#Is like... Telling a person drowning that they should just swim

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[heartsiebyul]

Hey! I was wondering how the third years would react to a reader that is panicking every time somebody tries to get them into a deep body of water? Like they get wide eyed and would get violent if a person would try to forcefully drag them into the water after almost drowning while learning to swim and they therefore don’t know how to swim.

Sorry if the ask is long I was just thinking about how they would react to my trauma response near water.

How Twisted Wonderland characters would react to you panicking near water due to your past near-drowning trauma.

NRC Third Years

Trey Clover

Trey’s eyes widen in concern the moment he sees your panic—your eyes blown wide, breath hitching, muscles tensing. He immediately steps between you and whoever's trying to pull you in.

"Hey, hey. Back off—can’t you see they’re scared?"

He keeps his tone calm and grounded, hands up as he approaches you slowly. He won’t touch you unless you allow it. Once you're out of immediate danger, he leads you somewhere dry and quiet.

"You don’t have to explain, (name). But if you ever want to talk about it… I’ll listen, okay?"

And he’ll never, ever try to push you into water. Instead, he makes sure people know your boundaries and subtly steers conversations or activities away from pools or lakes.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s usual easygoing charm vanishes in an instant when he sees the terror in your eyes. He jumps in between you and the water like a shield, grabbing the arm of whoever was dragging you.

"Yo, not cool! Look at them—they’re freaking out!"

He crouches down to your level, his phone forgotten in his back pocket for once, eyes wide with worry.

"You’re okay, (name). You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Later, Cater tries to cheer you up with silly distractions or comfort food, but he also respects the gravity of your fear. If you’re ready to talk, he listens with unexpected sincerity.

Leona Kingsholar

The moment you lash out, Leona’s instincts kick in. He grabs your wrist—not to stop you, but to steady you—and growls at the offender.

"Are you stupid? Don’t touch them like that."

He keeps you tucked behind him, his body a warm, solid barrier between you and the water. His eyes are sharp, not at you, but at whoever triggered your reaction.

Afterwards, he’s silent for a while. Then, quietly:

"You almost drowned, didn’t you?"

He doesn’t press you. He just stays close, a silent guardian lounging near but never too far. Anyone trying that again? They'll have to answer to him first.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil immediately sees the fear in your eyes. His face tightens, his voice commanding.

"Enough. Step away from them. Now."

He approaches you with gentle, regal grace, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

"Breathe with me, (name). In… and out. That’s it."

Once you’re safe, he won’t let it go unaddressed. Vil won’t pry, but he’ll sit with you, hands folded delicately.

"You should have told me. I could’ve made sure this never happened. No one has the right to disregard your trauma—not even for something ‘fun.’"

He’ll personally ensure no one tries that again. Water activities? Not unless you say yes.

Rook Hunt

The moment your panic shifts to violence, Rook’s expression changes from curious to deadly serious.

"Non, non, non—mon chasseur! They are frightened. Release them!"

He’s at your side instantly, his movements surprisingly grounded, protective. He gently pulls you away, cradling you like something precious.

"You were close to death once, weren’t you? The water still whispers to you in nightmares..."

His words may sound theatrical, but there’s an undercurrent of raw sincerity. He treats your fear as sacred, something not to be dismissed.

"Tell me where your comfort lies, and I shall be your bow and arrow, guarding you always."

Idia Shroud

Idia’s already uncomfortable around water, so when you panic, his anxiety spikes too—but for you. His tablet clatters to the ground when he sees your face.

"Wait, wait—(name)?! D-don’t touch them!"

He waves his hands frantically, practically teleporting to your side. He’s terrified of making things worse, but he’d still rather suffer than watch you crumble.

Once you’re safe and calm, he sits cross-legged beside you, hoodie pulled over his head.

"That was, uh… really scary. I mean—for you. I didn’t know you were—"

He stops rambling and just looks at you.

"If you ever wanna talk about it, or not talk, or just play a game to forget it, I’m here. You’re not weird for this."

Malleus Draconia

The second your panic spikes, Malleus’s magic crackles faintly in the air. He steps forward like a shadow given form, eyes glowing with quiet fury.

"You will not touch them again."

His presence alone is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. He walks over to you slowly, carefully, crouching before you like one would before a frightened creature of legend.

"You have been harmed by water. It has left its mark on your soul."

He speaks like he understands—because in some ways, he does. He won’t force healing on you, but he’ll offer safety, always.

"You need not fear. I shall be your storm now. None shall drag you where you do not wish to go."

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia’s cheerful facade vanishes in an instant when he sees your reaction. He flashes between you and the aggressor like a blur, his voice suddenly dark.

"That’s enough. You’re scaring them."

His tone is sharp—dangerous—in a way few get to witness. He kneels beside you, all gentleness now, and eyes warm.

"It’s alright, (name). You’re not in the water. You’re safe."

Later, he hums softly, guiding you through a dry land.

"I’ve lived a long time, and I know this—fear born of survival is never weakness. You lived. That makes you strong."

He respects your boundaries and never jokes about it. If anything, he teaches others to respect them too—with or without words.

I hope you’re doing well, pal! Take your time healing, okay?

[r-memberme]

ridiculously in love | k.m

⎯⎯His eyes narrow in playful defiance. “Ridiculous?” he repeats, raising his glass high, “I’ll have you know, I am a poet, darling. Shakespeare would tremble in his grave.”

warnings: drunk klaus

Klaus Mikaelson, with all his centuries of power and pride, sits slumped against the bar, his usually impeccable posture replaced by the sway of too many drinks. His eyes, glazed with the liquor’s slow haze, flicker toward you, an odd mix of longing and amusement dancing behind them. There’s something soft in his gaze—a rarity, like a star breaking through the night sky.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, slurring the words, voice a low purr. “The moonlight in my endless night.” His head tilts, trying to focus, and his lips curl into a lopsided, barely there grin. “You... you’re beautiful. Not that I didn’t know that already. But tonight, oh, tonight—my eyes, they are full of wonder at your radiance.”

You can't help but smile at the sheer absurdity of it all. Klaus, the ever-confident, the immortal hybrid, reduced to this—drunk, poetic, and adorably... vulnerable. You sit beside him on the barstool, your fingers brushing against his, and he lets out a low hum of satisfaction.

His hand finds its way to yours, and he presses it against his chest, his fingers wrapping around yours with an intensity that seems both desperate and endearing. His heart beats beneath his ribcage, a steady thrum of life and longing. He lifts your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against your knuckles.

“I’d never do anything to hurt you,” he says, the words tinged with an unexpected vulnerability. His voice cracks just enough for you to catch it, the hint of a man who, despite the walls he’s built, is so afraid of losing the one person who’s ever seen beyond the monster.

You squeeze his hand softly. “I know you wouldn’t, Klaus. You never would.”

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip. “But that’s what I am, you know? A monster. A beast.” He sways slightly, and his gaze turns playful. “A rather handsome one, if I do say so myself. But a monster, nonetheless.”

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “You’re not a monster.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your words. “Tell that to the hundreds of people I’ve—” he waves a hand vaguely, “—well, you know, what’s the word... dispatched. But then again, you seem quite fond of me, don’t you?” His lips twitch into a grin, though there’s a glint of sincerity in his eyes.

His fingers squeeze yours tighter. “You make me want to be better. I—”

He pauses for a moment, eyes swimming with emotion, as if he’s on the verge of saying something more, something that would never pass his lips while sober.

Instead, he shakes his head with a self-deprecating chuckle. “No, no, it’s the wine talking.” He gestures vaguely, as though trying to push the deep confession out of the air. “I’m afraid I’ve become quite the poet under the influence.” He tips his glass in mockery, “To you, my muse, my torment, my redemption.”

You smile, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

His eyes narrow in playful defiance. “Ridiculous?” he repeats, raising his glass high, “I’ll have you know, I am a poet, darling. Shakespeare would tremble in his grave.”

Klaus takes another drink and then stares at you, his expression turning serious for a split second. “But you should know something, love. I would burn the world for you. I would drown every living soul for you. If it means you stay. If it means you are mine.”

His gaze softens, and the smirk returns. “Not that you could ever escape, of course.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

And then, as if on cue, Klaus attempts to stand up, but the world seems to sway just a bit too much for him. His foot catches on the edge of the barstool, and with an exaggerated grunt, he topples backward. There’s a moment of surprise, and then—flop. Klaus lands flat on his back with a dramatic thud, his arms splayed out like he’s fallen from a great height.

For a second, you can’t help but burst out laughing.

He groans, rubbing his head, and shoots you a look that’s equal parts annoyed and amused. “Well, this wasn’t in the script,” he mutters, his voice slurring with the humor of it. “I meant to make an elegant exit, not… this.”

You step forward, offering your hand to help him up, and he takes it with exaggerated slowness. “You know,” he says, his eyes narrowing mischievously, “I meant to be all charming and debonair, and yet, here I am, looking like an idiot.” He pauses for a beat. “But if you insist, I will accept your help. You know, in the name of graciousness.”

You laugh again as you pull him back onto his feet. “Graciousness, huh? I think you're just using your fall as an excuse to get me to help you.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs, steadying himself against you. “I always use my charm to my advantage. It’s my divine right. Now—” he pats his chest with a grand flourish, “—I propose a toast to me, and to you, and to the fact that you still find me attractive, despite the occasional tumble.”

He picks up his glass again, sloshing it dangerously. “To my beauty, to your incomparable taste in men, and to the undeniable truth that no one but me could make falling on my ass look this good!”

You raise your glass, the corners of your lips curling in affection. “Cheers to that, I suppose.”

Klaus smirks, then adds, “Oh, and to my humility, of course.”

He winks, clearly pleased with his own humor, and you can’t help but shake your head, your heart full of warmth for the man whose pride rarely lets him act this ridiculous. You’ve always seen him as a force of nature—a creature whose power and dominance leave no room for doubt. But in these moments? In these drunken moments? He’s a little less of the monster he claims to be, and a little more... human. And that makes everything about him feel just a little bit more real.

The two of you share a quiet, comfortable silence for a moment. Then Klaus, ever dramatic, leans in closer, his expression softening.

“You know,” he says, his voice quieter now, “I think I’m done pretending. I think I’m done pretending I’m not... ridiculously in love with you.”

You stare at him, taken aback for a second. And just when you think he might say more, he tips his glass again, finishing the rest of his drink with an exaggerated flourish.

“See?” he says, clearly proud of himself. “I’m deep.”

You burst out laughing again, the sound full of affection and amusement.

“Ridiculous,” you say again, still laughing.

And this time, Klaus doesn’t disagree.

I love writing for drunk Klaus🤍 he's so stupid I love him so much. I was giggling and kicking my feet writing this.

See this as an apology for the post I will publish on Mother's Day. You'll see what I mean.

anyone wanna be apart of my taglist?

taglist:

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[glasskey]

Season 6 - Critical Mass

Fuck me. Season 6. Some loved it, most hated it. Episode 9 in particular really brought the whole house of cards down for this season, and left the writers and show runners with nothing but angry fans and a thousand questions to answer. I started making my own list sometime ago and episode 9 just tipped me over into critical mass. Because it involved the death of not one but two beloved characters, fans were let’s say, a little miffed. The choice to off Nick Blaine in particular has drawn considerable heat and there’s plenty of reasons why. Let’s take a look at some of the biggest reasons that Season 6 broke abso-fucking-loutely everything.

Firstly, I don’t think that it’s an exaggeration to say that at times season 6 just felt surreal and not in a good way. Previous seasons had set up the rules and guidelines for this world and season 6 simply didn’t care about any of them. For instance; how were people just waltzing in and out of Gilead now? That place used to be fucking locked down. Spot lights, dogs, guard towers, drones, Eyes….anyone remember how Emily had to swim over that freezing river with Holly to get to freedom and it was scary AF? Baby Holly nearly drowned. Now June Osborne, Gilead public enemy number one is just jumping in the car to go shuttle Lawrence across the border to a completely abandoned aircraft hangar. But season 6 didn’t stop there, it also didn’t respect the laws of gravity when it dangled Osborne from a crane 30 feet in the air and then hurled her to the ground without a scratch. In addition to disregarding the very laws of physics, Season 6 also gave characters amnesia on multiple occasions, cited off screen occurrences as lore as some sort of “fail safe”, sought to rewrite characters very natures, violated original texts, assumed knowledge, disregarded plot holes and selectively altered the basic moral compass by which characters would be judged. In fact, there really isn’t much that season 6 didn’t do in terms of just breaking all the guidelines that keep a world intact. I can only hope that it will be used as an example of what NOT to do by future writers, because quite honestly the disbelief and anger by audiences has been visceral, and personally I’ve never wanted to smash my television more.

This season was meant to be about people showing their true faces and I am STUNNED that somewhere, somehow these writers have justified that a woman who participated in multiple rapes, stole a baby, and had her hand in the conception of Gilead, has a benevolent “true face”. On Serena’s wedding night she was astonished to learn that her new husband, King of all the High Commanders was a die hard loyalist who liked to keep a handmaid on staff. She had a bit of a whimper but next morning she was ready to kiss and make up, and then her new hubby left for a morning appointment to execute her bestie. Despite this, Serena the baby snatching rapist, was afforded a redemption arc. I was and am, horrified.

Show runners have seen fit to state that Serena and June were actually the love story all along and I cannot tell you how much it disgusts me to hear that they would actually think that a victim / abuser relationship should ever be described as such. I am deeply disturbed that the creators of this show believe it is appropriate to describe the relationship between a kidnapper, rapist, physical and psychological abuser and their victim, as a love story. To say that June is able to forgive her abuser is one thing, to say that she loves her is quite another. If Serena had been a man, a father, she would have pushed her aboard that doomed plane. As it was she was a mother and therefore untouchable so she ultimately walked away virtually unscathed. So the writers message was we could be forgiven anything, even the vilest acts against our own gender, as long as we reproduced. If they intended me to feel all supported and warm and fuzzy as a woman, they well and truly missed the mark. Women like Serena Joy are fucking traitors, because they know full well what it’s like to be a woman, to fight for every single tiny square inch of freedom, and yet they seek to seize power by crushing their fellow women beneath their heel in order to get it.

Next in line is Aunt Lydia, who sanctioned and carried out torture, rape and murder. She arranged for Janine’s eye to be ripped out and farmed women into slavery. Suddenly she was pleading ignorance over what actually happens to the handmaids in their retirement? Are you fucking kidding me? This woman was so far up Gilead’s arse there was literally nothing that demon didn’t know about what was happening to those Handmaids. Atwood’s text reveals the aunts kept secret detailed files on all of them, and having Aunt Lydia now whining about her “poor girls” after tasing them for 5 seasons is laughable. She’d chained a pregnant handmaid in the basement and informed June she’d be shot after giving birth, so all of her sudden crocodile tears about the ex handmaids being sent to Jezebels was the weakest bunch of bullshit I’d ever seen for her entire character arc. But she’s needed for The Testaments, so she had a benevolent face slapped on her at the last moment and was given a redemption arc of sorts as well. Writers also failed to explain how Aunt Lydia was going to be embedded back into Gilead society now that she’s blown her cover.

