the rest of the night.

He’s a different beast when he’s drunk. Not in a bad way, but just very loud or clingy, or touchy and after the long day I had, having his tall sweaty body over mine was only going to make me overstimulated.

I finish my drink and place the glass down on the counter, switching it out for ice cold water. It’s smooth and refreshing down my throat, a contrast to the warm atmosphere I’m seated in.

The sound of another drink hitting the bar grabs my attention, I turn around and the nice bartender in front of me pushes a drink closer to me. She doesn’t speak, only tossing her head to the side. When I look over, there’s a certain blonde delivering a wide smile.

I nod in response before taking a sip of the drink. A Dirty Shirley, of course.

“Good to see you’re alive.” Paige jokes when I approach her. She wears black light wash jeans and a black graphic tee. Her stomach is tight, abs on display, arms tanned and wildly muscular, and it takes everything in me to not gawk over her body.

She pats the stool to her left, signaling me to take a seat beside her. I fix my mini skirt before sitting on the stool, scooting it closer towards her.

“Hey, P.” My voice fits together. It’s a weird feeling. I spent all week thinking about what I would do when I saw her again. Maybe give her a hug, or tell her that I did indeed miss her. But instead, I’m silent. My voice is scratchy and I feel so little under her gaze.

“It’s good to see you, angel.” Paige smiles at me, her fingers tapping along the spine of the beer bottle she drinks from. “See you got my drink.”

“I did.” I responded. “I’m not sure why you like this shit tho’. Too much vodka.” I grimace.

“What?”

“It’s strong as hell!”

“Oh please, I’ve seen you take casa straight.” She points out with a roll of her eyes. I don’t fight the grin that spreads onto my face mid conversation. It was things like this that I think I missed more than her look. The childish bickering that led to belly aching laughter.

I’m about to speak up again, send a playful shot her way that shuts her up, when Julian saunters over. I don’t miss the slight tumble in his walk. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, standing right between Paige and myself as he tells the bartender to close out our tab.

His eyes travel to me first, but when he sees that I’m still attempting to look at Paige, he turns to face her too.

Julian gives her a nod. “You’re uh,” he takes a breath to search his brain cockily, I shoot him an unamused glance. “Paige right? Play for the Sparks?”

“That’s me.” She nods.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. This one doesn’t seem to shut up about you.”

Paige fights a smirk, and the only reason I can tell is because her eyes bounce from Julian, to the floor, then to myself, and then back to Julian. “Oh for real? Could say the same about you, man.”

Just like that their exchange is over. Paige looks away and Julian looks down at me.

“The guys and I are heading to a different club. You comin’?”

I shake my head. “I was jus’ gonna get some food. I’m not really feelin’ it.” I tell him.

He shrugs passively, reaching over me to take his receipt from the bartender. “Sounds good to me.” Julian leans over, kissing my forehead quickly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I can’t even fight the roll of my eyes this time. In the morning is crazy , I think to myself.

“Uh oh. Trouble in Paradise?” Paige asks. Her face is genuine, but her tone of voice makes it obvious to me that she’s prodding. I want to smack that stupidly sexy smirk off her face.

“Shut up.”

“And you cringin’ when he kiss y—”

“Paige. Shut up.”

She does, throwing her hands up in defense. I watch intently as her lips wrap around the spout of the bottle, the way her head tosses back when she takes a swig and how her throat bobs as she swallows. I’m so fucked.

“What are you doing in Atlanta anyways?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Game tomorrow. You comin?”

“You want me to?”

“I mean, I need you there. I went off last time you came.” Paige says. The manner with which she looks at me when we have a conversation is distracting. Her eyes glued on mine, a slight tilt of her head, and the occasional lick or bit of her lips. I’m trying really hard to keep my composure but it’s hard.

What am I even thinking? I have a boyfriend, whom I care for very much.

“You went off the other night in Chicago. Didn’t you have 30 or sum?” My hand fiddles with the straw in my nearly empty Shirley. For someone who thought it wasn’t all that good, I was definitely drowning it.

Paige laughs. “Aneesah and Angel blocked my shot like 5 times that game. And 7 kept picking my pocket.”

“You still played good, no?” I ask with a smile.

“Do you wanna come or not, angel?”

“Okay! I’ll go, I’ll go! I’m just sayin’ you don’t need me there. You’re on a tear this season anyway.” I turn away to fight the blush on my face. She’s such a flirt it’s unbelievable.

“Yeah? You been watching lil old me?”

“Oh fuck off.”

—

The coldness of the seat sent shivers through my spine, my short sleeve top not providing any type of warmth in the establishment. I can only imagine that Maraye’s skirt and tube top combo wasn’t helpful for her either. I toss her my gray zip up from my seat across from her.

After leaving the club, I made my way out to Waffle House, with Maraye obviously. It’s early in the morning, the clock on the wall reads 1:38am.

“Thanks.” She mumbles with a mouth full of hash browns as she takes my jacket.

“Mouth full is crazy.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Y’sure you won’t be cold?” I find it funny, because even as she asks, she’s throwing on the hoodie and zipping it up gratefully. I brush her off, ignoring the very obvious goosebumps on my skin and stabbing into my peanut butter waffle.

We were talking about her shows over the last few weeks. I always found the lifestyle she lived so interesting. Honestly, I thought of it as being much similar to my career, but playing in a court and performing her most vulnerable moments for people is not the same.

“I mean seeing people in the audience cry over the songs I sing is so surreal. Like tonight, I closed with Different Pages, and as soon as the instrumental cut on, I could see girls in the front just start crying and I’m like, they really fuck with me. Y’know?” Her eyes glaze over and I don’t miss it. I wouldn’t even dare tear my eyes away from her right now.

She looks gorgeous. Which is simply unbelievable because her hair is a bit tousled and her eyes dark with exhaustion. Yet, she’s the prettiest girl in the world to me right now.

This entire situation is messy. For a multitude of reasons but the most obvious one being the six-foot-something curly headed boundary that is between us. I know better. I know that all me and Maraye have going for us is a friendship, that when she looks at me it’s just because she looks at all of her friends with that sort of eye contact. Or that when she begs me to come out to Waffle House with her at nearly two in the morning, it’s because we were already hanging out, and not because she wanted to have alone time with me.

I know better.

Even then, all my better judgment is thrown out the window with her. She’s everything. The personality I’ve gotten to know belongs to someone that I so desperately need.

I don’t even care about hurting Julian, oddly enough.

I drink from my glass of water before drawing myself back into conversation, I’d been quiet for a bit too long.

“You’re an amazing performer from what I saw. And the music connects to people. You shouldn’t be surprised.” I complement.

Her face contorts.

“You were at the show tonight? Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice raises as she drops her fork on her plate.

“You been ignoring me all week, Raye!” I laugh. I probably should’ve told her that I was coming, but after my calls and texts went unanswered I just stopped trying. “I called you tonight too. Shit when straight to voicemail.”

Maraye frowns at me, looking down at her plate before back up at me. “I’m sorry.” She apologizes, but what follows I don’t even expect. “I’ve been thinking so much about you and ju’ and— regardless, I shouldn’t have cut you out.”

“I missed you.” It falls from my lips before I can even register it.

Maraye smiles that beautiful angelic smile of hers. She presses her elbows to the table, looking over at me with that goddess-like head tilt that turns my brain to mush.

“I missed you too, blondie.”

It’s different. I’ve heard it from her over the phone, or from past girlfriends, old teammates, friends. But the way those three words— I missed you— hit my ears has me falling apart into a puddle of skin and bones in my seat.

Her accent drives me crazy. It wraps her words in a certain comfort and familiarity that I could only ever feel from Maraye. It carries a gentle, melodic lilt that draws me into her, I’m damn near all up in her personal space from how deep she’s drawn me into her without even touching me.

Every simple phrase she says to me sounds like sweet poetry, and suddenly I’m understanding even more why her music makes people so emotional. Because the way she’s talking to me right now is making me feel things I don’t think I’ve ever felt for any girl in my whole life.

It’s fucking terrifying.

—

The end of the night approached much faster than I’d like to admit. Mostly because I had a great time with Paige and it was coming to an end. We made a quick detour to the 7/11 for slushee’s before getting in the uber again. We exited the car pretty quickly, arriving at The Westin Peachtree where we both, coincidentally, were staying at.