Next victim is Lawrence. Last season Lawrence shot down the rescue planes for Hannah and told Blaine that it was a free for all to use June Osborne as target practice. He’s responsible for inventing a world of slavery and death, and he kept his wife imprisoned for years, but Lawrence has a strong papa bear vibe with some punchy one liners, so he gets a redemption arc and a heroes death. It’s worth mentioning that Joseph was actually the one responsible for dragging Serena back to Gilead and NOT Blaine as the Show runners would have you believe. Blaine actually spoke up for her, asking if “it was really necessary to drag her back into this”, however this was painted as Blaine’s decision to bring Serena back……despite the fact it was Lawrence who suggested it…..and physically went and got her…..and virtually strong armed her into the car. It’s also worth noting that Lawrence was all aboard the Gilead train, chowing down on that delicious power as a newly appointed High commander, until he learned that all the other commanders (except Blaine) were gunning for him. So it’s really not like he gave a shit about Mayday out of some sense of righteous justice, he just thought it might save his own neck. The martyr’s death / self sacrificial death are the highest value character deaths and quite frankly I’m not sure he deserved that quality of death but he’s cuddly and Whitford didn’t want him to die a villain, so there you go.

Finally we come to Nick Blaine. Out of the Gilead four this season, he was definitely the one most deserving of a redemption arc, but you know clever plot twist, scapegoat required….and guess who gets fucked after 5 seasons. Nick Blaine had spent 5 seasons risking his life on almost a bi seasonal basis for the protagonist, was deeply in love with her and had connections in Mayday. But in season 6 the writers decided to transform him into nothing but a greedy, power hungry, little fascist over the course of 3 episodes, and then unceremoniously had the protagonist kill him off as some sort of true measure of her strength. The writers not only made him the villain and had him killed, but gave him a death befitting a coward. I’m not sure who thought it would be a good idea to serve up this pile of revenge to a fan favourite who’d been a benevolent companion to the protagonist for the last 5 seasons….but it hideously back fired. I foresaw this when I viewed the original trailers and I prayed that they hadn’t been so stupid as to destroy both a character and a couple that over 80% of the audience were deeply invested in with a spin off waiting in the wings….unfortunately they were and the backlash has been brutal. It was around the time that they decided to bring it all home, that I couldn’t help but notice that out of all of the Gilead four, they’d actually taken the lowest socioeconomic character and seen fit to make him the sole villain and then grind him into a fine powder. It was one thing in season 1 when they illustrated how the poor and uneducated masses could be easily targeted and recruited, it was quite another to make the statement that because he came from “nothing” he was more likely to turn to villainy. Reality is, the well spring of most of the worlds evil fuckery lies deep in the hearts of those born to wealth and power. They’re used to it, they don’t like to share it, they’re terrified of losing it and they’ll do anything to get more of it. My nomination for most likely villain out of the Gilead Four was actually Serena. She's used to wealth and power and desperate to send her little spawn of Satan to a decent private school.

Meanwhile in Mayday central the folks there could do no wrong; Tuello fed civilians into the meat grinder that was Gilead’s highly trained military against Blaine’s advice, and yet remained untouched by any moral judgement from the writers. While everyone cheered as Tuello strode purposefully into the room to find Serena breathless at the sight of her little thirst trap, I ground my teeth and felt my fingernails digging into my palms. I just couldn’t help but wonder why on earth would Tuello trust Lawrence after that little incident with Hannah last season either. He’d just been burnt by Nick and his first response is to go pal up with the Architect of Gilead himself? I also didn’t understand why Tuello was skulking around in No Man’s Land in the first place. All the other diplomats were welcome in New Bethlehem, so why wasn’t he running recon or checking in with why Blaine suddenly wasn’t answering his calls? Why not set up a diplomatic embassy in New Bethlehem? Perhaps because IT WOULD HAVE MADE SENSE. This season saw Blaine give up Mayday’s plan. He’d chosen his side apparently and it wasn’t Osborne….after 5 seasons of choosing Osborne (sigh). So I couldn’t help but wonder why this hideous traitor didn’t just tell the other commanders where Mayday central was? He knew approximately where it was and yet there they were all hopping on a plane to DC to work out some intricate plan to curb the rebel operations. I mean the guy could virtually draw a map with a sign that says “bomb here” pointing to the Mayday camp and yet…..Urgh.

The character transformations have gone from zero to a hundred with nothing in between this season. Luke went from wanting to join Mayday, to planting bombs, to running around screaming with a machine gun and hand grenades. Rita went from not wanting to get involved with Mayday, to poisoning the cake with sedatives, to running screaming down the street shooting wildly. Serena got engaged and married in like a week and went from “I didn’t really think about what happened to the handmaids”, to teary eyed demanding to know the “real name” of her new one. Nick proclaimed his undying love for June, 10 seconds later they had a brutal break up, next episode he virtually skipped down the aisle with his wife singing about his new baby and renouncing the parentage of Holly, then he completely ignored the fact that the love of his life was about to be hung (can we just pause and consider how absolutely unbelievable THAT is please), said some BIZARRE shit about commanders being the winners and promptly exploded. Fuuuuuuuck. I mean it would have been hilariously ridiculous if it wasn’t just so fucking tragic to watch all that potential come to such a pointless end. Like so many things this season, this plot line doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean how were these commanders the “winners”? The rebels had just bombed their city and killed most of them, they were practically an endangered species. Somehow the audience was convinced into believing that if the Boston commanders ever made it to DC, Gilead would win and rule over the earth forever and ever. I guess that must have been where they had been keeping their secret special map room and chanting circle. I mean where is the plot? Is the plot in the room with us now? The trajectory on Blaine’s character arc comparative to other seasons, felt like the pilot had suddenly decided to fly the plane into the mountain (excuse the pun). He’d been building to something huge and both of Atwood’s texts indicated that Mayday was in his future, however it was at this point that the writers took incredible licence and deviated from the source material completely. It seemed a huge violation that Blaine’s character was altered from the version in both texts and while all the other characters were carefully manoeuvred into place, he was killed off. Granted Miller and co. had, had the freedom to fill in the blanks between season 2 - 6, various elements of the texts still acted as a guide for these characters natures, journeys and ultimate destinations and there was just no way around the fact that they’d chosen to completely ignore it. Insultingly I was asked to ignore Blaine’s death on the basis that he “had it coming”. Not only was that NOT an answer as to why such liberties were taken with the source material about his nature, depicted allegiances, and you know the fact that he was fucking ALIVE in the book, but that reasoning was also completely riddled with holes.

Throughout the seasons Blaine had been firmly established as an ally to the protagonist via a multitude of mechanisms which were now being blatantly discounted. For example; ALL of the acts of violence that the audience had been shown that were directly and voluntarily committed by Blaine were all performed AGAINST a member of Gilead to either protect the protagonist, at her request or as a form of righteous justice for her cause. Now I was being told that off screen he’d been sneaking around the protagonists back committing horrendous acts on behalf of Gilead….but we just hadn’t seen it….and didn’t know about it…..and SOMEHOW the writers couldn’t understand how that would be confusing..…or even believable. Urgh. The more I looked, the more holes appeared and the more it all just reeked of rewriting history for the sake of a plot twist and a quickly constructed political narrative. For whatever reason it was done, it was sloppy and completely contradictory to the characters original nature, both on screen and in the texts. Even if I did give these writers the benefit of the doubt and BELIEVED their spiel about this character, I’m not sure it worked in their favour to be constantly pointing out that they had neglected to fill in the audience properly on vital character elements during previous seasons.

For some reason the writers and show runners were now under the illusion that their audience had not actually been paying attention while watching the previous 5 seasons, that they had developed some sort of selective amnesia. They also deemed to give the protagonist amnesia, thus making her seem unempathetic, heartless and deeply unlikeable. Blaine had turned up for her countless times and yet was given no quarter. She had simply developed amnesia about what it was like to try and survive in Gilead after a brief stay in Canada. The writers may have intended to make her look strong and assertive, but her failure to extend any measure of compassion or even seek to dig further, made it seem as though the entire relationship had been transactional. It was as if now that Blaine had ceased to serve a purpose, he was being abandoned. This effectively destroyed any integrity to their former bond, it simply made him look like a liar and her an opportunist. I became a bit suspicious that it was not entirely unintentional that these creators were now seeking to change the very nature of this relationship in retrospect, when June attributed Serena responsibility for their relationship in the first place. It sought to completely discount the fact that these two had been circling one another prior to Serena's interference, or even that they continued their relationship despite her objections and efforts to seperate them later.

It was simply more evidence of an almost desperate attempt by the writers to erase this loving connection and replace it with something convenient and superficial. They’d forgotten that Nick and June’s love was actually an act of rebellion, forbidden, a place where both Blaine and Osborne sought freedom and autonomy. Had they remembered this, they might have understood that for a true depiction of a successful rebellion, Nick Blaine should have joined the underground and the two lovers destinies remained intimately intertwined. His true character narrative was as an Eye with connections to Mayday. June / Offred was unsure if she could trust him, but he remained a source of hope, love and quiet rebellion within Gilead. The Handmaids Tale afterword revealed that he’d risked his life to help June escape and gone on to join the resistance. Gilead had tried and failed to kill him at least once and he was later reunited with June and his daughter. The successful depiction of a rebellion that used their relationship as the intended metaphor, was one that had Blaine subvert Gilead as an Eye turned agent for Mayday. Instead his death indicated the success of Gilead to eradicate collective rebellion….by somehow encouraging rebel forces to self sabotage. It simply made no sense, particularly given the rebellions success in the area where Blaine had been stationed. It was like someone had either failed to understand the metaphor completely OR had simply been so desperate to destroy the character and the relationship, that they didn’t care if it meant tearing apart a central theme. Which was absolutely fucking insane.

Fans had followed the writers cues and had understood the underlying message of rebellion in their bond. They’d waited years for the rebellion to succeed and the symbolic narrative to reach it’s natural conclusion, by having Blaine cross the border to join June and Mayday. So when instead the writers chose to start labelling Blaine as a loyalist and gut this relationship, slaughtering this manifestation of collective rebellion, the audience was understandably angry and confused. His role as an embedded Mayday agent in The Testaments stand as evidence that this was precisely who Blaine was and not some dubious fascist all along. Atwood consulted during season 2, but it was only during season 3 that show runners decided to whack a commander suit on Blaine and start using him for statements about patriarchal power that had nothing to do with his original character construct. He was never a commander, not in The Handmaid’s Tale and not in The Testaments either…..but these writers thought they knew better than the author, so here we are. I think about the potential for this story line had it been completed correctly and I could just weep. I could write a book on why the destruction of this character and relationship was one of the dumbest fucking things I’ve ever seen a writer do to their own creation, and how this is one of the biggest violations of an authors symbolic narrative I’ve ever witnessed, but honestly I’ve got a lot to get through today.

The writers and staff scrambled to provide clarity about who Nick Blaine was all along, but what they failed to understand was that it was utterly irrelevant. If they had to tell audiences after the fact who their character actually was and what their true motivations were, then they’d failed their mission. Writers cited story elements that supposedly occurred off screen, as lore when they either should have been clearer from the beginning or just followed the established on screen character arc through without trying to get clever. Now for clarity I believe the rot started in season 5 but only truly set in in season 6.

Come season 6 Minghella would be lucky to get a few minutes of screen time in 6 episodes, and in that time they had to convince the audience that he’d been a totally different person than the one they’d been shown all along. Consider the characters nature, established relationship with the protagonist and everyone around him….over 5 seasons….now with ALL of that think about how impossible it actually is to flip that character in the space of approximately 10-15 minutes, and how insane you’d have to be to green light that shit. And yet SOMEHOW it was my fault for not believing them. Probably because I’d read the books.

Writers asked audiences to reassess characters 4 episodes from the end of a final season. That’s neither realistic or wise and they shouldn’t be surprised if people feel like they’ve been duped and cheated. The fact is that they told audiences that a character had a particular motivation for the last 5 seasons, etched it into to him like it was the very essence of his being, and suddenly they wanted audiences to believe that he was forsaking it in the last moment. That he would simply give it up at the first sign of adversity. That he’d be just kosher with not only giving it up but destroying the object of his obsession within 2 brief episodes. It’s utterly ridiculous, I don’t believe any of it and these writers shouldn’t be surprised by that. You can’t tell me that someone is deep and sensitive in one breath and then tell me they’re angling for an upper management position in a society that enslaves the vulnerable in the next….particularly if the bottom of barrel is exactly where they come from. It makes no fucking sense.

Because of his core nature as a sensitive, loving and loyal individual, the ONLY parts of Nick Blaine’s character that actually EVER made any sense were the ones attached to Mayday, those that loved June, that “would do anything for me and for Nicole”, that were trapped and tricked into signing onto Gilead, anything else just seemed in direct conflict with his personality overall. Blaine cried over a dead handmaid and refused to call June by her slave name, he had contacts in Mayday that he referred to as “friendlies”. What made the writers think I would believe an individual this sensitive and obviously invested in rebel operations, would seek a higher position in this society for ANY other reason than to subvert it? Ambitious greedy ghouls do not smuggle out letters of imprisoned handmaids and they don’t baulk over sleeping with their child brides. They just don’t give a fuck.

Right now show runners are working overtime to create a narrative in which they write off Nicks damning choices in episode 6 as the result of both full autonomy AND coercive control. If he acted with full autonomy, Blaine was a monster who knew what he was doing, sought power and subscribed to Gilead’s rhetoric of slavery. If he was acting as a result of coercive control he was frightened, abused and controlled with little to no recourse. The reason that the writers couldn’t decide which one it was, was because they wanted it to be the first, but they knew full well it was the second. Season 1 and 2 had already shown that Blaine was indeed stripped of his autonomy and yet in 5 10 Tuello claimed that he could have run away with her while he lived at the Waterfords. They were trying to alter the narrative around how much power he had possessed, but it was too late, we’d already seen the dogs, the drones, the spotlights, the checkpoints and all those guardians. We’d already seen all that old school Gilead terror and we weren’t about to forget it.

Show runners claimed that Blaine had full autonomy on the basis that he had many chances to defect, but again there was plenty of evidence to discredit this theory. In season 2 when Blaine took Osborne to the Boston Globe he said "I'm risking my life to save you", indicating he was monitored, restricted and had just about as much autonomy as she did. Had Blaine exercised full autonomy, there was no question he would have been captured and executed. When June boarded the plane to leave, a driver also attempted to sneak on board. He was hauled off the plane and shot by Gilead guards, this heavily implied that Blaine would have died if he’d tried to accompany her. In season 3 Eleanor told June that Lawrence could never leave because he’d be imprisoned for life. In season 4 Fred was arrested at the border and jailed, when he tried to negotiate immunity he was traded back to Gilead and ended up dead. In season 5 Blaine WAS offered a deal from Tuello which he took, but it did require that he remain in Gilead indefinitely. Throughout season 6 the presence of Wharton was inserted specifically to create an environment of coercive control that restricted and monitored his movements. So no I don’t believe he had full autonomy. It also seems incredibly odd for the writers to say that Blaine has full autonomy and THEN have Serena tell June “If he ever thought he had a choice, he would have chosen you”. I mean in what alternative dimension should an audience NOT be confused by this constant mixed messaging?