Paige walks me all the way to my suite. It’s a little past 3am when I stand outside my door.

I turn around to look up at her. Her hair is pulled out of her face now, a messy bun at the nape of her neck that gives me a perfect view of her clear and tanned skin.

“Thanks for keeping me company tonight.” I told her. My hands travel to the zipper of her hoodie, peeling it from my body. I don’t mean for it to look as sultry as it does, but that’s the message that it gives off because Paige’s eyes follow the whole way down.

“Y-yeah of course. I had a good time wit’ you, Raye.” She speaks. The stutter I pick up on is so slight, barely even there, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m about to pass out.

I hand her the thick hoodie, thankful for the warmth it brought me for the last few hours.

I find it so crazy that I could have so much fun doing nothing with a person I’ve known for barely even a month. We walked around for what felt like forever, just talking and picking each other’s brains apart. It was a feeling truly like no other.

“So tomorrow right? I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask. My bottom lip finds its way between my teeth as I nibble on it nervously. My stomach practically sits in my ass and I can’t pinpoint why, but suddenly I’m anxious. As hell. And it’s her, she makes me nervous in a way I’ve never experienced before— and I’ve been on stage in stadiums full of thousands of people.

There’s a sort of tension between the two of us. I’m grateful that the hallway is empty, because if people were walking around and saw us they would’ve for sure gotten the wrong idea.

Shockingly, I don’t even know if it would be the wrong idea. Because I want her.

Paige, the blonde woman that has maybe 4 inches over me, the blonde that I find myself looking for in every place I travel to, the blonde who looks at me right now with a different type of look in her eye that I can’t yet figure out. I want her.

“Yeah, angel. Of course.” She nods slowly at my question while taking a step closer to me. Her arms find a home around my waist and it is then when I’m hugging her that I realize it’s my first time feeling her touch all night.

Her body is so warm against me, her neck practically setting my forearms on fire.

She smells like strawberries, which I wouldn’t have expected from just looking at her tonight. I can feel every ridge of her muscles, I spread my palm over the ones on her back and her biceps press into my side from how she hugs me. I don’t pay too much attention to how her hand travels just a bit lower, inches away from the swell of my ass and I know I should push her further. Say that we’re toeing the line, that this is too much to just be a friendly hug, that it feels so damn intimate.

I don’t want to though.

That’s when I know I’m in too deep.

I pull back from her gently, but her hands still remain in their position. I place my hands on her shoulders, looking back into her eyes. The blue reminds me of fresh blueberries, they make me feel like I’m at home. The rims are a bit reddened, expected from how long we’ve been awake. Yet, I could stand like this for hours, just looking at her and those eyes. I swear I see the pupils get just a bit bigger, and I tear my eyes away from Paige before mine do the same.

I can feel that gaze still on me, but when I look back she’s dead set on my lips.

In return I look at hers. They’re a perfect soft pink. Plump and nicely moisturized from the chapstick I caught her using earlier. I wonder what they taste like. If they mimic her strawberry scent or if they taste like the blue raspberry slurpee she downed. They could taste like nothing too, and I wouldn’t mind it.

She’s suddenly pulling away from me with a step back, her arms falling from my hips. Paige clears her throat before digging her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“Tomorrow.” She confirms. “Get some sleep, aight?” The drawl of her voice is addicting, I could spend hours listening to her talk to me just so I could know how different words sound when they fall from her lips.

“Yeah you too, P.” I responded, turning my back to her to unlock the door to my hotel. I hear her footsteps retreating from me so I turn my head back. It was supposed to be brief, I swear it was.

But then she’s looking back at me and I want to last forever.

Just me and Paige looking at each other for as long as the universe allows us to.

#sierrale8ne #kalena’s works ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #uconn wbb #la sparks #lesbian #my fic #40 days and 40 nights

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kiokos · 3 months ago

Text

A SOCCER PLAYER’S DREAM

Summary: F/N L/N, isagi’s childhood best friend, recently started football. Turns out, they were a prodigy nobody could have seen coming. But it looks like someone’s little brother caught their eye.

Warnings: CRINGE. Sometimes lowk confusing? I’m not rlly sure If I should add anything else…

A/N: This is actually one of my very first fics so please feel free to give me tips !! Also ignore the “second selection” and read it as “nel” since. Well. Yk:3

CHAPTER 00

You had just finished up yet another day of soccer practice with rin itoshi. ‘Crazy how just a few months ago I didn’t even know he existed..’ you thought. You had met rin, and everyone else, during the break that blue lock gave them after the big match against the U-20’s. However, you were isagi’s childhood best friend, so that’s how you actually managed to meet the others.

You and isagi had a.. questionable friendship, to say the least. You guys roasted each other one second then become bro’s the next. It’s confusing, but, nothing you weren’t used to.

You didn’t know exactly how you ended up here of all places. Actually - scratch that, yes you did. You and isagi made a stupid bet - you had to start playing soccer, and if you ended up being good at it, he said he’s gonna try to convince ego to let you into the stupid ass program.

You didn’t know how that dumbass managed to convince rin to play soccer with you, tho, he wasn’t really complaining. You were a worthy opponent - someone who Isagi called ‘both a genius and a talented learner’.

You sighed before laying down on the grass field and looking left to see your water-bottle looking oh simply so drinkable. You grabbed it and started drinking, until you heard a familiar voicr from behind you.

Ah, it was rin.

“I’ll be taking my leave now. Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late or I’ll just leave.” He mumbled in his usual cold monotone voice.

You turned to him with your usual smug grin and giggled out a “awww, you wanna see me again? So cute, rinrin!”

You internally cringed after saying that: but the damage is done, so no going back now…

He didn’t even say anything, just side eyeing you before leaving. You sighed and took your stuff before starting to scroll down on tik tok only to see a post saying “Rin is finer than his brother. Idc what anyone says.” While pictures of rin were in the background and b2b by charlie xcx was playing. ‘Interesting..’ was the first thing that popped into your mind. You really haven’t given it much thought before - scratch that: you haven’t really given rin much thought before. Sure, he was cute, but you didn’t really think of him like that. But the longer you thought about it, the more obvious it became - you found rin attractive!!

You immediately pulled out your phone and started texting your groupchat (as usual.)

#itoshi rin x reader #blue lock smau #blue lock x you #blue lock #rin itoshi x you #bllk isagi #bllk bachira #bllk chigiri #bllk crack #bllk karasu

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chevroletdean · 2 months ago

Text

IDLE INTERRUPTED

CHAPTER 1: NOSTALGIC HARMONY

SUMMARY: After his father passed, your childhood friend Tom decides to sell the Hanniger Mines. As a lawyer you agree to help him with the paperwork, only to get wrapped up in the dark past of your hometown.

SHIP: Tom Hanniger x Fem!Reader GENRE: Heavy Angst, Dark Fic MINORS DON'T INTERACT, this chapter is more on the fluffy side tho TO NOTE/WARNINGS: These include spoilers for the fic!!! Spoilers for the My Bloody Valentine 3D movie, dark and gritty themes, trauma, loss of a loved one, character death, blood, gore, murder, manipulation, BPD, drugging, dubious consent, kissing/making out, sex, nudity, violence, vomitting, plot twists, this is a scary one so MINORS TURN AWAY, 18+ CONTENT WORD COUNT: 4.6k A/N: The first of two chapters for another one of my @jacklesversebingo squares. I really went out of my comfort zone with this genre and I hope it makes sense OTL We'll start slow with this one! A prologue, if you will. I'm curious to hear your predictions. ❤️ PROMPT: Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by me using gifs by vampirecoreleone & nyxvuxoa ─〃★ divider by cafekitsune ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist

▶️PLAYLIST ⏭️NEXT CHAPTER

“L/N’s Law Agency, how can I help you?”

“Y/N? It’s me, Tom,” the voice is familiar, gruffier than what you remember it to be, but you immediately recognize it and that name.

You freeze. The silence only lasts for a second, but it’s heavy.

The man on the other line, mistaking your silence for you pulling a blank, clears his throat, “Uh, Tom Hanni—”

“Tom, Jesus, it’s been a while,” you cut in.

You went to high school together.

Not only that, you were friends back then. Not the closest, but you got along with him well. Better than most of the other students did.