I was informed through various forms of PR, that the second Blaine knew his relationship was over with Osborne he’d simply sought to lose himself in power, but this was utterly ridiculous. Blaine had been confronted with the reality of losing her many times before and he still hadn’t stuck his face in a bucket of Kool Aid. The idea that Blaine had failed to show up and do anything about June being executed because he considered their relationship over, was laughable. In season 4 he’d strong armed Lawrence into keeping her alive even though he knew she “was never coming back to him”. In season 5 he dashed across the border and signed a contract with Tuello just to ensure her safety even though “she already has people who care for her, I’m nothing”. It didn’t wash. NONE of it washed. Now I MIGHT have been able to swallow that he’d taken solace in Gilead after his relationship with Osborne completely dissolved but there was no period of mourning for the loss of a deep abiding love he’d carried with him for 5 and half seasons. No tears, no despair, nothing….Instead Blaine immediately started rambling on about Gilead like it was Sale of the fucking Century and he couldn’t get enough of those Nazi war spoils. It was utterly baffling. Mid season we all travelled deep into the Twilight Zone when Blaine made some sort of schizophrenic switch from prioritising June to an unquenchable thirst for power. It was impossible to reconcile with his previous manifestation, but somehow this all remained my fault for failing to grasp it, rather than the writers for either not communicating it in earlier seasons or an ill advised quick change.

We were also told that Blaine was a villain because of his role in the original attacks and that well, because you had to be a bad guy to be promoted to a commander. Firstly; scenes of Blaine actually participating in the original attacks were cut and are now being cited as part of the character history, and I’m not sure that works in their favour, as the original ones show him being sick and stunned at the violence anyway. It read more like someone who’d been roped into something that had quickly turned nightmarish and of which he now couldn’t escape. In season 3 Blaine said about the government “they don’t give a shit about us” and “once you get in bed with the government, it’s not so easy to get out”, not REALLY the words of an enamoured loyalist. Secondly; Blaine was promoted from a Eye to a Commander as a form of punishment from Fred for his insubordination, to have him sent to the front to die. These two singular moments should have been definitively painted to follow the writers intention from the beginning, but they weren’t and as a result his characters role in Gilead's conception and growth remained hazy at best. Again, not the audiences fault, the writers. Creators can't keep claiming they had an active loyalist on their hands all along when everything they ever showed their audience said otherwise. They can't keep claiming it in the face of the source material which completely contradicts them.

It’s pretty telling that audiences aren’t so much sad as angry about it. Writers are doubling down because well, they don’t have much choice. What’s done is done and they’re never going to take any of it back or admit any shortcomings. They’re never going to admit they sidelined and significantly altered a character from the source material. They’re never going to admit they out right IGNORED their audience and then proudly claimed to be listening to them. After analysing all of the diatribe and reasoning that the cast, writers and show runners have put forth I’ve come to a few simple conclusions about why Blaine was killed off. Firstly: Certain individuals could not tolerate the idea of a woman leaving her husband for another man, I believe this stems from a deep seated theological indoctrination that is ingrained into American society and consequently into ALL of their writing. It’s most evident in their attitudes to sex and love and these moralistic shackles severely restrict all of their plot and character development. My advice, go and learn from some of our British friends, they know how to write and their final seasons don’t look like a dogs breakfast. Secondly: He was used as a scapegoat for the rest of the Gilead four. Put simply, they had to have at least one bad guy. They needed Aunt Lydia for The Testaments, Serena was a mommy and Whitford baggsied "Not It" apparently. The death of Fred in season 4 created the lack of a necessary antagonist for the protagonist, and these writers simply couldn't use Serena, Lydia or Lawrence. One was a mommy, one was performing a redemption arc and the other was too cuddly. Nick, as the "other man" made the perfect candidate, he was mysterious, inconvenient and could be twisted into a loyalist with some sneaky back tracking. Unfortunately the source material and previous seasons said otherwise, ultimately they should have gone with Lawrence or even Serena as the fall out has been horrendous. Thirdly: they wanted to make a political statement about young males being recruited into neo fascism in America today. They were not concerned about breaking with literary integrity, character construct or even narrative symbolism in order to achieve it. As someone who has taught analysis of media and literature, I can honestly say, they should have been concerned, because it definitely looks fucking broken and it will cost these creators.

I’m still reeling from the fact that so many gossamer threads in this vast story line which could have been pulled together beautifully, were instead clumsily tangled or just abandoned. Replaced instead with plot lines delivered with a clumsy ignorance of how the audience would actually feel. Which sick fuck thought that plane trip into the abyss should be the Casablanca ending they were referring to all along? I’d prefer to leave The Handmaid’s Tale behind me at the end of season 4. Even though some of the constructs of Blaine’s character were already incorrectly portrayed by this point, it was during season 5 that show runners decided to truly begin Blaine's slide from ambiguous ally to Gilead loyalist. One of the biggest appeals of Nick Blaine was his mystery but it seems that during these last 2 seasons show creators were intent on stripping him of it and reducing him to nothing but a 2 dimensional family man who just turned to water at the mere sight of a strong father figure.

Miller’s Wilderness was possibly one of the most amazing television season finales I’ve ever seen, and it just never got any better than that. It set the story line up beautifully to lead into The Testaments, and he could have simply walked straight into his spin off with a few cameos to smoothen the transition. I don’t know why those writers were so afraid of the character dynamic between Nick and June, it was extraordinary and we’ll be lucky to see one like it ever again. From the beginning there was something about these two that the audience emotionally engaged with and if the writers had been smarter they would have truly acknowledged and embraced it. Instead their relationships sudden end, and the death of Nick Blaine, will become the one thing that follows this series around, and sticks in the craw of many viewers for years to come.

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

Having a wretched day and decided to take it out on Ghost. I lost steam towards the end for which I am sorry. Smut coming next week as a consolation prize.

Olfactory memory? Yes? Yes.

Cw: PTSD, PTSD induced domestic violence, angst not quite comfort but we're trending positive

Ex-military Ghost with civilian reader.

You are sunshine. Heroin. The drug that's made him feel like he's swimming, not drowning, for the first time in decades.

There are things he can't tell you, but there are also things he won't. He may have, at one point of time. He had readied himself for it, waiting for a vulnerable moment, but he likes being just Simon to you.

Ghost is a relic of war, a hero buried in a box in his crawlspace.

It feels too late now.

He doesn't want to see the horror in your eyes, when he tells you about Roba. Things you should probably know, things that would help inform your interactions.

He's such a piece of dirt.

You deserve better, but for some fucking reason you seem to want him, and he has every intention of doing his best to be a good partner for you.

He helps around the house. He takes turns cooking.

He doesn't yell or snipe, even when you drive him crazy, leaving your dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.

He does his best to be there for you, and hopes that it's enough.

And it is. Before Scotland.

Look.

Look.

You've seen the Princess Bride. You know men in masks are not to be trusted.

You also know the man on your hands is more Wesley and less Dread Pirate Roberts, even if he looks like the brute squad.

You promised yourself, somewhat naïvely, that you wouldn't be a beacon for anyone ever again - you weren't strong enough to hold two heads above water, not forever, but damned if Simon doesn't make you want to try.

He'd crept under your skin with his dessicating wit and genuine interest in you, and maybe your daddy issues were showing, but there's a level of reliability in Simon you never thought you'd see in a man.

You found yourself going to drastic measures - you're embarrassed to say you haven't put in that much work for a guy since high school, but you like Simon.

A lot.

You haven't dealt with military personally, but you know there can be scars. Wounds that are harder to talk about than more common place traumas.

Simon still talks with his old squad, has an annual Guy Fawkes day cookout with them. Means he has people who know, who can understand without having to be told, what might go on in his head on darker days.

You are not to be left out, however. You have the whole internet at your disposal, and you research military traumas and coping strategies until you feel like you're preparing for your first puppy:

How to domesticate your vet.

God, Simon would be so irked if he knew.

You've prepared for just about anything, have coached yourself to respond calmly and be aware of potential triggers.

He'd almost laughed the first time you asked him if he wanted to leave before the fireworks started, but it wasn't mean - you'd caught him by surprise.

As he eases into civilian life, he starts taking you up on it - he didn't realize how tense he was, suddenly on, not until he starts healing.

Some of that is time. Some you, some the therapy.

He stops wearing a mask when he goes out, a security blanket he doesn't need anymore, although it's less conspicious in post-pandemic times.

Neither of you realized the mask was an unintentional coping mechanism for other things, not just a way of hiding his face in a world where he wasn't supposed to exist.

There were no winners in the 141 marriage pool. Not when MacTavish is the first to ring someone up.

You've resolved to keep commentary to yourself on the subject - what you and Simon have is good, and Johnny's mum swayed the odds in his favor.

The grounds they rent out are massive - understandable, since it's a clan wedding, but you really hadn't expected to have a whole croft to yourself.

Johnny's doing, to give you both a quiet place to retreat to, away from the periceremonial chaos.

Simon waits patiently for you to oogle.

The thatched roof building is charming, rose bushes coralled into neat rows against the foundation. You can imagine hens picking on the lawn and laundry hanging from the line.

The door sticks, takes a solid shove to open, and you find that while the outside is postcard-perfect, someone has put a lot of effort into modernizing the internals. What was once one room has been sectioned off into a cozy one bed, one bath.

A queen sized bed fills most the living space, with a pair of matched floral arm chairs at the foot.

It smells a bit...off, but you chalk it up to the exposed cobble. Much like brick, it isn't always easy to seal properly - and Scotland is not known for its arid clime.

You don't see it, but that's when it starts.

Simon twitches. His skin itches and crawls in a way he's not used to.

He figures he's just antsy from the trip.

He unpacks while you shower, stalks the perimeter, feeling restless. It clears while he's outside, when you head over for happy hour, and he forgets anything was wrong.

When you come back, buzzed and content from your merry-making, it's easy for you to fall asleep. You knock out like a light, one foot hooked around Simon's.

You can tune it out, adjust to the smell, but Simon can't.

He can't block it out. Doesn't even know what it is.

He tosses and turns for what feels like eternity, breaking out in sweat even though the night is cool.

He tries to scroll on his phone, use the internet to distract him, but the service is shit and the light hurts his eyes.

The itch is back, and he needs to get out. He needs to get out now, but the door is stuck and suddenly he's buried again, wet earth clinging to his nose, choking him on every inhale and he's clawing at the door like an animal locked in a cage.

You aren't that light a sleeper, and he doesn't respond when you call out to him. Your only excuse for the automatic touch is you've been lulled to false security - you've hardly needed any of the tactics you'd read about, and it's late and you were tired.

It's too much. You're a threat.

You realize it a second too late, when Simon whips around and grabs you by the front of your sleepshirt - his shirt - and slams the first two knuckles of his left hand into your solar plexus.

You drop like a rock.

The immediate, excrutiating regret of your epiphany flees as you curl in on yourself, gasping for breath like a fish on dry land. Tears well up at the corner of your eyes, shock and pain and an utter lack of air keeping you from shedding them.

You hear more than you see the door finally spring open. Ghost is out and gone before you can pull yourself together.

Even when your breath comes easier, you stay on the floor so you can kick yourself while you're down.

Page number one. Bullet number one. You'd successfully broken the primary advice of every single page you'd saved on loving someone with PTSD. Too complacent.

You're an idiot.

He stopped being Ghost and started being Simon again somewhere around the three mile mark. It was more than he was used to running, especially barefoot and in his boxers, but the heath was soft and had spared his feet too much damage.

The pain had helped bring him to his senses.

It hurt more to think that he'd hurt you, something he'd sworn he'd never do, not after watching how his mother suffered.

It takes another two miles to come to terms with what had happened, this time at a slow walk. He's not sure if this is something he can fix, but either way he needs a plan.

Needs to figure things out, tonight. Set the mold for his future.

He has to tell you and risk maybe losing you, that you'll decide it's too much for you, or not tell you and definitely lose you.

But between you and the shrink, he's been brainwashed to believe he deserves a shot at happiness.

You're sitting on the step to the croft, head in hands, when he comes back around dawn.

He can tell you've been crying, and something in his heart breaks. He'd made his decision hours ago, but he wanted you to give you time. Space to leave, to run to the safety of the main house if that's what you needed.

You get up without a word and open the door for him. You give him a wide berth, careful to avoid physical contact, but once inside you stall out. Standing in the middle of the room, looking lost and small and wondering just how much of what you had is broken now.

The silence that spans the next few minutes is the most stressful silence of his entire life. He guides you to a chair, tucks in a blanket around you like he would have even if he hadn't tried to break your ribs with his fist three hours ago.

Makes two cups of tea, and then retreats to the other side of the small space and sinks to the floor, leaving room for the history that's about to fill it.

"I need to tell you a story."

[fishnapple]

How to love yourself better? A request letter from yourself. (Channelled message)

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (Read this post : personal reading)

1. White

Dear myself,

If I could light a fire right now, I could, just to see if that fire can compete with my light, our light. And yet I got a feeling that fire will burn brighter than us, just because it had someone to start it. But ours didn't. We stowed our fire away, our light, for fear of burning the eyes of the world? Or for fear of being engulfed in the sea of darkness outside?

Have you ever seen a solar eclipse? People gathered to watch it, a brief moment of the sun being eaten. A brief moment. Imagine how the world would be if that brief moment turned into a very long moment, an eternal one? Panic, fear, despair. We have prolonged our solar eclipse for far too long, let the Sun has its shine. Does it sound arrogant when I talk of us as the Sun? No, you should get used to it. To be the light, the be seen. Even when the Sun seems like a solitary existence on the sky, it's not, so are we.

I wanted to tell you many beautiful words, give you praises and a pat on the head. Sounds embarrassing, right? We should learn to do that more often. And then practice it with other people too, we all need it sometimes, a lot of times.

Do you know what will happen when we turn the anger on ourselves? Somehow, it will ricochet inside us and finally shoot out at other people. It's painful, for us and for them. Let's hold it in our hands, watch it breathe and stroke it gently, find where does it hurt and tend to it, then poof- it's gone. You catch anger not by throwing it around and putting it in a cage but let it heal and fly away on its own.

I'm sure that sometimes you will find yourself drowning in life, in other people's water. Losing yourself could be your worst nightmare. But you will never lose me. It's odd how we're surrounded by people but feel like we are alone in our struggle. Where did all the people go? Are they also drowning like us? In a different sea? I hope that all the seas are connected to each other so we can all find others to swim with us.

Till the next sun rise, yourself.

2. Pink

Oh, how I want to just throw away everything and run barefoot on the sand. To lie face up, watching the clouds passing by for hours. To paint the wall bright pink and yellow (this combination might hurt your eyes if you stare too long, though). But we're not a kid anymore, or so people have told us, much like how we've told ourselves, convinced ourselves to behave.

It's fascinating to watch the process of our resistance to what is taught to us. Why do we resist it so much? It feels like being gravely offended. We have our principles, and now we have to listen to others telling us what is right? What is wrong? Let me tell you, in a small whisper, it's actually nice to listen. Just listening, not obeying. It will feel like swallowing a rock. Maybe we could learn from the chickens a little, metaphorically. They swallow small rocks to aid in healthy digestion. So let's swallow some of the hard lessons.

You always like to think in concrete fashion. You try to touch your thoughts with your own hands and knead them, mould them into whatever you want. And when you're dropped into a relationship with someone, you find yourself lost that ability. It's all a jumble mess. You find your hands reaching out, grasping for something. How about the other person? Are you afraid that you will lose yourself if you hold on to them? It's fine, you won't. It's just an outdated belief that you've held on for far too long.