Tom Hanniger was more of a quiet kid and others would always eye him with either pity or suspicion. But you have yet to meet an outgoing extrovert with not only one, but two hefty near death experiences under his belt.

“Of course I remember you, just… sorry, I haven’t heard from you in…,” you trail off.

“…Ten years,” Tom finishes your sentence and the number hangs heavy over your head.

Ten years. Man, has it really been that long? It feels like ages ago and yesterday all the same.

“Sure has been a while, but it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“No complaints,” you hum. “Is that why you called?”

Now, it’s his turn to pause. There’s a pit opening up in your stomach. You have this gut-feeling that something’s up. He didn’t call to catch up with an old friend, he reached out to a lawyer, after all.

“What, are you in trouble?,” you chuckle lightly.

“No, nothing like that,” he replies, his words accompanied by an awkward snicker. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve heard. My dad passed away.”

“Oh,” you lamely respond, though the news do make you frown, and immediately cringe at your loss for words. “My condolences.”

“Thanks,” Tom mutters, his voice tight, then hesitates. “I was wondering, if— well, I’m thinking about selling the mines. And, I don’t know, maybe you could help me with all the paperwork, you know? You don’t have to, I know this is a strange request. I just thought since you’re familiar with the gist and all… Sorry, this is probably dumb, isn’t it?”

You listen patiently to his rambling, your own heart feeling heavier with each word.

Of course you are familiar with the gist. More than you’re comfortable with, honestly. With the Hanniger Mine and what that cursed place means for Harmony, with Tom and even with his dad. And, of course, with the workload of a heritage.

This day had to come eventually, though you’re surprised it’s this soon. Then again, no time can heal Tom’s and your wounds. To the small town of Harmony, that coal mine is vital. To the two of you, it’s a forsaken hellhole.

You completely understand Tom’s decision to sell it and it makes sense that he would ask you for legal advice, too. Even if he’s right: In a way, he’s asking for a lot, given that you’ve abandoned Harmony for good.

Still, you find yourself sighing softly into the phone. “It’s not dumb at all, Tom,” you reassure him, and you mean it. “How about we meet up and talk about the details?”

And that’s how, just two days later, you find yourself back in Harmony.

Instead of nostalgia, however, it’s unease that settles within every fiber of your being.

Even though you grew up here, spent your entire childhood here, you feel out of place. You remember every street, but you wish you could forget about all of them. You immediately notice the smallest of changes as you turn the corner, but you can’t say you’re sad about a couple shops no longer being there.

Ultimately, you find yourself seated at your old usual table of your former go-to coffee shop, the one closest to the door, right next to the window. Even the damn coffee tastes exactly the same, but you feel like this is no longer your home.

It stopped being that ten years ago. Nothing ties you to this place anymore.

Tom Hanniger’s phone call certainly came as a surprise, considering you are no longer in contact with anyone from here.

Aside from your parents, that is, although you can count the amounts of visits you paid them over the past decade on one hand. You’d always say you were busy with your studies and, after getting your degree, with work. And that was only a partial lie — becoming and being a lawyer wasn’t for the faint of heart.

You left your hometown behind as soon as possible. Ever since that tragic night on February 14th, when Harry Warden slaughtered 22 people, you knew you’d graduate and then avoid that small town.

Only five survivors were left behind on that fateful night: Tom, his then girlfriend Sarah, Sarah’s now husband Axel, Irene, and you. Your boyfriend Jim, on the other hand, was among the victims. You never quite recovered from losing him.

Especially since your last conversation with him was a fight.

You caught him making out with Irene. Jim claimed it was just for a silly party game, just a harmless round of truth or dare, but you were screaming at him, insulting him, for cheating on you. On fucking Valentine’s Day, no less.

Not that you were wrong, but you wish you could’ve parted on better terms. Resolve the issue somehow, just talk one more time. That bridge was burnt by Death, though. By Harry Warden and his killing spree, to be exact.

Ironically enough, you might not be alive today were it not for that stupid fight. You left the party right after and just in time to not get caught in the crossfire of the miner’s pickaxe.

Lucky you, huh?

Except you’ve pretty much lost everything. Your sanity as well as your boyfriend. As for your group of friends, well— Of course they were a mess after what happened. The months after that massacre leading up to your graduation were the worst of your life.

From what you gathered, Sarah and Axel are now married and parents at that, and they, as well as Irene, still live here. You can’t wrap your head around why, but to each their own. Everyone deals with trauma differently, after all.

Tom’s approach at least seems to be similar to yours, him turning his back on Harmony only disrupted by his ties to the family business.

The Hanniger Mines are the heart and core of Harmony, even under the heavy association with more than two dozens of corpses. The five victims after an accident first, then the 22 high school students that died exactly one year later.

All of them murdered by Harry Warden. Both instances witnessed first-hand by Tom Hanniger.

Still, the mines are the main source of income for the area, and a lot of people’s jobs depend on its future. All of which is for Tom to decide. You don’t envy him for one second.

“Y/N.”

Speaking of the devil, his familiar voice appears behind you.

You turn your head towards him and he doesn’t look a year older than when you’ve last seen him. His warm smile is the first thing you can confidently say you missed about Harmony. He looks a bit nervous, but you immediately find comfort in the sight of his sandy hair and those green eyes, genuine as always.

You rise from your seat, pulling him into a tight hug right away. In a way, you feel like he’s the only one that gets you, and that maybe you’re the only one that gets him. Like you two are the only people understanding the madness of this town, the weight of it.

Accomplices, if you will.

“It’s so good to see you,” you greet him and gesture for him to sit down with you.

“You too,” he nods and scratches the back of his head. “Although I wish the circumstances were different. I’m sorry to drag you back to this place.”

Your eyes soften, and though you bite your lower lip, you shake your head. It’s not his fault. Plus, you agreed to help him out because you know he’d do the same for you.

“I’m happy to help,” you reassure him, instinctively reaching over the table to place your hand over his. Your fingers gently squeeze his hand and you can tell the gesture takes away some of the tension from his shoulders.

A waitress steps into the picture, placing a menu on your table. It’s pink, little red hearts dotted all over. Valentine’s Special written across the top in bold, scarlet letters.

Oh. Shit, that’s right. It’s February, just a couple days short of Valentine’s Day. The timing couldn’t be more awful. You’d rather not be reminded of this holiday, an anniversary with nothing but despair attached to it.

You withdraw your hand as you glance away from the menu towards Tom, who honestly looks like he’s seen a ghost, face pale and eyes dulled as he stares holes into the laminated sheet of paper. You can immediately tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“Anything from the limited menu for you two lovebirds?,” the waitress patters, unimpressed and clearly just following protocol. “I can recommend the Sweet ‘n—”

“Just some coffee, please. Black,” Tom interrupts her swiftly, his voice ice-cold and rough. His movement is a little too sharp as he pushes the menu away.

The waitress nods, takes her leave, and remains completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere she’s caused.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Tom huffs and before his voice cracks, he clears his throat, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “Did you look at the files I sent you?”

The two of you discuss the paperwork over your cups of coffee.

The air between you remains tense, though you know there’s nobody to blame. Except the large elephant in the room, shaped like a bloody heart and a Valentine’s card. Neither of you have it in you to address it.

Whispers throughout the café make it difficult enough to think straight.

“Isn’t that Tom Hanniger?”

“His dad died, he probably came for the funeral.”

“Haven’t you heard the rumors? He inherited the mines.”

Perhaps you chose the wrong location to go over the details with Tom.

You forgot how damn nosy Harmony’s citizens are. But it’s not just that — the town is fuller than usual. You know Harmony to be a mostly peaceful town, bordering on downright boring sometimes. It’s small, cozy, the kinds of neighbourhoods where everyone knows everything.

But you’ve already noticed as you drove here — the streets are infected with a craze. At first you thought it’s maybe spring-break, but now you understand.

Sick and twisted as it may be, tourists are drawn to a mass murderer’s hot-spot around this time of the year. Like moths to the flame. Or rather: The way a pile of shit attracts flies.

You’d rather not think about just how tasteless it is. These people don’t know any better. They think they’re chasing after a sensation, not after a tragedy.

Tom feels the same way. You know without him saying it. You can see it in the way his eyes harden, in the clench of his jaw, the grinding of his teeth. He slams his coffee cup down, hard enough to make it clatter harshly.

“Let’s go outside,” he mutters, hurriedly fishing some money from his wallet. It’s more than enough to cover both your drinks. Way too much, even, but you suppose the waitress deserves a nice tip during these busy days.

Without waiting for your answer, Tom pushes towards the door, expecting you to follow him. You do, without hesitation.

The cold air immediately makes you shiver, but it’s not as harsh of a slap as the Valentine’s Day themed interior of the café. Or the pitiful stares and whispers of the other patrons there.

You pull your cardigan around yourself more tightly, as though it could shield you from not just the cold, but also this anxious feeling. Technically, it’s still winter, and you can only blame yourself for getting too accustomed to the mild Februaries in Florida.

It doesn’t help that it’s late noon, either, the sun hanging low and about to set.

Tom, ever the gentleman, shrugs off his jacket — he, for one, came prepared with a tee and a hoodie underneath his jacket, at least — and drapes it around your shoulders. The warmth enveloping you like a comforting hug. Honestly, you could tear up.

“You didn’t have to,” you stutter awkwardly.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, one arm still around your shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

You let him guide you away from the coffee shop, each step further down the street making you feel better. The more distance you create between yourself and that place, the easier it is to breathe.

It seems to be the same for Tom, who, upon stopping next to his car, lets out a heavy sigh.

“Sorry, I couldn’t stand that place for another minute,” he mumbles apologetically.

“Me neither,” you agree, earning yourself a look of surprise. “It feels weird to be back.”

His eyes flicker down on you, your timid form and the way you subtly glance around, ready to duck away from any unwelcome reminders of your past.

“I’m so sorry,” he speaks, suddenly, his voice mellow and his eyes soft. “I shouldn’t have dragged you back into all of this.”

Your eyes, on the other hand, widen as you blink at him. You immediately shake your head.

“No, it’s okay,” you insist, forcing a smile onto your lips. “Actually, I’m glad you called.”

His inhale is sharp, though subtle. Once again, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere except at you.

“Let me make it up to you,” he chuckles shyly. “Where’re you staying, at your parents’? Want me to drive you back to their place?”

“God, no. Nothing against them, of course, but I didn’t plan on staying for long, so I checked in at a motel,” you clarify quickly.

As much as you love your parents, you don’t think you can take a longer visit. You plan on stopping by their place before you leave, of course, but you’ve already compiled a mental list of excuses that justify you leaving this town as soon as possible.

At that, Tom huffs out a short laugh: “Great minds think alike, huh?”

You’re surprised to learn that despite his option to stay at his family’s luxurious house, Tom not only settled for a motel, but the very same one you picked, too. Turns out your rooms are almost next to each other too, just one other squeezed in between — Your’s 102, his 104.

Quite the coincidence.

At least the two of you stick together, even through this. It makes you feel a lot better, so of course you hope to be able to return the favor for him.

“Well, in that case,” you trail off with a chuckle and a shrug. “How about we ditch this neighborhood and continue our work there?”

Tom snorts softly, nods, then opens the door of his car for you. You slide into the passenger seat while he rounds the car and hops in as well. Driving off, you catch up a little — no conversation about this town, the mines not even brought up once. Just what he’s been up to, your days at college.

It’s a conversation filled with laughter. It feels right. At least in comparison to the rest of what’s surrounding you. The outside world, however, doesn’t matter — not when you’re together in this little bubble, your shared comfort zone.

Even when you’re back at the motel, sitting at the coffee table in Tom’s room, it’s good to know that you’re in this together.

The heater’s busted, just like the one in your room, but it’s nothing that a cup of tea and Tom’s jacket can’t fix.

He hands you a steamy cup, sliding it across the table. Each sip makes you forget more and more about the lack of warmth.

Tom’s eyes are glued to you, drinking in the way you nurse your tea.

“You like it?”

You answer with a pleased hum against the rim of your cup, nodding.

“It tastes really sweet,” you observe, licking your lips, “What secret ingredient did you put in there?”

Tom nervously rubs at the nape of his neck in that awkward, but somewhat endearing way of his. “Just honey, might’ve added too much, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nice.” Shaking your head, you chuckle.

You go over the numbers together, weighing Tom’s options.

Obviously many investors are interested in the mines, though some offers are downright ridiculous. As you expected, some people jumped the chance to buy cheap, reasoning that the horrible incidents have stained the location’s reputation.

Not that they’re wrong, but it’s still tasteless.

“Are you not gonna ask?,” Tom sighs eventually.

You furrow your brows together and throw him a look of confusion. “Ask what?”

“Why I’m thinking of selling,” Tom shrugs, casting his eyes down to avoid your gaze. “Everyone wants to know. They all think I’m crazy. That it’ll harm the community.”

For a solid second you remain silent.

Of course the town hates uncertainty, and to some it might look like Tom is choosing the easy way out. Like he’s abandoning responsibility. You, on the other hand, think it’s unfair it’s been bestowed upon him from begin with.

“You already went through enough trouble with that place,” you mumble. “I get you, trust me. I wouldn’t wanna keep that thing either. You’re right to get rid of it.”

There’s a tremble in your voice, but it’s not out of uncertainty. In fact, you’ve never been more sure about anything in your life. It’s your very determination, your deeply rooted hatred for these tunnels that makes you so agitated.

You want Tom to sell. You need him to sell. More so than he does, maybe.

You want this thing dealt with and gone. If you could, you’d destroy it completely. It would be better to set it all to ashes, honestly. Of course, that’s no option. Selling it, potentially letting someone turn it into something else, is the closest you can get to burying what haunts you.

It’s the closest you can get to closure.

“You’re the first, and probably the only person to think that way,” Tom huffs out weakly, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. As bitter as his smile may be, you feel the gratitude behind it.

All you can offer is an understanding nod, and another couple of hours going through the details with him. It’s sometime later when a yawn subconsciously escapes you, triggering Tom to close the folder in front of you.

“Let’s call it a day,” he concludes without giving you room for arguments.

Not that you’re keen on more work. You’re still tired after a long drive here, barely able to focus on another page.

Thus, you give in with a nod and gather your stuff. You finish the last bit of your tea, despite the liquid having long cooled down. It’s still sweet, more so at the bottom of the cup. Mumbling a brief “Thank you”, you set the cup aside.

Tom grabs it swiftly, his fingers brushing against yours — and the touch lingers, grounding you. His hand, calloused, but warm, envelopes yours entirely. Swallowing it up. Shielding it from the outside. From your fears.

“I’m the one who has to thank you, you know?”

Whichever makes your heart skip a beat, his soft, sincere tone, or the depth behind his words, is hard to tell. Both make your skin prickle with warmth. A tingly sensation runs from your knuckles, which he runs his thumb over, to your middle.

The heat spreads all the way to your face. The air thickens around you, like a haze filling your senses. If you didn’t know it any better, you’d say the room is spinning, everything blurry, except for him.

It’s been a while since you’ve felt this connected to someone.

“For doing my job?,” you quip, lighthearted and meekly. Your own voice sounds distant in your ears, similar to the way a drunk would tipsily bubble up nonsense.

“For supporting me,” Tom clarifies, the gentle curl of his lips drawing your eyes to them like a magnet.

“That’s what friends are for,” you mutter under your breath. A voice in the back of your head tells you there’s more to it. Before you can shove it away, the firm squeeze of Tom’s hand amplifies that thought.

His other hand finds home in the soft flesh of your reddened cheek. Cupping your face, he drags his thumb over your bottom lip.

Your breath stutters, hitches. Tom catches it with his fingertips, catches you. Draws you in, until you’re so close you can get drunk from the proximity.

Your eyes almost go drooping, flickering back and forth between the golden specks in his green eyes to the freckles dusting his cupid’s bow.

God, he’s handsome. Not that you didn’t already know. You’ve been well aware for over ten years.

Even though you only had eyes for Jim during your highschool days, Tom always had this endearing air around him, sweet and charming. Slightly awkward, maybe, but in a cute way. In a dreamy way.

“Is that what this is?,” Tom hums, his breath tickling your mouth, “Is that what we are? Friends?”

Actually, you have no idea what this is. What you guys are. What he is to you. Maybe a guiding light in the endless, dark twists and turns of Harmony. The only damn thing that makes sense to you in all this rotten mess.