As we were talking about swallowing, you may want to watch what you're swallowing into your stomach, literally. Watch what you eat! Don't make yourself, ourselves suffer by bringing unhealthy things into our body. We may want to live long, you know.

Hey, if you find a dance class is too embarrassing, how about we turn off the light and dance with each other in the middle of the night. Nobody will know, but we will feel good (I'm not trying to be a flirt with myself here)

Your best friend, love.

3. Red

Make me a cup of tea, please.

Let's have a chat, just us, lying around lazily, sipping our favourite tea, imagining some weird scenarios to entertain us, playing some puzzle.

I don't have much to tell you because we talk to each other every day and I know you always try to be better for us. I love you and I'm proud of you. Let's be vain and give ourselves applause every day. Make it a pinky promise.

A reminder when you're feeling sluggish and slow, we are going to exactly where we need to be. You are guided and protected.

Keep on shining and be the little kid that runs around in the rain.

I love it when you're running wild, letting yourself, me, free, splashing colours everywhere. I just want to grab other people's hands and drag them to the dance. I love it when you're laughing, loudly, even better when you jolted others around you, oh, their surprised look, priceless.

Just be sure to take care of your body. Don't over tasking them. Work hard, play hard, but rest hard also.

Have you been thinking about going on a trip somewhere? No? Then, allow me to make a gentle request. Let me put the idea in your head. Go on, go to wherever you're thinking, there might be a surprise waiting for us, *hint: it will make our heart flutter*.

Let's make it a ritual to go on a trip every year. Let's give our mind and spirit a makeover. Dust off any tangled mess we have and prepare a space for new things to come into. I'm so excited.

It's got me thinking lately, there's this small blinking light in the back of our mind, sometimes I can see it, sometimes I can't. I want to find out what it is. It's like a signal, trying to reach us, can you feel it? Sometimes, there's this odd feeling swelling inside that you can't put your hand on and naming it. I think if we can sit still, quiet, in the dark, we could see it better. It's guiding us. To where? I got a feeling that it's somewhere deep, somewhere with a treasure, waiting for us. If we can uncover it, it will be the greatest gift that the universe has ever given us. So let's go and find it.

Love, myself.

4. Green

I have some news for you. Brace yourself for changes. They're coming, very fast, very soon. Sit yourself tight. I don't want to give spoilers, but I guess we will receive some sudden confessions or offers. What you will do with those confessions is completely your choice. You don't have to feel guilty if you don't return their feelings, my dear.

I think the way the universe is sending us this kind of surprise is telling us to reconsider our 'single' thinking mode. We have stood alone, strong and independent for so long, I think it actually makes us a little too comfortable in being alone that the thought of getting into a connection with someone can be daunting. Will we lose our freedom? What if we are dependent on them? This time, the universe is saying: 'you and your worries will not make a good journey together, break up with those worries, here, I will throw in some opportunities for you to practice '.

If you don't want romantic connection at the moment, fine, different types of connections will come. No matter what, the universe is determined to get us involved with other people. It's for our own good. I have to admit that it's hard. It's not easy to change our way of thinking and believing. So surprises will be needed.

When opportunities come, the gate is opened, we just need to receive them. Walking through the gate will feel like walking out of a confinement into the wild, lively world outside. We will be propelled into a new path that we hadn't even considered in the past. Beware of what you said in the past about how you don't want to do something, you can't imagine yourself doing something. Well, guess what, we are going to do just that, joke on us.

So, in the meantime, even if you're resisting, it's fine. Just take care of yourself, of us. Obsessive worrying can sadden our body.

Something is going away, giving space to a new energy coming in. This new energy will be softer, more loving. The harshness of the past will go away soon. Trust me.

Love, Your companion.

[anne-chloe]

Imagine : They don’t realise that you can’t swim

Peter Pan x Reader

Summary : The Lost boys go swimming at mermaid lagoon, they toss you in and you nearly drown

Warning : Near death experience, drowning

“Come on, [Name]!”

You stood on the sidelines of the lagoon, fingers nervously twisting with the hem of your shirt. It was a bad idea for you to have even joined the Lost Boys in the mermaid lagoon, because you knew they’d want to swim deep and would drag you with them.

It was with this very thought that you resolved to back out, to announce that you were tired and you’d return to the camp.

But you were suddenly grabbed from behind.

You craned your head back to see Devin. His arms squeezed your waist as he lifted you up, your feet kicking wildly in protest. You gasped as he started to near the edge of the rocky slope, the deep water too close for comfort.

“No! Stop!” You shouted, wiggling your shoulders back and forth for release.

Devin snickered. “It’s a bit of water! Lighten up!”

Then, he threw you into the water.

The waters surface broke as you sank towards the bottom. Your entire body was stiff and tense, and you felt awfully like a rock in that moment. You let out a scream, air bubbles leaving your mouth as no sound came out.

You blinked, eyes stinging at the murky greens and blue of the lagoons depths. You couldn’t see the surface any more; you couldn’t see anything at all.

Surrounded and suffocated by the water, you felt your heart hammer wildly out of beat at the thought of dying in the mermaid lagoon.

A pair of arms wrapped around your waist before you felt the water rush past your skin. Within seconds, you broke the surface and let out a panicked gasp for air. You grabbed blindly at the person who had saved you; you were far too aware of the lack of ground beneath your feet.

“Calm down, calm down—“

Who was that talking?

You were pulled from the water and pushed onto the rocky slope. The hard ground brought immediate comfort and relief, and you couldn’t help but lie flat.

There was that terrible, salty taste of water on your lips, and your eyes stung horribly from the sea water. You coughed and panted for air, your lungs burning as water came rushing out your mouth.

“Look at me, [Name]— are you alright? Breathe!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly finding the afternoon sun too bright to handle. Then, when you reopened your eyes you found yourself staring into those familiar green ones. Instead of the usual mischief that you’d see, you found only worry and what appeared to be guilt.

“P-Peter…?” You stammered, another coughing fit cutting you off.

Peter sighed loudly and pulled you in for a hug. His arms around you gave the strange sense of ease and comfort. “Why didn’t you say that you couldn’t swim?”

“I-I didn’t think it was important,” you coughed again, watching in disgust as water dripped from your face. You couldn’t tell if they were tears or from the sea.

Peter glared harshly at you, his arms giving a small squeeze. “Of course it was important,” he scolded, “you could have died.”

You lowered your head, feeling awkward and ashamed that you had troubled Peter and the Lost Boys like that. “I’m sorry, Peter. I just didn’t think something like this would ever happen.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “The Lost Boys will think twice about doing something like that again,” he muttered.

As Peter held you close to his chest, you couldn’t help but wonder why he had been the one to pull you from the water. Usually, he was so cold and cruel with the Lost Boys, never stepping in to save them if they needed rescuing. His excuse was that “all Lost Boys should take care of themselves, if they can’t then they’re weak.” It was only fair to assume that the rule applied to you.

But with one subtle glance around the lagoon, you could see that the Lost Boys were just as stunned as you.

[berryispunk]

The Way You See Me

This is part 1/2. Part 2 readable here

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, some banter, all the emotions, fluff, open communication saves us, heavy on mental health struggles, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, best friend! Frankie, soft! Frankie, idiots in love, kissing, tension

summary: Two people pretending it’s nothing. A missed kiss, a camping trip, one tent, and way too many lingering glances. They keep telling themselves it’s safer as friends—but gravity doesn’t care.

word count: 7,2 k

notes: I am absolutely insane so I’m working on part 2 to this already, oops—

read on ao3

It had been pouring all day — not outside, but in your head. A storm of tsunami intensity, relentless and unforgiving. You were drowning in it, the waves dragging you under, and you were just so tired of swimming against the current. So you stayed home, even though you had plans with friends. They called, they texted, but you didn’t have the energy to answer. You barely moved from your bed, only getting up for the bathroom or to grab a snack.

Outside, the sky was turning dark, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness inside you. You were running on autopilot, going through the motions without any real direction — just clinging to whatever driftwood you could find to stay afloat. You thought about reaching out, letting someone in, even just a little. But how do you explain a storm that never stops brewing? Besides, you were convinced the people in your life would be better off without you.

You were nearing the end of your twenties and what did you have to show for it? Nothing worth bragging about. You were barely scraping by while your peers seemed to be thriving — making five-year plans, building futures. And you? You got up each day and waited to see what the vibes were. You felt behind, like you were watching life from the sidelines, a passenger in your own story when you were supposed to be behind the wheel.

It was frustrating — deeply, bitterly frustrating. You dreaded conversations about careers and future plans, knowing you could barely hold yourself together. Bringing someone else into that chaos felt reckless. So you stayed alone. Even though, in the quietest moments — the ones where your mind screamed the loudest — you wished more than anything for a shoulder to lean on.

The only person who knew some of your struggles -but never the full picture-was your best friend, Frankie. He carried his own weight, too. The aftermath of serving had left marks on him, not always visible, but always present. You’d met him through mutual friends, and at first, you weren’t convinced. He was too quiet, always hovering on the edges of the group, more observer than participant. But it didn’t take long to realize something about Frankie: he noticed everything. He read people like well-worn pages, never intrusive, just… aware.

So you were caught off guard the first time he actually spoke to you. The two of you had drifted a little away from the crowd during one of those loud, chaotic get-togethers. Frankie leaned in slightly, voice low and a little amused as he said, “You also have no clue what they’re talking about, do you?”

You turned to him slowly, eyeing him from head to toe, raising a brow. “Excuse me?” you replied, bristling a little at the audacity.

He just grinned, not in a mocking way — more like someone who had already figured you out and wasn’t in a rush to prove it.

From there, the rest was history. He somehow—sneakily, effortlessly—got your number and texted you one night out of nowhere. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself at the time, but it mattered. More than it should have. Something about it felt like being seen in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for. And even though you played it cool, casually texting back like it was no big deal, a small part of you exhaled for the first time in a while.

[Unknown Number] [10:03 PM]You looked like you were mentally disassociating at that party. Thought I’d check in.

[You] [10:06 PM] Who is this and how did you get my number?? 

[Unknown Number] [10:07 PM] Relax, not a stalker. Frankie. From the other night.Got it from Lia. Don’t yell at her, I was very charming about it.

[You] [10:09 PM] Wow, stealthy.So you make a habit of texting girls who ignore you at parties?

[Frankie] [10:10 PM] Only the ones who look like they’d rather be swallowed by the floor than make small talk.You seemed like you could use an escape hatch. Figured this might count.

[You] [10:12 PM] That’s bold for someone who barely said two words.

[Frankie] [10:13 PM] Two words were all it took, apparently.You raise a good eyebrow, by the way. Very intimidating.

[You] [10:14 PM] I’ve been told it’s my most developed muscle.So what, you check in on all the emotionally avoidant people you meet?

[Frankie] [10:16 PM] Only the ones who pretend they’re not lonely.You were easier to read than you think.

[You] [10:17 PM]…Okay wow. That’s not allowed this early in the conversation.Try being mysterious again. I was enjoying that.

[Frankie] [10:18 PM] You’re right. Let me guess your star sign instead.

[You] [10:19 PM] If you say Gemini I’m blocking you.

[Frankie] [10:20 PM] Nah, you’re too tired of everyone’s shit to be a Gemini.Scorpio, maybe. Or a Capricorn with trust issues.

[You] [10:21 PM] Okay. Who are you??

[Frankie] [10:22 PM] Just a guy who thought you looked like you needed someone to talk to.No pressure. Just… here, if you want.

[You] [10:25 PM] …Thanks. I might take you up on that.

[Frankie] [10:26 PM] I’m good at puzzles. And bad at shutting up once I start.So… you’ve been warned.

A few days later — 11:47 PM

[Frankie] Be honest. Did you ghost me or are you just being mysterious again?

[You] I was waiting to see if you'd double text. Gotta keep the power dynamic healthy.

[Frankie] Leo. 100%. Knew I was close with the trust issues, though.

[You] HOW ??? I never even told you.

[Frankie] You have main character energy. Also I googled “eyebrow raise of death + zodiac” and Leo came up.

[You] Fair.Still. Feels invasive. I should sue.

[Frankie] Go ahead. I’ll represent myself. I’m charming under pressure.

A week later — 2:14 AM

[You]Can’t sleep. Brain won’t shut up.

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

[Frankie] Same.What’s keeping you up?

[You] Everything and nothing. You ever feel like you’re treading water in a pool no one remembers you’re in?

[Frankie] Every day.But hey, I see you. Even when you try to disappear.

[Frankie] That was probably too much.I can send a meme about ducks in pants to balance it out.

[You] No, that was actually…That was good.But send the duck meme anyway.

Later that week — 6:39 PM

[Frankie] What’s your comfort food when the world sucks?

[You] Depends. Spicy noodles if I’m mad. French fries if I’m sad.Why?

[Frankie] Be there in 20. Don’t dress up. Or do. You’d win best dressed regardless.

An hour later, you were on your couch, laughing through a mouthful of fries while he sat on the floor, back against the coffee table, telling you a story about his first tattoo and how he almost passed out. His eyes flicked up every now and then—checking you over like he was making sure you were still breathing easier. And you were.

Later that night — 1:11 AM [Frankie] Tonight was good. You seemed lighter.

[You] I was. It’s weird, you just… make space. And I don’t know how you do that.

[Frankie] Maybe I’m just good at seeing what other people pretend not to. Or maybe I just like the sound of your laugh and want to hear it again :)

Tonight, as you lost another day to the darkness crowding your mind, you lay still, staring blankly at your phone screen like it might eventually offer answers to questions you hadn’t found the words for. The notifications blurred together, too many to matter — until one lit up the screen, standing out in quiet contrast.

[Frankie] [9:17 PM] The group chat’s chaos again. Benny’s arguing that nachos count as a balanced meal and Lia’s threatening to make a spreadsheet about it.Same idiots, basically.

You stared at the message for a long moment. No pressure. No asking where you were or why you hadn’t shown up. Just… that. A thread gently held out in your direction.

[You] [9:19 PM] Sounds like I picked the right night to stay home.

[Frankie] [9:20 PM] You say that, but Benny made nachos shaped like ghosts and called them “emotional support snacks.” You missed some art.

[You] [9:21 PM] I’ll live.

You paused. Fingers hovered over the screen.

[You] [9:22 PM]...Just didn’t have the energy today. Everything felt like too much.

A beat, then:

[Frankie] [9:24 PM] Yeah. I figured.No judgment.Just thought I’d remind you we’re still out here. Even if you’re not up for being part of it right now :) 

You swallowed. Something loosened in your chest.

[You] [9:25 PM] You’re annoyingly good at this.

[Frankie] [9:26 PM] Nah. Just been in the same place enough to recognize the silence.

There was a silence after that — but this one felt easier. A quiet with space to breathe. 

[You] [11:41 PM] Still up?

[Frankie] [11:42 PM] Yeah. Sleep and I are barely on speaking terms these days.

[You] [11:43 PM] Cool.I just… didn’t want the last message to be the end of the conversation.

[Frankie] [11:44 PM] Good, me neither.You okay?

[You] [11:45 PM] Not really.But also nothing happened. It’s just one of those nights. You know?

[Frankie] [11:46 PM] Yeah. The ones where even breathing feels like effort.

You didn’t respond right away. Your apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the air feel heavier. You stared at the door like maybe, if you wished hard enough, someone might be on the other side.