You don’t give an answer. At least not a verbal one, for what it’s worth.

Instead, you close the gap between you, closing your eyes and locking lips with him.

What starts off as a chaste, testing dance turns deeper the second you melt into his touch. Tom’s hand, previously having cradled your jawline, splays over the nape of your neck with more assertiveness than you anticipate.

As your lips part in a surprised gasp, he presses closer, muffling your strangled whimper.

His tongue keeps licking, tasting, exploring. Taking. It’s too much. Too overwhelming.

Suddenly you feel light-headed, drunk. Unable to match his pace, you softly whine his name, to which he abruptly freezes.

“Shit,” he exhales shakily and breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours, “Sorry— I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

You don’t know either. Maybe that silly, much despised hype around Valentine’s Day got to you after all. Yeah, that must be it, right?

Your fingers twitch, still grasped by his. A pang of something unidentifiable stirs in your guts; part of you feels… disappointed. Guilty? You didn’t mean to ruin the moment, you didn’t mean for this to end.

Craving more, you lazily brush your lips against his, as if to reassure him. Regret doesn’t cross your mind once, heat of the moment or not.

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper. Shy as you may be, and flustered all the more, your breathless words are accompanied by a cheeky grin.

There’s a shift in Tom’s eyes, so brief you think your own are deceiving you. He hesitates, but ultimately settles on leaning back. Just slightly, to place his lips to your forehead for a second. You desperately want to sink into his arms, tuck yourself into his chest, and disappear there.

“You should get some rest,” he whispers, weaving his soothing breath into your hairline.

Though your heart is beating up to your throat, you nod. It’s been a long day, for both of you, and sleep sounds wonderfully enticing.

Reluctantly detangling yourself from Tom, you rise to your feet and gather your things.

Upon heading to the door, you realize just how beat you are. Actually, your head feels way heavier than it should. Standing up makes you dizzy. Downright nauseous. You shrug it off, turning to Tom one last time.

Though the words remain unspoken, the question hangs heavy in the air: Is everything good between us? Will you be okay?

“Get some rest, I’ll be heading out,” Tom nods, though his voice sounds… askew. It’s not his tone, but rather that you feel like you’re underwater, any noise reaching your ear in oddly distorted fashion. “I should talk to Ben, about the mines, you know?”

Ben. You think for a moment, then remember that he’s a miner, and a close friend to the Hanniger family.

Of course, Tom should talk to the ones whose jobs will be affected, even if it’ll be a hard conversation. You’d offer to come along and support him, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere except your bed.

“You know where to find me,” you smile, bidding your goodbyes and making your way to your own room, just two doors over.

As you pass the spare one, you stop briefly. Soft giggling, then the unmistakable echo of a moan, all barely muffled by the thin walls, makes you cringe.

“Damn Valentine’s Day craze,” you sigh to yourself and slip into your own room.

The muffled moaning turns into obscene screaming and the repeated squeaking of a cheap motel bed. In your annoyance, you kick against the wall, but of course that doesn’t bother the lovebirds next door.

For just a split second your mind wanders to a scandalous possibility. You mull over the kiss you just shared, the fire of Tom’s lips still burning against your skin — What if you didn’t stop? Would you have gone that far?

A loud, lewd sob from next door makes you snap out of it. Flinching, you push the embarrassing thought aside. Tom’s not like that, and neither are you. You still consider him a friend, though you don’t mind that intimate moment.

It’s just a lot recently. For both of you. Things like that happen when you crave comfort, that’s all.

Giving up with a groan and a roll of your eyes, your body slumps onto your bed. You don’t even bother getting changed, nor do you notice that you’re still wearing Tom’s jacket. All you kick off are your shoes, which you haphazardly drop to the floor.

Where your spine feels like pudding, enough for you to collapse, the couple continues its passionate lovemaking. If you can even call it that. You’re pretty sure you can hear the degrading dirty talk in between the slam of their headboard against the wall.

As if your head doesn’t hurt enough already. Grumbling tiredly, you shield your ears with the pillows and blankets, building yourself a cocoon that’ll hopefully drown out any noises.

Surprisingly, it does.

Your eyelids, heavier than they ever felt in your whole life, flutter closed and you drift off into a dreamless slumber within mere minutes.

PREVIEW:

Your trembling fingers struggle to fish for your phone. You dig in your pockets, before you realize— not your pockets. Tom’s. You’re still wearing his jacket.

Fear strikes you once more as you scramble to your feet and run to Room 104. Tom’s room. You knock, repeatedly, panicked. You sob, calling out his name, again and again, but there’s nobody answering.

You don’t have it in you to break down the door, neither physically — given how weak and shaky you feel — nor emotionally. Just thinking about what gruesome sight might await you in there nearly makes you vomit again.

Instead, you run back to your own room and grab your phone. You dial Axel’s number, knowing he’s Harmony’s sheriff. All those years of keeping the numbers of your old highschool friends… you never knew it would come in handy. You wish it didn’t have to.

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tojiscrack · 6 months ago

Note

on my weekly re-read of liar liar, and i was GOING TO pull an all nighter and finish it all, but i feel asleep before i could 😞😞

ANYWAYS!! i find it so funny that throughout the first chapter (and even later chapters, but not as much) its mentioned (and made very obvious) that y/n is a little devil child, that can be too much to handle, but never w megumi. like, idk how to explain it, but hes never thought shes “too much”, and lets her do what she wants, just puts his input in (like when she switched classes, he didnt feel overly annoyed by it, just told her that she was gonna get in trouble) (i might be wrong about this LMAO) youve written them in a way that they balance each other PERFECTLY, like they are genuinely soulmates.

the end scene of the first chapter is oddly one of my favourite parts of the fic, because we get other characters (albeit, minor characters, but wtv) opinions on them, and youve written them exactly like how they describe it. they keep each other in line, and thats why they work so well together.

anyways!!! i love this fanfic so sosososooos much!!! i dont understand how this isnt more popular because???? ITS SO GOOD???? literally how arent people falling in love with your writing within the first 1k words??

(also i meant to include this in a previous ask, but i forgot lol, BUT ONE OF MY FAV DUOS IN THE FIC (and in canon lfmao) is megumi and nobara?? everytime they’re together i genuinely laugh, you nailed their characters and character dynamic)

liar, liar masterlist here:

INCOMING YAP SESSION CUZ THIS ASK GOT ME SUPER DUPER EXCITED KSJSJDIWJ

WEEKLY reread? girl, stop, you’re gonna notice all the typos i cba to get rid of 🫣

HAHAHA, NO STOP, I HAVEN’T HAD ANYONE MENTION THE WHOLE ‘DEVIL CHILD’ THING SINCE THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS WERE RELEASED 😭 and that, my friend, was months ago 🌝

so i’m so excited to just talk about this omggg!!! 😫💘

yes indeed 😤 megumi would most likely say she’s sm to handle, but really, he lowkey enjoys it. it’s the only time he can be an accomplice witness to such foolish behaviour, and not be reprimanded for it as much ‘cause he just has her to fall back on and blame. he won’t ever stop her, per se, but he’ll tell her once or twice ‘whatever you’re doing, it’s not gonna work’ or ‘don’t be dumb’, and think he’s done his part before being influenced by her 💀

‘i might be wro-’ stfu you’re right and you know it 🙄❤️

and you’re also right in it not being mentioned as much when they’re older. no, i did not forget to add it, that was done intentionally for two reasons:

they’re older now, so as much as she does what she wants with him, she’s a lot more tame than she was as a child. that doesn’t mean she ever regrets the stupid things she’s done (except for the whole mermaid thing, that is a lifelong regret she’ll always have 😭)

the idea that she’s such a menace has been established enough over the years to the point where no one feels the need to voice it. new characters probably would — someone like miss b who was introduced in the middle school chapter — but even then, she was exposed to the more tame versions of the chaotic duo. so everyone kinda silently acknowledges it, and only during crazy moments (like the tragic helicopter incident of 2016, rip satoru/suguru’s will to live 😔) will it actually be voiced (like ogi mistakenly believing that y/n didn’t start any of the nonsense that occurred during the incident, and that was mentioned cuz of the fact that she’s famously known to be so incredibly out of control).

the bonus scene for the first chapter was my fav to write as wellll (tho arguably, i say that about so many scenes, so the value of this statement is probably worth nothing 💀). bonus scenes were initially meant to be ONLY from other people’s pov, but i noticed how so many things from y/n and megumi’s childhood tgth are littered around the story, and that the only way you could ever get any insight of them is through the bonus scene since the chapters are too long to add flashbacks AND bonus scenes. i could always do a separate set of oneshots for them, but i don’t have the time for that (yk this through my horrid updating schedule) 😟

but i am so glad you’re telling me what you enjoyed — and more importantly, being specific about it. it lets me put into perspective how the later chapters (tho already planned) should be set out. your feedback means the world to me, and you deserve a million set of kisses every night for them <3333

‘i love this fanfic sosososo much!!! i don’t understand how this isn’t more popular because??? IT’S SO GOOD???’

okay brb, gonna go and find my right to exist and have the perfect life when cutie pies like you grace this earth 😖💞💓💗💞

maybe one day it’ll get bigger 😊 if that day ever comes, i’ll remember my og readers. i’ll remember the support i was given from them. i’ll remember people like you, who continuously flood my inbox with enough love to pull yank me out of writer’s block and squeeze out another chapter, how because of your long and juicy asks/messages/dms, the cycle of writing i have going on here continues, and i feel more and more proud that i even developed such a fic to begin with ❤️

‘literally how aren’t people falling in love with your writing after the first 1k words’ — errr probably ‘cause the first 1k words were just y/n trying (and failing) to explain what happens in her horror stories without stuttering 💀 LMFAO, SORRY 😭 i’d fall asleep on that carpet if i were the kids surrounding her, and they went to listen willingly.

but ugh, that’s so nice of you, i’m gonna siwjosnwidjwjd

AND OMG YOU’RE SO RIGHT

like everyone talks about yuji/nobara, or yuji/megumi, bUT WHAT ABOUT MY BEANS NOBARA/MEGUMI? they have a level of deep understanding with each other in canon (and in my fic, which will be addressed CHAPTERSSSS later) that i’d love to yap about, but i’ve already yapped enough, like you’re probably cringing rn i’m sorry 😭 another time, maybe 😔

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bunny7567 · 6 months ago

Text

I got you - chapter 14

Pairing: Rex x Jedi!ofc

Word count: 4.6k Tags/Warnings: angst; awkward conversations; not the healthiest eating habits; Echo is having none of it; Echo is the mom of the group that's just canon; Rex has a sweet tooth, I'm sure of it; everyone is scared of Kix; we're slowly getting somewhere tho;