[You] [11:50 PM] What would you be doing right now if you weren’t texting me?

[Frankie] [11:51 PM] Probably pacing around my place. Trying to pretend the silence doesn’t get to me.Why?

[You] [11:52 PM] No reason.Just… my couch is kind of empty. Fries are gone. Silence sucks here too.

There was no reply for a moment. You were about to send a follow-up — something deflective, something light — when another text appeared.

[Frankie] [11:54 PM] I’ll be there in 15. You don’t have to talk. Or smile, or clean anything. Just unlock the door, okay?

Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock. And when you opened it, he was standing there — hoodie pulled over his head, a bag of chips in one hand, and that familiar look in his eyes. The one that said I see you. You don’t have to explain. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just kicked off his shoes, sat beside you on the couch, and let the silence exist without making it heavier.

Frankie just stayed. Solid and still and there and for the first time all day, the storm inside your chest quieted just enough to breathe.

It had been an hour.

The TV was on, low volume, playing something neither of you were watching. You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes heavy but not tired. Frankie was next to you, close but not quite touching — not at first. But somewhere between the silence and the soft flicker of screenlight, his knee brushed yours.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t talk much. Every now and then, he’d glance at you — not in a way that asked for anything, but in that quiet, consistent way he always had. The kind that saw through your walls without making you feel exposed. But this time, it felt different.

You turned toward him, and your eyes met — not briefly. Not the way friends glance and look away. You held it.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t want to scare it away. His gaze dropped, lingered on your mouth a second too long before he cleared his throat and looked back at the TV.

Your heart thudded wildly. 

“I’m glad you texted me,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t like the thought of you sitting here alone tonight.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, letting your shoulder press into his arm. He didn’t move.

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never do,” he said, too quickly. “Seriously. If it’s you—I’ll show up. Doesn’t matter the hour.”

Your stomach flipped.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick. Like the air was holding its breath.

You tilted your head toward him again, slower this time.

He looked over, eyes dark, unreadable, but his jaw had gone tense like he was bracing for something. You weren’t even sure what you were about to say. Just that the air between you had changed. And part of you wanted to fall into it.

But then your phone buzzed, loud against the quiet. You blinked and just like that the spell broke.

Frankie leaned back just slightly, gave a quiet laugh like he’d been caught leaning too far over an edge. “Guess the universe says that’s my cue to shut up.”

You didn’t push it. But you didn’t move away, either.

And for the rest of the night, something hung between you—unspoken but real. Something you both felt.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. Hadn’t meant to let it slip past his teeth, so low and careful and honest. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—Frankie forgot to guard the edges.

He leaned back because it scared him a little. The way silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. The way your eyes held his for just a second too long. The way his chest tightened, not in panic but in something gentler, quieter, more dangerous.

You were still close—close enough that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, that warm thing that always clung to your skin like a memory he hadn’t earned. And when you didn’t move away, didn’t joke or retreat or hide behind that sharp wit of yours, Frankie knew something had shifted.

But he didn’t push it, he just sat there with you, shoulder brushing shoulder, knees almost touching. The TV played quietly in the background, the flickering light casting soft shadows across your face. He let you lean your head back on the couch. Watched the way your eyes slowly blinked, heavy with exhaustion, but calmer than earlier.

You looked… lighter. Not fixed. Not suddenly okay. But not drowning anymore. He took that as a small win.

And maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t leave.

Frankie stayed. Even after you dozed off with your head tilted slightly toward him, even after the credits rolled and the room went quiet. He stayed in that space between a friend and something else he didn’t name yet. Stayed still, watching the rise and fall of your chest, letting the warmth of the moment settle somewhere deep in his ribs.

He knew the line was thin. Knew this could crack everything if he reached too far.

But damn if he didn’t want to.

Just for a second, he let himself imagine it—what it might feel like to reach over and thread his fingers through yours. To press his lips to your temple. To tell you that he meant it—that he sees you, always has, even when you’re trying your hardest to disappear.

Instead, he sat in the quiet and watched you breathe. Guarded your peace like it was something sacred. When you shifted in your sleep and murmured his name—barely audible, but real—Frankie closed his eyes and let himself hope.

At some point during the quiet, sleep crept up on him too. He didn’t remember closing his eyes—just the low hum of the TV, the warmth of the room, the steady rhythm of your breathing beside him. It felt safe, something he rarely ever felt since returning from service. When he stirred hours later, the light outside was a faint silver, the kind of early morning that painted the world soft and half-real.

And you were there.

Not beside him anymore—but curled up ,somehow, with your head resting in his lap.

Frankie blinked slowly, the sleep not fully shaken off, and looked down at you. Your legs tucked up, one arm curled around yourself like you hadn’t meant to move at all. Your cheek pressed against his thigh, lips parted slightly in sleep, hair a bit messy from shifting around.

He stilled completely at this sight, a thousand things ran through his mind—but louder than all of them was the quiet awe. Like something rare had landed in his hands and he wasn’t sure how to hold it without ruining it.

You were always careful with space, with touch. So this was something else entirely. Unintentional maybe, but unguarded. A side of you he rarely saw.

Gently, he reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for half a second too long near your temple.

And that’s when you stirred. Your eyes blinked open slowly, and at first, you didn’t move. Just looked up, a beat of soft confusion passing between you. Then realization hit.

You bolted upright, not abrupt but tense, like waking from a dream you weren’t sure you should’ve had. “Shit—sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your face with your sleeve, not quite looking at him. “Didn’t mean to— That wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Frankie said quickly, voice still low and sleep-rough. “You were out. I didn’t mind.”

You nodded, still avoiding his eyes as you scooted back a bit, putting a little space between you. Not a wall, but a buffer.

“I must’ve shifted in my sleep,” you offered, the words clumsy and thin. “Wasn’t trying to be weird.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Wasn’t weird, promise.”

But it kind of was. Not in a bad way—just in a way that meant something had changed. And now, in the grey morning light, you were both painfully aware of it.

The atmosphere was warm,charged—like a wire had been brushed and now everything was humming a little too loud.

Frankie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You okay?” he asked after a beat, quieter now.

You glanced at him, eyes softer but still guarded. “Yeah. Just… didn’t mean to cross a line.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t.”

But he didn’t smile and neither did you, because some lines didn’t need to be crossed with intention to leave a mark.

And both of you were feeling it now—in the hush between words, in the echo of how natural it had felt to rest against each other, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Neither of you said what lingered in the air afterwards, this big little thing that felt like it had a life on its own.

The kitchen was still cloaked in that fragile kind of morning quiet, the kind that made everything feel closer, heavier.

You moved automatically, going through the motions—grabbing mugs, flicking the switch on the kettle, pulling out the coffee tin with muscle memory alone. Your hands were steady, but your thoughts weren’t. Every time you glanced toward the living room and saw Frankie still sitting there, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter.

He hadn’t said anything else since waking up.

But he hadn’t left, either.

You reached up to the cupboard for the sugar, standing on your toes—and suddenly he was behind you.

“Want me to grab it?” he asked, voice close enough that you felt it more than heard it.

You startled slightly, bumping into him with a soft thud. “Fuck—sorry, didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s okay,” he said, but his hand had come to rest on your waist—just for a second, steadying you, barely there. But it lingered long enough to light a fuse in your chest.

You didn’t breathe until he stepped back.

The silence stretched as you poured the water, the steam rising between you, thin and ghostlike. You passed him a mug, your fingers brushing his—too gentle to be an accident, too fleeting to be addressed.

His eyes flicked to yours for a heartbeat, unreadable. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, suddenly fascinated with the swirl of coffee in your cup. “No problem.”

You both leaned against opposite counters, holding your mugs like shields, pretending the space between you wasn’t thick with whatever had shifted overnight.

“I didn’t mean to…” you started, but the words trailed off.

He didn’t push. Just sipped his coffee, eyes watching you over the rim. “I know.”

And maybe that was worse. That he knew—and still wasn’t moving away. Still standing close enough that you could smell him. Still looking at you like you hadn’t just curled up in his lap a few hours ago like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The kettle clicked off behind you, forgotten.

“Your friends,” you said suddenly, desperate to break the air, “they’d be disappointed you didn’t show up last night.”

He gave a quiet huff of laughter, looking down at his mug. “They were the same idiots as always. They barely noticed.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I would’ve noticed.”

He looked up, really looked, something unspoken passed between you again. A current, or a question neither of you were ready to ask.

You turned back to the counter, pretending to fix your coffee.

Behind you, he spoke, voice lower now, treading carefully “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But your hand trembled slightly as you set the spoon down and you knew he saw it, had to.

He didn’t call it out. Just stepped a little closer, mug still in hand, close enough that the edge of his arm brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away and you really didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you. But somehow you were standing too close, not touching, not quite—but almost. Another almost.

Frankie set his mug down on the counter with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. His eyes stayed on you—soft, unreadable, patient in that way he always was, like he never wanted to scare you off. Like he was waiting for you to make the call.

Your breath caught when he reached up—slow, tentative—and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were careful, feather-light, but the warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled his hand away.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t even if you wanted to.Because now, there were only inches between you and it took the air from your lungs.

Your heartbeat sped up, hammering in your ears.

He leaned in just slightly, his voice low. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

It wasn’t a tease. There was no smirk, no cocky edge to his tone. Just a quiet request, wrapped in a kind of reverence that nearly undid you.

And for one breathless second, it felt like gravity shifted between you—like something inevitable was about to happen.

But then—

Your phone buzzed, sharp and jarring against the counter, slicing clean through the moment.

You flinched, just enough to step back, and whatever had been building between you shattered—sudden and brittle, like glass underfoot.

You didn’t look at the screen. You didn’t need to. The spell had broken, again.

Frankie stepped back too, blinking like he’d only just remembered where he was. He scratched the back of his neck and let out a soft breath that sounded like a laugh—but it wasn’t. Not really.

“Right,” he said, nodding once. Like he understood. Like he’d been waiting for the interruption all along. It landed heavier than it should have, a quiet sting in your chest, even though he probably didn’t mean it that way.

You turned back to the coffee, focusing on the mug like it could anchor you. “I should get dressed for the day...”

He nodded again. “Yeah, yeah of course.”

You slipped out of the kitchen with your heart pounding, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.

The plan had been in place for weeks. A weekend camping trip—just the group, no cell reception, no excuses. He wasn’t going to go. Had half a dozen reasons not to. But none of them stuck once Benny showed up at his door, grinning like a devil and throwing him a bag of trail mix like that settled it.

"Don’t be a ghost, man," Benny had said. "She’s coming."

Frankie didn’t ask who she was. He didn’t have to.

And now here he was, standing ankle-deep in soft dirt while the late afternoon sun bled gold over the trees, watching your car door slam shut. His stomach did something annoying at the sight of you stepping out, wind-blown and smiling faintly, like you weren’t quite sure you’d made the right choice by showing up either. You hadn’t looked at him yet. But he felt it anyway—that quiet current that had lived between you ever since that night back at your apartment.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked out at the lake, pretending he wasn’t already a little unraveled.

The campsite was beautiful. Dense trees, soft moss underfoot, and a lake that glimmered like it had been carved from glass. Everyone fanned out, unpacking coolers and gear and arguing over who forgot what. There was music coming from Benny’s car, something old and loud and badly sung along to.

And then your voice cut through it: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Frankie turned. You were crouched beside your bag, frustration etched into every line of your face. Pieces of tent poles lay scattered on the ground like broken bones, and the rest was nowhere to be seen.

“Problem?” Santi called, already laughing.

You held up a tent bag like it had personally betrayed you. “I either forgot the actual tent or packed the world’s saddest kite.”

There were groans, and someone yelled 'rookie mistake' and someone else suggested duct tape and tarp. But eventually Benny, ever the ringleader, clapped his hands and declared, “Only one solution. Draw matches. Losers share their tent.”

Frankie knew—he just knew—what the universe was about to do to him.

The sticks were torn from a granola box and held up like some ancient rite. One by one, the guys picked theirs. Frankie went last.

When he looked down, it was the shortest stick.

A beat of silence. Then a chorus of oohs and Benny’s terrible drumroll on a cooler lid.

Frankie didn’t even glance at them. He looked straight at you.

And this time, you looked back. Your eyes met his like you’d been waiting for it—and damn if it didn’t do something stupid to his chest. You didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. But your gaze held, quiet and unreadable. Heavy with something neither of you had put into words.

Frankie cleared his throat. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”

You arched a brow., arms crossed defensively. “That’s one way to put it.”

He nodded slowly, heart doing double-time, already dreading and anticipating the moment night would fall.

No escape. No couch cushions or coffee mugs to serve as shields between you.

Just one thin tent wall and all the silence you still hadn’t broken.

You weren’t sure how it got so quiet.

Everyone else had turned in. The fire had died hours ago, and now the campsite was just a rhythm of distant snores, rustling leaves, and the occasional crack of branches shifting in the cool night. Inside the tent, it was still and dark—too still. You lay on your back, cocooned in your sleeping bag, barely breathing, aware of every inch of the man beside you.

Frankie was close. Not touching you, but close enough that you could feel his warmth, hear the soft exhale of his breath, smell the faint mix of campfire and whatever clean laundry detergent he used.

And god, you wanted it. The warmth. The comfort. The steadiness of him. You wanted to curl into it, let yourself have it—just for a moment. But you stayed frozen. Afraid that even the smallest move would tip everything over the edge.

Your mind wouldn’t shut up.

You kept thinking about the almost-kiss. About how it lingered between you like a thread that hadn’t snapped. You thought about his hand brushing yours that morning in your kitchen, how your breath had caught in your throat like something sacred had passed between you. You thought about falling asleep on him, about waking up there—on him—and how he didn’t push you away.

And you thought about how terrified you were of needing someone. Of needing him.

The silence clawed at you, unbearable.

You turned slightly, your sleeping bag crinkling loud in the dark. “Frankie,” you whispered.

He shifted. “Yeah?”

“I think about that morning,” you said, voice soft. “The almost-kiss.”

The silence stretched.

You swallowed hard. “I think about it a lot actually..”

Still, he didn’t speak. But you could hear how sharply he breathed in.

“I just… I don’t know. I’ve convinced myself you’re better off when we keep some distance.” You stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. “Because I’m a mess, Frankie. Not the cute kind. The ‘can’t even be alone with myself for too long without falling apart’ kind. And I guess I’m scared of what it means to let you get closer.”

More silence, but it didn’t feel empty, it felt full. Like something inside it was shifting.

Then you heard his voice, low and gravel-soft, barely more than breath. “I know.”

You blinked, unsure if you imagined it.

“I know you’re struggling. I’ve always known more than I let on,” he said. “I didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to make it worse.”

You turned your head just slightly toward the shape of him in the dark.

“I haven’t said much about my own shit either,” Frankie continued. “But you should know—I’m still in recovery. Still fighting the edge of it every day. My temper’s not great, I lose patience faster than I should. Some days I hate myself. Other days I just feel… hollow.”

Your heart cracked a little.

“I don’t usually let people in. It’s been a long time since someone made me want to.” His voice went quiet. “But you did. And you never treated me like I was broken. You just… saw me. All of me. And it gave me this stupid illusion that maybe I wasn’t too far gone.”

You turned toward him then.

The space between you was barely a breath. You reached out slowly, fingers grazing his chest, resting just over his heart.

“You’re the best guy I ever met, Frankie,” you said, voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “For real. And none of this—your past, your battles, any of it—makes you any less valuable.”

His breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension between you wasn’t sharp anymore—it was tender. Fragile. A thing you both held gently in your hands.

Frankie turned to face you too, his forehead just inches from yours, and in the dark, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just this—just you and him.

You didn’t say anything else, you didn’t need to.

The morning came too soon.

Sunlight filtered through the nylon walls of the tent, warm and golden, and you woke slowly, disoriented by how calm you felt. Frankie was still beside you, quiet and breathing steadily. You didn’t know if he was awake yet, and you didn’t dare look. You just listened for a moment—to the breeze outside, birds in the trees, someone cursing over trying to get the fire started.

Eventually, you rolled out of the sleeping bag and changed into fresh clothes, not looking back.

By the time you joined the others, coffee was brewing over the flames and the boys were already half-alive and throwing jabs at each other. You sat on the log bench next to Benny, who passed you a metal mug without looking.

“Sleep okay?” he asked casually.

You just nodded, eyes flicking to Frankie across the fire. He was already looking.

Your gaze met for a second too long—soft, searching, warm—and it did something stupid to your chest.

No one said anything. But you felt it. You both did.

Later, the sun climbed higher and someone—probably Benny—declared it “prime lake hour.” Everyone agreed with groggy enthusiasm, and swim trunks and towels came out. You stayed behind a moment in the tent, staring down at your bikini, stomach tight with hesitation. It was cute. Objectively. But that didn’t mean you felt good in it.

When you stepped out, arms crossed over your bare middle, Frankie was standing barefoot near the treeline in the world’s most ridiculous swim shorts—sky blue, patterned with rubber ducks like a fever dream. It made you laugh before you could help it.

He turned at the sound, eyebrows lifting when he saw you. “There she is,” he said, that easy smirk tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough.”

“I was deciding whether to fake a leg injury.”

“Should’ve gone with amnesia,” he said. “It’s more dramatic.”

You laughed again, and—somehow—you didn’t feel so tense in your skin anymore.

Then Benny cannonballed into the water, screaming like a child. Santi followed with a cocky, slow-motion dive. Will, of course, gave a tiny, polite whoop before launching himself in.

That left just you and Frankie standing at the edge of the dock.

You glanced at each other.

“Race you,” he said, already grinning.

“You’re on.”

You both took off at the same time, feet slapping the wood, laughing like you’d already won. You hit the water seconds apart—cold and shocking and exhilarating. You surfaced gasping, blinking away the brightness, and when your eyes found Frankie, you were already swimming toward him without thinking.

He was floating just a little ways off, hair wet and curling wildly at his temples, eyes squinting against the sun, droplets glinting on his skin like gold dust. He was laughing quietly to himself, mouth slightly open, and when he saw you approaching, he raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, teasing.

You flushed just a little. “Nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something. You were staring.”

You rolled your eyes. “You wish.”

“Don’t need to wish,” he said, cocky and soft at the same time. “I know.”

You dunked him or at least tried.

He yelped, grabbed at your wrists, and in seconds had pulled you under with him, both of you sinking briefly into the quiet blue.

And something happened there—under the water, beneath the surface noise of the world. Everything felt still. Weightless, safe.

You didn’t think. You just moved—arms sliding around his neck, legs curling instinctively around his waist. Frankie didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. He just held you there, his hands finding the small of your back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You both stayed suspended for a moment too long, eyes locked, hair floating between you like ink in water. His gaze was steady, wide, real, and you couldn’t look away.

Then—

“Yo! Stop making out under there, fish freaks!”

Benny’s voice broke through the surface like a bad joke, followed by a splash that hit too close.

You gasped and broke away, popping up with a sputter.

Frankie surfaced beside you, wiping water from his face, grinning like he hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of him emotionally. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered.

You laughed despite yourself, blinking water from your lashes. “Get in line.”

The fire cracked loud in the silence, hissing as a log shifted and sent sparks spiraling upward into the night. The lake behind them lapped gently at the shore. Bugs buzzed in the thick summer air. Someone passed around a half-empty bag of marshmallows and a mostly dead lighter. Benny told a story that probably started out true and ended in a full-blown lie.

Frankie barely heard a word of it.

You were sitting beside him. Close. Shoulder against his, legs stretched out, toes tucked near the edge of the firelight. You’d been soft all evening—unguarded in a way that made his chest feel like it had been cracked open with a crowbar.

And then you laughed. Head tilted back, sunlight in your voice even though it was long past sunset. Without thinking, you leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder like it was second nature.

You hugged his arm and Frankie forgot how to breathe for a second.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the weight of it. The ease. The way your fingers curled around his bicep like they belonged there, like he wasn’t some danger to your peace, like you weren’t scared of him the way you sometimes seemed to be. And that—god, that did something to him. Melted him from the inside out.

He sat as still as he could, afraid if he shifted even slightly, you’d realize what you were doing and pull away.

You didn’t.

The warmth spread through him slow and molten, thick and sweet in his veins. He stared at the fire, but his senses were full of you. The smell of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing, the lazy shape your fingers made against his arm.

Across the flames, Santi looked up from his beer and met his eyes, one brow raised. Frankie gave him nothing back. Just the tiniest shrug, like don’t you fucking say a word.

Santi didn’t. Neither did Will, who definitely noticed but kept his face turned toward the fire. Benny just snored softly, half-asleep on a log with a marshmallow stuck to his shirt.

Frankie let out a slow breath. Let his head tilt just enough to brush yours. Didn’t dare move more than that.

He didn’t need more, not right now.

This was already more than he thought he’d ever get.

And it felt like something, something worth to hold onto. 

The zipper buzzed softly behind him as he ducked into the tent. The air was cooler now, the fire burned down to coals outside, the lake settled into glass. Most of the guys had knocked out where they sat or stumbled to their tents half-asleep.

You followed a few minutes later.

Frankie lay on his back, hands behind his head, trying to look casual even though his pulse kicked up the second he heard the nylon rustle.

You crawled in with that quiet way of yours, the kind that made it feel like you belonged there. Like this wasn’t just a random arrangement of bad luck and missing tent poles.

It was dark, save for the moonlight slipping through the thin fabric above them. Still, he didn’t need to see you to know where you were—he could feel you. Every inch. Every breath. Like his body had memorized your gravity.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then—

“You make me feel safe,” you whispered, sudden and raw in the dark. “You know that?”

His breath caught.

“Like I don’t need to keep my guard up all the time. And I’ve never had that before.”

Frankie turned his head slightly, could just make out your silhouette now. You were still staring up at the roof of the tent, like if you looked at him, you might not get the words out.

“You don’t see the mess,” you went on, voice a little unsteady. “You see me. The me I mostly don’t even meet myself. And it scares me shitless, but I also… I don’t know, it’s good. Please just—keep doing that. Wherever it lands.”

He blinked hard.

God, you didn’t even know what that did to him.

He shifted, just enough to turn onto his side. Your face was barely visible in the moonlight—eyes wide and vulnerable, like you’d just handed him something breakable and weren’t sure if he’d hold it right.

His throat felt thick. Words weren’t his thing, not like this. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

“I love your laugh,” he said softly. “You know that?”

You looked surprised, breath catching.

Frankie smiled faintly, gaze tracing the line of your cheek. “It’s—fuck, it’s beautiful. Makes something settle in me. Every time I hear it, it’s like I get a little reminder that good things exist. That you exist.”

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was so full it ached.

And then, barely above a whisper, he added, “So yeah… I’ll keep doing that. Seeing you. Because every version of you I’ve seen so far has been worth it.”

You turned to face him then. Closer now. His breath stilled as your hand found his chest again, warm and gentle like the night before.

And for the first time in a long time, Frankie didn’t feel like a man carrying too much weight.

He just felt wanted.

Your fingers rested lightly on his chest, just over the steady beat of his heart. You felt it jump the moment you touched him, and maybe yours did too. It was so quiet you could hear every breath, the rustle of nylon, the night sounds muffled outside the tent walls.

And still—it felt like the loudest thing in the world was the space between your bodies.

You didn’t know how long you lay there like that. Staring at him, feeling him breathe under your palm. It should’ve been small. But it felt enormous. Like your world shifting on its axis.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. Old, worn down and loved. Safe. Like everything about him felt. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, the way it parted just a little as your gaze dropped there. Your breath hitched before you even moved.

Still, you leaned in.

Soft, slow, tentative. Not quite a kiss. Just the beginning of one. The question of it.

And then, just before your lips could brush his, Frankie whispered, “I really would like to kiss you. Would that be okay?”

The way he said it—like it mattered. Like you mattered and all you could do was nodding, barely able to find your voice. “Yeah… please.”

And when it happened, it wasn’t like you imagined. It wasn’t fireworks or a movie scene or something dramatic.

It was careful and so gentle it made something ache in your chest.

His hand slid up, cradling your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His lips met yours like he’d never been more sure of anything.

You kissed him back just as slow, like neither of you wanted to break it. Like this might be the first real moment of your life where you weren’t running from something, weren’t hiding.

Just here. With him, in this moment that stretched and made heat bloom in you.

And when you finally pulled away, your forehead stayed pressed to his. Both of you breathing quietly and unevenly.

You whispered, “That okay?”

Frankie let out a soft, breathless laugh, like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “That was more than okay.”

Your smile broke before you could stop it, and this time when you laughed he kissed you again.

Just because he could.

thanks for reading 💌

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[whitenoisewhatanawfulsound]

My Fake Plastic Love

Spencer Reid x Reader

Spencer hates his twenties, and hates parties even more. Bumping into you on accident though, makes him wonder if maybe the whole thing was worth it.

855 words

cw: SO much yearning, a little sad, reader is implied as fem? There's a song in the fic that uses she/her pronouns but reader's gender is never outright mentioned, Reader has hair, Spencer is pathetic

an: Yes the sunshine comments are in reference to Spencer's fear of the dark

Spencer really had to stop falling victim to pure pressure. This was, what, the third party he’d been “strongly encouraged” to attend? His twenties were going to be the death of him. He was sick of people telling him how he should be spending the so-called best days of his life. He was doing fine by his own standards, thanks. 

He wished he hadn’t come. He wished it was socially acceptable to bring books to parties. He was wishing a lot of different things right now. He was surrounded by people he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. Some divine intervention would be lovely at the moment. Or a phone call interrupting him.

Leaving fifteen minutes in would be rude. Though, the person he’d planned on coming with hadn’t shown up at all; was leaving early better or worse than that? No one would notice, surely? When did he start caring whether or not people noticed him? 

The music is loud and the whole room is hot and stuffy. Conversations slur together into an ocean Spencer thinks he might drown in. He tries to swim through the crowd of people but waves crash into him and he chokes on the water.

The music is louder, somehow. His ears ring.

She lives with a broken man A cracked polystyrene man Who just crumbles and burns 

Where’s the door? God, this person’s house is so confusing. 

He used to do surgery

Spencer feels like he might puke. 

For girls in the eighties But gravity always wins

Does the door even exist?

And it wears him out It wears him out It wears him out It wears

Someone practically rams into him, solid and all too real.

“Sorry-” 

“Spencer?”

She looks like the real thing

“Oh,” He breathes. Oh, oh, oh. Spencer was going to drown.

She tastes like the real thing

“I didn’t know you were here,”

My fake plastic love

“I didn’t exactly want to be here” He does now though. God, he does. Let him rot here. Let him live in every creaking floorboard for as long as you stay. Let him be the weeds that grow through cracks in the concrete if it means he’ll be able to see you again. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in years, Spence.”

But I can't help the feeling I could blow through the ceiling If I just turn and run

“I didn’t mean to lose touch.”

And it wears me out It wears me out It wears me out It wears me out

“No, I get it. Life gets in the way, right?”

“Right.”

And if I could be who you wanted

“I missed you.”

Spencer doesn’t think he deserves to be missed.

“Would it be horrible if I said it back?”

If I could be who you wanted

“No. I don’t think anything you tell me could ever be horrible.” 

Spencer desperately wants to change the subject. 

“Are you here with someone?” 

“No, you? This doesn’t seem like your crowd.” You’re not wrong.

“Me neither. It’s not, but it doesn’t exactly seem like yours either.” 

“Then why are we standing here?”

All the time

Spencer’s head spins. He doesn’t know why. Has he ever? Probably not.

All the time…

It’s stupid how it happens, really. Stupid because you haven’t seen each other in years. Stupid because Spencer does still love you and it’ll only get worse after this. But he kisses you anyway. 

It’s languid and soft, warm and hurtful. Spencer Reid kisses like a man starved, but for you he’d never eat again. Gentle hands hold your jaw and fingertips brush away hair, his heart physically aches with it all. It’s not meant to be desperate, not cruel. It holds secrets and unsaid words and promises that he wished he could’ve kept. 

One day, Spencer Reid was going to die, and you would be charged for third degree murder. He’d love you anyway, even if it meant death. At least then he’d know some form of peace, if the word even existed in his vocabulary anymore. 

He pulls back and he’s breathless.

“I’m sorry,” Is immediate. 

“No, don’t be-”

Spencer wondered how the divine intervention was coming along.

“I didn’t mean to just, you know-”

He’s shut up by sunshine against his lips. This, he thinks, this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Wonderful and oh so horrible. Illuminating and horrifying. He’d stay here forever, if he could. Live in the cracks of your bones. 

It’s over all too soon.

“I have to go.” No, please stay.

“Call me?” He asks.

“I tried before, it never worked.”

“I changed my number, here-” 

He hastily pulls a pen from his pocket and reaches for your hand. He scribbles numbers onto the back of your hand. 

He watches you smile and leave. His face feels hot and the sound around him is dull. He’d like to say it was fate, but he doesn’t exactly believe in it. He wishes he could’ve said something meaningful, something that you keep hidden under your pillow while you sleep. He’ll think of something on the walk home, maybe.

[saltyyuuri]

How would valorant agents react to:

"There was a .... Minor mishap in the mission ..."

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Brimstone: immediately stressed, texting back multiple times. He would be pacing and calling multiple times.

Once back, you show him Reyna , who is absolutely furious since she somehow got a whole bucket of paint spilled on to her from the janitor's closet they were hiding in.

Phoenix: "what?? What???!" immediately pacing, impatiently waiting for your return

Once back, you gave him back the gun you borrowed from him, now scuffed and scratched. He was just mostly relieved you were fine, not giving two craps that his favorite gun was fucked.

Sage: "where are you?"

Unphazed, already prepared to heal and or resurrect if necessary.

Sova: "And were you following the team? 🤨"

You were not. You decided to ego peak and got hit. Sighs of dissapointelment and just pushing you to med bay

Viper: "not my problem."

She was pretty busy anyways with paperwork and lab work- Sage could take care of it for all she cared.

Cypher: "I know. I saw it."

He watched the entire thing go down on the cameras; and he most definitely saved the video to get a good laugh.

Reyna: "unsurprising."

Despite her annoyance she would still go give a hand if necessary. But you do get scolded pretty bad.

Killjoy: "Shiza, did my bot do something wrong?!"

It did. One of the Bot's malfunctioned and quite literally tore through half the clothing you were wearing. The mishap was more of a wardrobe issue at this point.

Breach: "if you're in jail that's not my problem."