Previous chapter | Next chapter

vod'ika - little sister cyare - beloved

~~~

The Council had been pleased with Lexie. The information she had gathered on Clovis, plus her suggestion to send Senator Amidala as a spy for the Republic had led them to uncovering the location of the Separatist factory and ultimately destroying it during the Second Battle of Geonosis. Lexie had missed this battle however. She, Echo and Fives were sent on another covert assignment, infiltrating a Separatist base in order to obtain schematics for a new weapon they were developing.

After that they were almost immediately sent on yet another espionage mission, and then another one, and before she knew it, Lexie realised it had been six standard weeks since she’d last seen Rex, on the day before he and the rest of the 501st departed for the Battle of Dorin.

She had gone to his office that day, after receiving her assignment, knowing she would be gone for weeks. Although she had told Fives only the previous week that she couldn’t act on her feelings for Rex, she had woken up with a strange desire to tell him how she felt. So that evening, after leaving the Council’s room, Lexie had walked to the base, went to the command level, but then froze as she got to his door. She knew he was in his office, she could sense it, but she simply could not lift her hand up to the buzzer.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? Lexie shuddered as she heard her master’s voice inside her head. However, that voice was right, she couldn’t tell him, she couldn’t go against the Code.

She was about to turn and walk away when the door suddenly slid open and Rex stopped dead in his tracks as he saw her.

“General”, he said, clearly surprised to find her outside his door.

“Captain”, Lexie said too quickly.

“Is everything alright?”, he asked.

“Yeah, yeah… all fine”, she said.

The two of them just stood and looked at each other in an awkward silence for a moment, as Lexie’s mind was screaming at her to find something to say.

“I was just-”

“How are yo-”

They both started at the same time and stopped to let the other talk.

“You were saying”, Rex prompted after clearing his throat.

“N-No, you go first”, Lexie insisted.

“No, General, please”.

“Well I… I-I just haven’t seen you in a few days, I don’t know, I just wanted to, uhh, see how you were”, she blurted out.

“I’m alright. I uhm, I just finished some reports and was about to head back to my room”, Rex answered taken aback. “Unless you need me for something?”.

“Well no… I mean not exactly, only… if you’re free for the rest of the evening I thought maybe you’d want some company?”, she sheepishly said. “Unless you already have plans. Which I’m sure you probably do, I’ll just let you get go-”.

“I don’t have any plans”, he interrupted her nervous ramblings.

Rex wasn’t exactly sure why she seemed so anxious, but he had a suspicion. He had pretty much convinced himself during the past few weeks while she had been on the Clovis mission with Fives that the two of them had gotten together. Maybe that was what she now wanted to let him know but she wasn’t sure how he’d react. It still hurt to think about it and he was still jealous of his brother, much to his annoyance, but Rex had to accept whatever choice Lexie made. And he also didn’t want to lose her as a friend. This could be a good opportunity to show her that their friendship was alright. Even if it hurt him.

“So I uhh… I wouldn’t mind some company”, he added, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding his helmet.

“Would you maybe want to go out. Just like walk around. It’s surprisingly nice outside for this time of year, the weather is nice… really warm”, she said, cringing at the unnecessary details she was giving him.

“Yeah, that sounds nice”, Rex replied, before putting his helmet on and following after her to the lifts.

The two of them exited the building in silence, passing the First Battle Memorial, then leaving the military compound. They did make some small talk after the atmosphere between them grew too awkward, as they strolled side by side through the busy streets of Coruscant. Lexie really needed to fill the silence, so she started talking about her last mission, about Cantonica and about how tedious it was to pretend to flirt with Clovis as she tried to get him to talk about his business venture.

Rex listened closely, transfixed by the sound of her voice. She could probably start listing the ingredients in their ration bars and it would still feel like the most interesting thing he’d ever heard.

“I have a new assignment”, she said after finishing her story. “I’m leaving for the Raxus system tomorrow”.

“Are you taking Echo and Fives with you again?”, the Captain asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Yeah, the Council thinks we make a good team. I do feel a little bad for stealing your ARCs from you”, she joked.

“They’re not my ARCs”, Rex said with a small, amused huff.

“I beg to differ. You found them, brought them into the 501st, trained them, promoted them… I’d say they’re yours”, she said in a light tone, counting on her fingers for emphasis.

“If you say so, Lexie”, Rex chuckled, shaking his head.

Lexie stopped and looked around, trying to figure out the direction they needed to go in. “This way”, she said after she managed to orient herself.

“Where are we even going?”, Rex asked. He thought they were just aimlessly wondering around but it appeared Lexie did have a destination in mind.

“There’s one place here I really like, I thought maybe you’d want to see it”, she replied.

The Captain followed after here, walking once again in silence until they arrived in Monument Plaza. He’d heard about this place but had never seen it before, so he slowed his pace, took his helmet off and looked around the large, open space, his gaze landing on the mountain peak at the center of the plaza. It was definitely an impressive sight, and he could understand why Lexie liked it so much. His eyes then moved to her and he felt a blush creep up his neck. She was stood looking at him, her head slightly tilted to a side and a kittenish smile on her face.

“Have you ever had ice cream, Captain?”, she asked.

“Uhm, no. I haven’t”, he answered.

“That simply cannot do. We need to change that immediately”, she said determinedly before walking towards one of the shops built into one of the plaza walls.

Lexie ignored Rex’s protests that she should not spend her credits for him and got two portions of Nectrose Freeze. She then walked to one of the benches in front of the mountain peak and sat down, placing one of the cups of ice cream in her lap, and patted the space next to her. The Captain sat in the indicated space, resting his helmet next to him. Lexie then handed him his cup of the dessert and he hesitantly took it, lifted it closer to his face and sniffed it.

“It is edible, Rex”, she laughed. “I promise. See?”, she grabbed the small wooden spoon and took a bite, savouring the taste. Maker, it’s been too long since she’d had ice cream.

“Yeah, I know that”, Rex rolled his eyes. He then followed her example, taking a small scoop with his spoon. It was sweeter than he expected, the flavour filling his mouth as the ice cream melted on his tongue. The nectrose crystals however, had a fruity taste, a little sour, a contrast that perfectly complemented the sweetens of the dessert. He immediately took another bite.

“Careful, honey. You don’t want to get a brain freeze”, Lexie chuckled, eating her ice cream a lot slower.

“It’s a lot better than I expected”, Rex explained, a little embarrassed.

“Wow, I can’t believe you thought I’d make you try something that wasn’t good”, she feigned offence. Rex rolled his eyes again, but smiled a little.

The two of them ate their dessert as Lexie told him the reason she liked to come to this place. She told him a little about Seccaya, about the mountains that covered the entire planet and how bittersweet it felt to come to the plaza, to look at the Umate peak, to touch the cold, hard granite and think about her home. Rex listened closely and kept eating and Lexie tried not to stare at him as he did. It was clear he was enjoying it and she found it very endearing. He finished his dessert faster than her and placed the empty cup on the bench. Lexie looked at him again and chuckled, seeing that he had a bit of melted ice cream in the corner of his mouth.

“You have a little…”, she informed him, pointing to his lips.

“Where? Here?”, he asked, wiping the wrong side of his mouth.

“No, let me”, she said with a chuckle, moving her hand without thinking.

She placed two fingers under his chin and wiped the trace of the dessert away with her thumb, letting her hand linger there. Rex’s whole body tensed under her touch and his breath caught in his throat. Lexie noticed his reaction and quickly pulled her hand away.

“Sorry”, she mumbled.

“It’s fine”. Rex cleared his throat and avoided her gaze, feeling his heart sink.

She was just being friendly, he reminded himself, and that gesture had not meant anything to her. But for him, the feeling her soft touch on his skin, it was everything he had dreamed of for months. He suddenly remembered that she was probably with Fives and felt as if someone punched him in the gut, just like he did when he had seen them in the hallway.

“We, uhh… we should head back to base. It’s getting late”, he said, standing up and putting his helmet back on.

“Yeah… we… yeah, let’s go”, Lexie said, standing up.

The walk back to the military compound was mostly silent and Lexie was unsure what to think. Both Echo and Fives believed that Rex had feelings for her, however she still wasn’t confident that he did. But he called you cyare. And yet he had not done a single thing that would indicate he had really meant it the entire time they were out and he had even seemed uncomfortable when she touched him. No, the ARCs were probably mistaken on this account. And you’re a fucking Jedi anyway, snap out of it.

When they got back to the barracks Rex kept his helmet on as he wished her good luck on her next mission. It felt safer like that, he didn’t have to meet her eyes directly, didn’t have to hide the sadness on his face. Lexie thanked him and wished him goodnight, and watched as he got off the lift on the level the barracks were on. She went up to her room and tried to push every emotion deep, deep down, feeling actually grateful for the distance she was about to put between her and the source of all this frustration. She skipped breakfast in the mess the next morning, met up with Echo and Fives on the landing platform afterwards, and the three of them left for their covert assignment.

The mission had been difficult and long, same for the following two, but Lexie managed to complete them, gathering vital information for the Republic. The Council informed her that they were very satisfied with the work she and the two ARCs were doing, and it seemed like this little team of hers could be her new normal. She didn’t mind too much, Fives and Echo had become her closest friends and she loved their company, but she did miss the others. Especially Rex.

The distance had not helped like she had hoped. She still thought about him constantly, she worried about his safety, she dreamed about him and yearned to be close to him again. In the occasional moments he was with Anakin during one of their check-ins, Lexie could barely keep herself from staring solely at his holo-form. Frankly, she couldn’t wait until she could see him again.

That is why she struggled so much to maintain a professional look on her face as she approached the briefing room back at the base, having felt his presence inside as soon as she stepped off the lift on the command level.

As she entered the room, Echo and Fives right behind her, she forced herself to look at everyone else first. Obi-Wan and Mace Windu were in there, stood behind the holotable, and so was Anakin, who was stood close to the senator of Naboo. Her presence there intrigued Lexie, it must be related to the new assignment.

Her eyes then flickered to Rex, his back had been to the door when she entered and he turned to offer her a respectful nod as she stopped next to him, in front of the table. To her surprise, Rex also handed her a cup of caf, which she gladly accepted. The moment her fingers briefly brushed his when taking the cup felt as if an electric current zapped her and she couldn’t stop the shiver she felt down her spine.

“Thank you, Captain, I really needed this”, she told him, trying to keep a level voice.

“I thought you would”, he said. She couldn’t see it under the helmet but she was sure he smiled as he said it.

“Good to see you, Alexis”, Obi-Wan greeted her. “I don’t believe you’re acquainted with Senator Amidala”.

“Masters”, Lexie acknowledged, before moving her gaze to the woman in question, “Senator, it’s a pleasure to meet you”.

“The pleasure is all mine, Master Khalla. Master Skywalker has told me so much about you”, the Senator replied.

“All good things I hope”, Lexie said as he threw a slightly confused look towards her friend.