You weren't, but Yoru was. He got sidetracked and went to beat up a civilian for God knows what reason, and of course he ended up in a local jail. Breach just laughed even harder.

Omen: "..."

No answer, but not even a second later he's already teleported directly beside you. The man goes on a whole rampage, then casually escorts you back.

Jett: "wrong person, I told you to tell brimstone!"

She was the reason there was a mishap.

Raze: "good or bad? Cuz if it's good I want in!"

The moment you were back, completely scuffed but holding random scraps from various bots or mechanical stuff for her, her main concern was getting the 'loot'. And then after that she brings you too medbay.

Skye: "🤨 what happened?"

When you dragged back an injured Jett, skye just sighs and reluctantly starts healing. Just a very disappointed look on her face.

Yoru: "don't care."

Yeaaah he really didn't give a shit. But since he decided to be an asshat, you kept the knife you found during the mission, one he didn't have for his collection. Pissed him off even more.

Astra: "oh no, is everyone alright?"

You came back, phoenix was completely drenched since Harbor mistook him for an enemy and nearly drowned Phoenix- and harbor had a massive head wound that looked like it was burnt. Astra was busy laughing so hard and it took some time before a healer came by.

Kay/o: "👍"

That was about it.

Chamber: "If you tell me you broke your custom gun, I'm not making you a new one, chérie."

Even worse, you accidentally took his gun, not yours. The outcome ended you in medbay with Sage having to heal you from a near death.

Neon: "OH GOD WHERE ARE YOU IM COMING I'M COMIIING"

She nearly electrocuted her own teammates on her way there, narrowly avoided hitting you but generally got the sticky situation handled with panic and too much energy.

Fade: "awe :( I will bring nightmare to cheer you up."

While you were in recovery she brought over the little black cat named nightmare to keep you company.

Harbor: "I told you: you should have learned how to swim 😑"

You nearly drowned, on a mission on Lotus you accidentally fell into the lake behind attackers side, barely getting fished out by another teammate.

Gekko: "ARE YOU OKAY?!"

He had all four of his critters running behind him with various things, wingman bringing a boba, thrash had a neatly folded blanket on her back, dizzy had a small plushy and mosh had a single dinosaur bandaid. Gekko brought the snacks for the recovery.

Deadlock: "Are you okay? Are all your limbs intact?"

She was relieved to see the mishap was that a narrowly avoided knife to the head had just sliced your hir very crookedly. She tries her best to make a decent haircut afterwards- definitely not the best but already much better than just having half a chunk gone.

Iso: "who do I have to kill?"

No one, you simply had gotten a copious amount of enemy blood on his white hoodie- which he didn't bat an eye at. He already had all the stuff to get the stains out, fault of wearing white hoodies.

Clove: *was the mishap

She "died", and then scared one of her own teammates shitless when she jumped back up to life, just casually springing back up as if nothing happened. Due to the jump scare, the teammate misfired and hit her again. One hell of a chaotic scene.

Vyse: "Good job."

That was very sarcastic; and honestly she didn't care all that much. But you did find a metal rose on your desk in your room.

Tejo: "And what did I say about rushing in?"

You got a lot of scolding from his part, though it did come from a good place as he was just mostly worried.

Waylay: "Good! Stupid should hurt!"

Of course she would initially just repeat that, but nevertheless she was there to help you through the recovery, not making much more comments about it.

[kelin-is-writing]

Some of you… Guys… who lack empathy and overall emotional intelligence, kinda love to run your mouth waaaaaay too much and end up saying things that make 0 sense. This fandom is also waaaaay too comfortable with victim blaming Rei and Touya for everything that has happened to the Todorokis while Endeavor gets away with it, for no reason at all at that.

“OhHh BuT hE fElLs SoRrY fOr EvErYtHiNg He DiD”

I’m going to be completely honest with you all: I don’t give a flying fuck that he’s now swimming in his sorrows. He better be drowning in them actually. Because there’s a consequence to everything we do. ALWAYS. Besides, if he was going to feel ohh so sorry about what he did to his family, then he simply shouldn’t have done none of it to begin with.

He can’t go on fill his child like a balloon the way he did and then expect said balloon to not explode after he had blew way too much air into it. That’s egotistical.

You also can’t buy your wife (who was still a minor at the time), have her pop out kids like she’s some kind of kids machine for your greedy needs and even force two of them on her before you go ahead and start physically and mentally abusing her, then expect for there to not be any repercussions on your family’s relationships.

Blaming a kid who got his whole life and being manipulated and then gaslighted by his own father, who remembered he indeed had an eldest son only when it was too late, and a woman who was sold to a greedy, egotistical, egocentric, narcissistic and selfish man when she was a kid who had one option worse than the other (We all know that the Himuras ain’t any more sane than Endeavor) is so weird guys, please.

Touya was treated like a human weapon by his own father, who as soon as he saw no more use in him and his quirk just casted the kid aside (which was before Natsuo was even conceived btw). So where’s the favoritism in this? Where? Because I can’t see it anywhere, no matter how hard I look for it. And why is that? Because there’s none. So you lot can stop being delusional about this topic, ‘cause it doesn’t stand up not even if you force it. You can’t erase the manipulation (into making him think he could become the #1 Hero, surpass All Might for his father and be the strongest) and then the gaslighting (telling him he can’t do any of that anymore since his quirk won’t permit it, telling Touya he should give up on his dream because it will never happen after Endeavor ingrained all that into his mind) just like that, then call all of this favoritism. Do you all even know what favoritism is? Or you just find out words on the Internet, ignore completely their meaning, and run with them blindly? Because I am bewildered by how some of you guys be coming on here to just say anything… Touya got failed by his parents and his siblings, because he was ignored and neglected by his siblings as much as he was by his parents (Shoto excluded because Endeavor was busy grooming him this time around) but none of you guys even call them out on Touya going through all of that alone, for some reason, while being okay with what Natsuo and Fuyumi told him as soon as they got into the battlefield. Like they ain’t bad siblings too and Endeavor wasn’t the reason they all lost each others as a family, literally do not piss me off I beg. I’m firmly convinced some of you guys pick and choose who you defend in the Todofam, but like… Everything you guys say makes no sense? It just shows me that some of you lack, as I said at the very beginning of the post, empathy and emotional intelligence. Which is sad.

You all can say “We’ve all gone through hard times alone” as much as you want, but that is not normal at all, towards any time of relationship but especially towards family. It’s not healthy and it can hurt a person a lot, making them close in themselves and when it starts to hurt from the inside the moment you stop getting all of the pent up stress inside it’s no good at all. And for the record, Touya (or just anyone) venting or opening himself to Natsuo about what he’s going through it’s not trauma dumping. It’s never trauma dumping if you genuinely care for someone (clarifying this before any of you emotional ignorant peoples come at me about this 🫠). So Natsuo and Fuyumi being in all of this too shouldn’t be used as an excuse for pushing their brother’s concerns and feelings under the rug, families are supposed to go through these type of situations as a family if they want to keep living happily as such, but they remembered this after one of them died and their youngest sibling was being still raised as a fighting machine by their abusive father. So, mind you, but they all (except Shoto) owe Touya some big ass apologies written down on a letter with tears if I gotta be honest.

As for Rei; she became a mother young, went through a lot all alone because mind you Mr. Husband was waaaaay too busy trying to groom their son into a Hero machine that could beat someone he is incapable of beating (Because a nullity will always be a nullity after all, even when becoming a #1 after the former #1 retirement, if they insist on projecting ofc) to help and guide his young and inexperienced wife through a wedding like theirs. How was she supposed to not lose her mind after being sold, neglected, beaten up, verbally abused, forced to pop out kids like a gachapon, seeing her fourteen years old son lose himself into the void because of his father and then he dies too, without never getting love nor affection from his father (the one he looked up to) the way a kid wants, needs and is supposed to get which is something I’m 100% sure led her to depression. You all diminish too much the grief a mother feels when she loses her kids. There’s much a mother, a human, can handle; and for Rei it got to a point where every trace of Endeavor disgusted her so much her whole body rejected his entire existence leading her to a mental breakdown. One that was due to come earlier if we think about it, but she was strong enough for her remaining kids until she couldn’t do it anymore. What she did to Shoto is wrong, I know and I acknowledge, but she’s a traumatized person who sees her abuser everywhere she goes because, unfortunately, it’s the person she was forced to marry. She apologized to Shoto right away, because she was still mature and sane enough to recognize her mistake right when it happened.

But Endeavor’s ego is so big that it took him his eldest son nearly blowing everyone up and becoming a walking torch before he finally apologized to the whole family for his wrong doings of 10 years prior. Which is crazy to me.

So I’m gonna need you all to stop erase Endeavor’s wrongdoings and try to gaslight the whole fandom into blaming Rei and Touya for the mistakes of someone else, because they’re the biggest victims in all of this shit.

That being said, hope y’all get well soon 🫶🏻💜

[for-my-reasons]

Saltwater

Love and Deepspace, Rafayel x Sylus

On Ao3 here

A/N: Got the idea from @napa-the-yappa, and had a friend beta read and help me out on posting it here.

Summary: Sylus and Rafayel go on a underwater date.

Content: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Established Relationship, Not Canon Compliant

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sandy beach and the sparkling ocean waves. Rafayel stretched lazily on a beach towel, his dusky purple hair catching the sunlight as he tilted his head back. His white shirt was unbuttoned, fluttering gently in the breeze, while his rolled-up trousers were already speckled with sand. He glanced over at Sylus, who stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, his black blazer draped over his shoulders despite the heat. The silver-haired man glared at the ocean as if it had personally offended him.

Rafayel smirked. "You know the water won't bite. Unless you're scared of it."

Sylus shot him a sharp look, his red eyes narrowing. "I'm not scared. I just don't see the point of wading around in saltwater like some mindless fish."

Rafayel chuckled, standing up and brushing sand off his pants. "Oh, come on. You’re telling me the great Sylus, leader of Onychinus, can’t handle a little swim? Or is it that you can’t swim at all?"

Sylus’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Rafayel thought he might deny it. But then Sylus muttered, "I never needed to learn."

Rafayel’s eyes lit up with mischief. "Oh, this is too good. The mighty Sylus, brought low by the ocean. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Consider it a favour from your favourite artist."

Sylus rolled his eyes but didn’t protest as Rafayel grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the water. The waves lapped at their feet, cool and refreshing, and Rafayel grinned as Sylus stiffened at the sensation.

"Relax," Rafayel said, his voice softening. "It’s just water. I’ve got you."

Sylus huffed but allowed Rafayel to guide him deeper, his usual confidence faltering as the water reached his waist. Rafayel turned to face him, his blue-and-pink eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Okay, first lesson: don’t panic. Just float. The water will hold you if you let it."

Sylus raised an eyebrow. "Float. That’s your brilliant advice?"

Rafayel grinned. "Trust me. Now, lean back. I’ll support you."

Sylus hesitated but eventually leaned back, his muscles tense as Rafayel’s hands steadied him. The water enveloped him, and for a moment, he looked almost peaceful—until a wave splashed over his face, and he shot upright, coughing. Rafayel burst out laughing.

Sylus glared at him, water dripping from his silver hair. "This is ridiculous. I don’t need to swim. I’ve survived this long without it."

Rafayel’s laughter subsided, and he stepped closer, his expression softening. "But you’re missing out on so much. Let me show you."

Sylus sighed, his resistance wavering. "Fine. But if I drown, I’m haunting you."

Rafayel grinned. "Deal. Now, for the next part…" He hesitated, his cheeks turning a faint pink. "You’ll need to, uh, kiss me."

Sylus blinked. "What?"

Rafayel rubbed the back of his neck, his blush deepening. "It’s a Lemurian thing. I can share my ability to breathe underwater, but it requires… physical contact. A kiss, to be exact."

Sylus stared at him for a moment, then smirked. "Is this your way of getting me to kiss you, Raf?"

Rafayel’s face turned even redder, spreading to his ears. "N-no! It’s just how it works! Don’t make it weird!"

Sylus chuckled, clearly enjoying Rafayel’s flustered state. "Alright, alright. If it’s necessary, I suppose I can endure it."

Rafayel muttered something under his breath about ungrateful dragons but leaned in anyway. Their lips met, soft and brief, and Rafayel pulled away quickly, his face still flushed. "There. Now you can breathe underwater. Don’t waste it."

Sylus smirked, clearly savouring Rafayel’s embarrassment. "Not bad, fishy. Maybe I should pretend to drown more often."

Rafayel groaned, splashing water at him. "Come on, let’s go before I change my mind."

Hand in hand, they waded deeper into the ocean. Rafayel’s excitement was visible as he pointed out schools of colourful fish and vibrant coral reefs. Sylus, despite his initial reluctance, found himself interested by the underwater world Rafayel revealed to him. The way Rafayel’s eyes lit up as he explained the different species, the passion in his voice—it was impossible not to be drawn in.

As they swam deeper, sunlight filtered through the water, casting patterns on the ocean floor. Rafayel’s movements were fluid and graceful as if he were born to be in the water, while Sylus, although still somewhat stiff, was gradually mastering the technique.

Rafayel glanced back at Sylus, his blue-and-pink eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "See? Told you it was worth it," he said, his voice carrying a playful tone even underwater. He reached out and took Sylus’s hand again, pulling him gently toward a cluster of coral. "Over here, look at this."

Sylus followed, his red eyes scanning the intricate structures of the coral. Tiny fish darted in and out of the crevices, their scales catching the light like jewels. For a moment, he forgot to be annoyed. "It’s... impressive," he admitted grudgingly.

Rafayel beamed, clearly pleased with himself. "Told you. The ocean has its kind of magic. It’s not just about survival—it’s about living. You should try it sometime."

Sylus raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I don’t know how to live?"

Rafayel shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I’m just saying, you could stand to loosen up a little. Not everything has to be about strategy and control."

Sylus snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out and brushed his fingers against a passing school of fish, watching as they scattered and regrouped. "I suppose there’s some merit to this," he conceded. "But don’t think this means I’m going to start frolicking in the waves every chance I get."

Rafayel laughed, the sound bubbling up like the currents around them. "I’ll take what I can get. Baby steps, cute. Baby steps."

They continued exploring, with Rafayel pointing out various sea creatures and sharing stories about his time in the ocean. Sylus listened, occasionally offering a dry comment or sarcastic remark, but his gaze was curious. For once, he wasn’t thinking about plans or power—he was simply present, caught in the moment

They floated in silence for a while, the gentle currents carrying them along. For the first time in what felt like forever, Sylus felt a strange sense of calm. It was unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome. He glanced over at Rafayel, who had closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. The sunlight filtering through the water made his dusky purple hair shimmer, and for a moment, Sylus found himself captivated.

"You’re staring," Rafayel said without opening his eyes, his smile widening.

Sylus quickly looked away, his usual composure returning. "I was not."

Rafayel laughed, opening his eyes and turning to face him. "You’re a terrible liar, cutie. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation is safe with me."

Sylus sighed, though there was no real annoyance in it. "You’re tolerable. Barely."

Rafayel grinned, clearly taking that as a win. "I’ll take it. Now, come on. There’s one more thing I want to show you."

Before Sylus could protest, Rafayel grabbed his hand and pulled him deeper, toward a hidden grotto lit up by bioluminescent algae. The walls glowed softly, casting an ethereal light that made the entire space feel otherworldly.