“Let’s talk business”, Anakin interjected. “We’re in need of your undercover experience”.

“Senator Amidala has been selected to represent the Republic during diplomatic negotiations on the planet Kaldonya. We believe she needs Jedi protection, her recent endeavours on Cato Neimoidia may have placed a target on her back again”, Mace Windu explained.

“So my team and I will act as the security detail?”, Lexie asked before taking a sip of caf.

“It’s not that easy unfortunately”, Obi-Wan answered. “The Kaldonyans are opposed to a Jedi presence on the planet, they’re worried there could be repercussions from Count Dooku. They initially wanted to deny a GAR security force as well but they’ve finally agreed to allow a couple of troopers to accompany the Senator. However, they will not be allowed in the negotiation room or in the banquet hall-”.

“That’s where you and Rex come in”, Anakin piped in.

“Me and Rex?”, she repeated.

“You will go undercover as diplomatic aides. That way you can accompany Senator Amidala at all times”, Mace Windu clarified.

“Won’t they know Rex is a clone trooper?”, Lexie asked.

“As long as Fives and Echo keep their helmets on at all times when in public, they shouldn’t make the connection. Rex doesn’t have the standard clone haircut and he’ll be wearing civilian clothing as well”, Anakin said.

“Aright. When do we leave?”, she said, trying her hardest to conceal how happy the prospect of a mission with Rex had made her.

As she walked out of the briefing room she heard her name being called by Anakin.

“Could we talk, privately?”, he asked her.

“Sure, everything okay?”, Lexie replied.

Anakin motioned for her to follow him. The two Jedi walked down the hallway and entered Lexie’s office. She turned and looked at her friend. She could sense some anxiety surrounding his Force signature and it made her uneasy.

“Everything okay, Anakin?”, she repeated.

“I need you to promise me you’ll do everything to protect her”, he said in a serious voice.

“The Senator?”, she asked for confirmation, frowning in confusion.

“My wife”, Anakin confessed.

“Y-Your… your wife?”, Lexie said in disbelief, her eyebrows shooting up.

“Padmé and I got married right after the First Battle of Geonosis”, he explained.

“You’re joking”, she said.

She scanned his face for any sign of teasing and then reached through the Force. Anakin sensed her probing and opened his mind just enough so that she could make sure he was telling the truth.

“You’re not joking”, Lexie leaned on her desk, her brows furrowing.

“No. I’m not”.

A thousand thoughts raced through Lexie’s mind and she closed her eyes, trying to carefully select her next words.

“You’re breaking the Code-”

“Kriff the Code. We’re supposed to be compassionate but we’re not allowed to love? It’s banthashit and you know it”, he scoffed. “And don’t pretend like you’re following it, Lexie, I’ve seen how close you are to the men. Can you honestly tell me you haven’t formed attachments to any of them?”.

“Well I…”, she trailed off. Her mind immediately wandered to Rex. She knew Anakin was right. “I can’t say that”, she whispered.

“Do I have to worry that you’ll tell the Council?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, don’t be ridiculous”, she scoffed.

Anakin smiled. “Good. I’m glad you finally know. I’ve wanted to tell you for months now, just never found the right time. And I was also starting to worry Rex would have a stroke if he had to lie to you about it again”, he chuckled.

“Rex knows?”.

“Yeah. He’s been covering for me every now and then, helping me while we’re off-planet and I want to talk to her”.

Lexie briefly raised her eyebrows. So that’s what “their thing” was.

“So you’ll protect her?”

“Of course I’ll protect her, Ani. You didn’t even need to confess your biggest secret for me to do it, it’s literally my duty”, she said a little irritated.

“Well now you know what the real stakes are”, he said with a chuckle. Lexie rolled her eyes.

He patted her shoulder then moved towards the door.

“Are you happy? Is it worth it, breaking the rules, having to keep it secret?”, she stopped him before he left.

“She’s worth it. I’ve never been happier than when I’m with her”, he said, then walked through the door.

Lexie didn’t move from the desk. Her mind was still processing the shocking information. She was also feeling something, an unpleasant ache in her stomach. She tried to place the feeling, to figure out what it was. Envy. She was envious of her friend she realised. He was a formidable Jedi, a skilled and respected general, but he was also happy, loved and in love. He had both. Why couldn’t she?

A small sound signalled the presence of someone outside her office and she finally moved from the desk. She found Echo stood in front of the door, helmet tucked between his arm and hip.

“Were you waiting for me? I thought you’d be with the others”, she asked.

“They’re waiting for us in the mess hall. I wanted to make sure you’ll join us”, he explained.

“I’m not that hungry. Think I’ll go have a shower and get ready for our departure”.

“Vod’ika I haven’t seen you eat a single ration bar in two rotations. You’re coming to the mess”, Echo ordered.

“Okay mom”, she rolled her eyes. "But really, I'm not hungry".

“Don’t make me tell Kix”, he threatened.

“You wouldn’t”, she said, crossing her arms over her chest and starring him down defiantly.

Echo pressed a few buttons on his vambrace and lifted his comm close to his mouth. “Kix, come in”.

“Fine! I’ll come to the mess”, Lexie conceded, lifting her hand up in an exaggerated movement. She was not in the mood for another lecture from the medic.

“Yes vod?”, Kix’s voice sounded through the comlink at the same time.

“Is everyone in the mess?”, Echo said into the comm.

“Yeah. We literally just agreed we’d meet here. Did you hit your head during your last mission or something?”, the medic replied after a second of static.

“Just checking. We’re on our way”.

Echo started walking towards the lifts, with Lexie following next to him.

“Just because you haven’t seen me eat doesn’t mean I haven’t”, she said.

“Yeah? When’s the last time you ate then?”, he pressed.

“Well… okay fine I didn’t have time today. But I did have a ration bar yesterday”.

Echo gave her a disapproving look. This was not the first time they had this conversation.

“Just don’t say anything to Rex. He’s already pissed off with Fives, don’t want him angry with me too for not looking out for you”, he said with a sigh.

“Rex is pissed off with Fives? Already? We just got here”, she asked confused.

“He didn’t say anything but he’s giving Fives that look as if he’s plotting his murder in his head. Not sure why”, Echo shrugged. “He seemed angry with him last time we all saw each other too. Could be the same reason”.

“Wait, before he left for the Battle of Dorin? He was angry with Fives then too?”, she asked, an anxious feeling stirring in her stomach.

“Yeah. He made him run extra laps during training and berated him for the smallest slip-up. Was pretty funny to watch to be honest”, he replied with a chuckle.

Lexie swallowed thickly and tried to keep her mind in check. She had forgotten about it during the weeks she’d been away, the fear that Rex somehow knew about her and the ARC trooper. But Fives had pissed Rex off in the past in so many different ways. Who knows what he did this time, right?

When they got to the mess, Lexie got some food and headed to their usual table. Fives was sat next to Jesse on one side, while on the other side she saw Rex, Hardcase and Kix. She decided to sit down next to the Captain, an action that seemed to surprise him a little. Echo sat down next to his twin and the group began catching up. It had been weeks since they’d all been together like this and Lexie was glad for the familiarity. And being so close to Rex again was really comforting. But he was tense, she noticed it. And she also noticed the glares he would shoot Fives whenever the ARC spoke.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t on Geonosis with you”, Lexie leaned closer to Rex to tell him, while the others were focused on Fives’ account of their last mission.

“You were needed elsewhere, General”, he replied in a low voice.

“I still feel like I should’ve been there for you. That’s where we first met after all... It’s sort of special. I mean it’s still a horrible place b-but it’s special... I-If it makes any sense”, she said with a nervous chuckle.

The look Rex gave her sent a shiver down Lexie’s spine. There was an emotion in his eyes she couldn’t discern. It looked a bit like sadness, but also laced with hope. The corner of his lips slightly lifted in a smile. “I know what you mean”.

“I’m really happy we finally have a mission together again. I’ve missed you”, Lexie admitted, bumping his leg with hers.

“Me too”, he said, mirroring the movement.

A few hours later, Lexie was aboard Padmé’s starship, en route to Kaldonya. She would have to get changed soon, as they were scheduled to arrive just as the welcome banquet was starting, a banquet Senator Amidala had to attend. She was nervous about it, she had not attended an event this formal in a long time. But she was also nervous about the mission. Knowing just how important Padmé was to her friend had sent her mind spiralling down a hole of worst-case scenarios.

She had tried to hide it, she made small talk and played Dejarik with Echo, but the men still noticed, and Fives came to check on her after a while, placing a hand on her shoulder and leaning close to ask in a whisper if she was okay. She usually would’ve been grateful for his concern, but on this particular occasion it only caused her more anxiety when she noticed the way Rex’s eyes had moved between her and the ARC trooper, the way his gaze turned cold, before getting up from his seat in the ship’s parlor room and walking out.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She needed to know if he knew. She needed to apologise and make it right. She needed him not to hate her like she worried he did. She needed him to know what he meant to her.

Lexie excused herself and followed the Captain out of the room and down the corridor.

“Rex”, she called after him. “Are you alright?”.

He stopped and turned to face her, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, I’m fine”.

“Why are you angry with Fives?”, she asked after a brief hesitation.

“I’m not”, he replied a little too quickly.

“Rex, come on… is… is it because of me?”, she stepped closer to him, keeping her voice low.

The Captain caught her eyes for a second before averting his gaze to the floor. Lexie felt a pit form in her stomach.

“What do you know?”, she swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Nothing. It’s not my business anyway”, he replied dryly.

“Rex…”

“I really don’t want to talk about it”, he said, voice almost pleading.

“Rex, please. What do you know?”, she repeated the question, the anxiety making her feel nauseated.

The Captain let out a defeated sigh. “I-I came to check on you. The morning after… after they came back from ARC training”, Rex said quietly. The pain she saw in his eyes broke her heart. She had done that, she had caused that pain and she hated herself for it.

How do I make this right?

“I… I was drunk and-and he was drunk too… w-we were both too drunk. It didn’t mean anything Rex I-”, she blurted out.

“It’s not my business, Lexie. You don’t owe me an explanation”, he interrupted, the last words coming out almost as a whisper.

"B-but... I do", she mumbled, struggling to find the words to explain herself. Her heart was beating fast, and guilt and pain were filling her mind. “The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Rex. It's... it’s completely the opposite of what I wanted… I-I actually... I wished it was you", the words came tumbling out of her lips before she could stop them. His eyebrows shot up. Those were not the words he expected to hear.

"What?", he asked, eyes quickly darting up to meets hers.

She opened her mouth but then immediately closed it back. She had not expected to admit that out loud. Rex’s eyes were stuck to hers, his face a mixture of confusion and hope as he waited for a reply. She needed to say something, anything but the thoughts were racing around her mind so fast, she couldn’t string together a single coherent sentence. Before Lexie could figure out what to say, the door to the parlor room hissed open.

"We're almost out of hyperspace", Echo announced, walking towards them in the small corridor. "You two okay?", he asked after noticing their tense bodies and the shocked expressions on both of their faces.

Lexie cleared her throat which suddenly felt too dry. "Yeah, we're fine".

She walked away without looking at Rex. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions that she was fighting to keep buried inside. Lexie had to focus now, the mission was about to start. She walked into one of the private chambers of the ship to get changed.

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