"Welcome to my secret spot," Rafayel said, his voice tinged with pride. "Not many people get to see this."

Sylus looked around, taking in the shimmering walls and the gentle hum of the water. "It’s... remarkable," he admitted quietly.

Rafayel smiled, his expression softer now. "I knew you’d like it. You’ve got a thing for beautiful, mysterious things, don’t you?"

Sylus glanced at him, his red eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you calling yourself beautiful and mysterious?"

Rafayel laughed, the sound echoing softly in the grotto. "Maybe. But I was talking about the grotto. Unless you think I’m beautiful too?"

Sylus shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you’re still here," Rafayel said, his tone light but his gaze steady. "Maybe you’re starting to like impossible things."

Sylus didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. 

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, they returned to the shore. Rafayel flopped onto the sand, exhausted but happy. Sylus sat beside him, his usual smugness replaced by a rare softness.

"Thanks," Sylus said quietly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "For today."

Rafayel smiled, leaning his head against Sylus’s shoulder. "Anytime, cutie. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you next time you act all high and mighty."

Sylus chuckled, wrapping an arm around Rafayel. "Wouldn’t dream of it, my little fishy.”

[diamond-champagne]

2. I Want to See You

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: More Angst and suggestive content

Feedback is always welcome :)

Paige feels like she’s drowning. She isn’t swimming; in fact, she would actually prefer that she were. She’s suffocating. It’s been four days since she woke up alone; and in those four days, she feels as if her heart has been ripped out. She’s tired.

At least, that’s what she’s been telling anyone who asked. It’s not a lie. She hasn’t had much time for sleep between basketball and classes. The very little time that she does have to sleep, isn’t good sleep. 

She looks and feels like crap. It’s been a long four days. 

The bright side is that she has barely seen Azzi; so it’s been easier to cope with her arching heart. Or at least, that’s what she thought.

-

Paige is exhausted. Her body drags as she walks through the hallways of her apartment building. Practice was particularly hard today and she had 2 exams. All she wants to do is take a hot shower and plop in her bead. The thought of sleep motivates her to walk a little faster to her apartment. 

By the time she gets to her door, she’s out of breath. Paige practically ran down the long hallway to get to her front door; too eager for sleep. She makes her way into her apartment and immediately heads for the shower. She’s in the middle of washing her hair when she hears her front door open. 

It startles Paige. Not because of why someone is in her apartment; but because of who. There’s only one person who has the ability to come and go in the spaces that Paige claims as her own. However, that person hasn’t done so in almost four weeks.

Paige takes her time finishing her shower; knowing that her guest will still be there when she’s done. The blue-eyed girl makes her way into her bedroom, thirty minutes later. As expected, Azzi is spread out on the left side, in her pajamas. 

“What are you doing here?”. Paige is direct and straight to the point. She’s tired and all she wants to do is sleep.

“I wanted to see you, plus I thought we could cuddle.”

“You should be with your girlfriend.” It comes out bitter and Paige knows it. At this moment, she doesn’t care.

“Riley is pulling an all nighter for some exam that she has coming up” Azzi shrugs as if it’s a perfectly good explanation as to why she’s in Paige’s bed. As if it's okay that she's in her bed.

Paige scoffs as she moves to get ready for bed. “So you didn’t want to see me; you just couldn’t see her.” Her annoyance grows as she sifts through her dresser; looking for a shirt to sleep in. 

“Don’t say that, P. I always want to see you.”

“No; you always want to fuck me” Paige says pointedly with her back to Azzi. She’s so busy digging in her dresser that she doesn’t notice Azzi rising from the bed. She crowds Paige’s space; flushing her front completely against the taller girl’s back while she wraps her arms around her waist. 

“How could I not when you beg so prettily?” Azzi rasps. Her hands undoing to knot to Paige’s robe; letting it fall open. The cold air and Azzi’s touch make Paige gasp. Her entire body is on fire. Azzi’s fingers trail up and down Paige’s sides. It’s a simple action but it leaves Paige craving more. She turns around; getting ready to take exactly what she wants when she looks at Azzi’s shirt. Or should she say Riley’s shirt. It’s a navy blue UConn shirt; one that could’ve passed as either one of basketball player’s; however UConn Volleyball is printed on the upper left corner of the shirt.

Paige was tired, but now she’s pissed. And hurt. How dare she?

“Were you going to fuck me in her shirt?” Every word is coated with disgust. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying. 

“Shit! P, look I didn’t realize. I was with her before I came here! Fuck!” Azzi rushes to get her words out. Her mind is racing to find a way to fix this.

“So you came here for what, exactly? It comes out through gritted teeth. Paige knows that the last week was anything but ideal; but she hasn’t felt as used as she does right now. “She wasn’t available so you came here? Hoping I’d be waiting?” 

“N-Not at all.” Azzi’s heart clenches. 

“But isn’t it? You’re all over me one second and then all over her the next.” Paige sneers. She angrily wipes her tears as she rushes to put clothes on. 

She spent the last few days being sad. Now she’ll spend the next few being angry. Angry at Azzi. Angry at Riley. Angry at herself.

Azzi grabs at Paige in a desperate attempt to get the older girl to listen to her. “P, Please!’

“Get out.” It’s cold and even. 

“No’-”

“Get out.” Paige says emotionless. She watches as Azzi looks at her; eyes full of hurt. Normally, she’d fight wars to never see that look on the curly-haired girl’s face. These aren’t normal circumstances. She’s hurt too.

It’s the fifth night in the row that Paige has cried herself to sleep.

-

“She did what?” Blair asked, shocked.

The two had met up later that week to hang out and vent. They’re at a restaurant not far from campus. It’s small and secluded.

“She wore her fucking shirt.” Paige shakes her head at the memory. She hasn’t spoken to Azzi since then; doing everything in her power to avoid the girl. It’s nearly impossible with them being on the same team, but Paige has managed to successfully evade all attempts of a conversation.

Blair gives her a sympathetic look followed by a sigh. “You know you deserve better right?” 

“I know; but I love her.” Paige sighs with defeat. “It’s exhausting only receiving half of her.”

“You’re too full of life to be half loved.”

It’s a simple enough statement; but it does something to Paige. It makes her think. In fact, that’s all she thinks about for the rest of the day.

-

It’s Friday night and the team has filed into Aubrey’s apartment after their game against USC. The Huskies pulled off an amazing win with 89-63. The celebration is well deserved and needed. 

The girls sit around the dining room table; laughing and giggling while playing UNO. They have total privacy so the alcohol is flowing a bit freely tonight. Paige is in the middle of deciding which card she wants to play when Azzi and Riley walk through the door. She’s irritated but not surprised. Riley was at the game earlier that night; completely decked out in an Azzi Fudd Jersey with “35” splayed across her chest. 

The team welcomes them and immediately moves to arrange the chairs so that they can fit around the table. Jana takes the initiative to deal them cards so that they can join. Paige decided at that moment that she needed another drink. 

Paige is in the middle of adding the sprite into her Shirley Temple when she gets the idea to invite Blair. Not wanting to think about the decision too long or linger in the kitchen, she shoots her a quick message before returning to the game of UNO. Everyone is slightly squished together to accommodate the couple but in an uncomfortable amount. It helps that Azzi opted to sit on Riley’s lap instead of her own chair. The sight makes Paige’s blood boil.

How dare she sit on her lap knowing I sat on her face last week! Paige thinks to herself. She shakes her head at the thought while smirking to herself. She picks up her UNO cards and begins to sift through them when she hears a chirp from across the table.

“What’s so funny, Paige?” Riley asked pointedly as she stared at her. Paige almost wants to ask if there’s an underlying question’ but she doesn’t. This isn’t the time nor the place. She recovers quickly, though. “Just thinking about how nice it’ll be to win this game.”

“Are you sure about that?” Riley raises her eyebrow cockily. “Azzi is my good luck charm.” She looks up at Azzi with a smile. She almost excuses herself when she hears a knock on the door. Aubrey disappears for a split second, and when she comes back, Blair is on her heels.

Unable to mask her excitement, Paige jumps up and engulfs Blair in a tight hug. She leans her head on the other girl’s shoulder and whispers quietly “Thank you for coming.” Blair pulls back first so she can look Paige in the eyes when she tells her “Anything for you.” 

The two haven’t been friends long but they’ve helped each other in different ways. Blair is helping Paige realize that she deserves more than just crumbs of someone’s time. Paige helped Blair navigate the difficulties of her long distance relationship with her boyfriend, Nate. They have shared a few deep conversations and have voiced their insecurities. Paige considers her to be a close friend.

A throat clears from the table. “P boogers, are you going to introduce us?” KK asked.

Paige apologizes and introduces Blair to the team. Like clockwork, the girls start shuffling to make room for her around the table. While they do this, Paige runs to get her a drink. 

She’s in the middle of measuring out the shots when Azzi walks into the kitchen.

“Who is she?” Azzi’s voice is unsteady and tainted with something that Paige can’t identify. Regardless, she has no interest in playing this game tonight. 

“A friend.”

“Bullshit. I know all your friends and I haven’t met her” Azzi grits out. 

“She’s a fairly new friend. I met her at the bar last week.”

“Is that the girl you spent all night talking to?” Jealousy creeps up Azzi’s throat. 

“Why? Jealous?” Paige counters. She smirks with an eyebrow raised. She knows the answer.

Azzi moves from her spot to crowd Paige’s space. She backs her up so she's trapped between Azzi’s body and the counter.

“Should I be?” Azzi whispers. She’s so close to Paige that her breath lightly fans her face.

Paige closes the gap between them some more; eliminating the space between their bodies. She moves as if she’s going in for a kiss. Her lips brush Azzi’s as she speaks “As long as you have a girlfriend, no.”

The reminder of Riley is like a bucket of cold water to Azzi; the shock prevalent on the younger girl’s face. Paige takes advantage and pushes past her; joining the rest of the team in the dining room.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[tiddygame]

I'm in a state of shock, but it's something new.

Ao3

Summary: Ghost is very certain that the siren that saved him wants to eat him. And he was right — Up until he won the siren over by just being a bit of a wet cat. Someone really ought to tell Ghost that though.

Notes: this is a work very, very heavily inspired by this art that everyone should go reblog bc if not i'll kill you

Ghost has lived through a lot of shit in his life, but he never thought he’d meet his end like this. The “getting shot out of a helicopter” part wasn’t that unexpected. The magical fish person was.

He doesn’t remember much of the falling, but he does remember hitting the water. He landed hard, the wind getting knocked out of him. He must’ve hit his head at some point because he was struggling to get his brain and body on the same page.

He remembers looking around and seeing nothing but a blue tinged abyss, the panic upon realizing he was sinking deeper into it. He had looked around frantically, finally looking up and finding the frothy surface. He tried to swim up at first, but quickly remembered what he had been forgetting, and tried to remove the lead weights that had formed from his soaked tactical gear. 

He remembers thinking that drowning was supposed to be peaceful as his hands refused to cooperate and flailed uselessly. When the weight of his vest left him, he felt the desire for survival once more. He had almost no air left, but it was not the first time he had been in such a situation. 

He remembers feeling proud of himself for kicking off his boots. Then it seemed his brain forgot what drowning means and tried to breathe in, so desperate for air that he instinctively inhaled.

He remembers finding it funny that “The Ghost” for all his wild legends, was finally set to meet his maker due to a bit of water. Eventually, peace found him. No longer able to panic, he sank, just staring at the dimming surface above him.

He remembers thinking that it really did feel like he was just going to sleep.

He does not remember the hands that had grabbed him.

He remembers being shocked awake by a blinding light and feeling like he’d been caught under a collapsed building. Coughing hard enough to make him see stars, he quickly landed on clenching his eyes shut. He did not know what was happening around him and could do nothing but focus on breathing.

That was a feat in and of itself, his lungs were unable to decide whether or not he was suffocating. Feeling solid rock beneath him, he desperately pulled himself forward, every muscle in his body shaking. 

His arms were barely able to hold him as he continued to gasp for air. Sand stuck to his wet arms in clumps, the feeling weighing him down further.

To say he rolled onto his back was a bit too dignified for what actually happened. It was more like he collapsed and managed to turn himself before he fully hit the ground. For a second he thought there was an alarm ringing somewhere getting louder, but it was quickly made apparent that it was his own ears that were ringing. And just as fast, it turned into a piercing shriek that somehow left him even more disoriented.

He was able to slowly squint his eyes open, shakily raising one of his arms to block the sun from his eyes as he stared into the stupidly bright sky. He took several long deep breaths just to confirm to himself that he wasn’t drowning, that he wasn’t hallucinating, and that everything was real.

The longer he lied there, the more he became aware of a stinging around his right ribs and lower left leg. Lowering his arm, he felt his side. The sharp sting from his palm making contact with the wound worsened his worries and seeing the red that coated his hand confirmed them.

He dropped his arm in annoyance, knowing that if he wanted to get out of there alive, he’d have to do something with it. He huffed out a disgruntled sigh and propped himself up on his other arm to check the damage on his leg.

He froze.

What in the fuck is that.

There was a man… fish. Fish man. Person. Half human, half fish. 

Fuck concussion, he must have a severe TBI.

The creepy ass fuck was smiling at him, something about it did not look right. Like it was a human smile made up by carnivorous teeth. 

Staring at it, he was reminded of tales of faeries, something almost human that wanted to humor you until your eyes began to glaze over their inhuman features and let your guard down. But the thing in front of him was no woodland creature. Uncanny valley didn’t even begin to cover it. 

It had itself propped up on the rocks, the fucking blue and orange fins along its arms swayed in the water. Movement caught his eye, and after a concerning amount of time, he focused his vision enough to see its tail swishing around in the air.

Ghost had to squint significantly for the image not to blur too much. It slowed, gently flicking water off the delicate orange membrane. The sky was dark with clouds threatening an incoming storm, yet still the scales managed to reflect the light like a prism. The orange and blue should have combined into a dark and murky color, but instead they seemed to highlight each other.

It… It fucking giggled. When he made eye contact with it, the tail went back to flicking around at random, like an inquisitive cat, ready to pounce. Processing everything at about 50% speed, he only partially realized that it had been moving it slowly just for Ghost to stare at.

“You’re a fuckin’ mermaid.”

“Guilty.”

It didn’t seem remorseful, still grinning with ghastly mirth. The gravel in its voice was unexpected, it had some accent but he’d need more than one word to place it.

Ghost looked out to the water. They had flown a good distance from the land, far too much for a concussed, disoriented, drowning man to have swam. He looked back to the myth sitting in front of him. “You… saved me.”

“Aye.” It kept smiling. He didn’t like it. It looked like a predator admiring its next meal. 

“Why?”

It shrugged, one arm propping up its head as the other went to tap simply against the rock, “Why not?”

His eyes narrowed at it. There were hundreds of reasons why not. Why was it avoiding the question?

“Right,” Ghost said disbelievingly when the creature said nothing more. The wound on his leg wasn’t as bad as he feared; He might limp for a couple of days, but once the scratch was healed up, he should be fine. If he managed to make it off the beach, that is.

The fucking thing kept staring at him. Even it’s fingers were all scaly and webbed like a fucking frog.

Ghost inched back slowly, trying to get out of reach under the guise of just trying to sit up. It wasn’t a great ploy, but he was able to get a good amount of distance without the freak lunging at him.

(He was desperately attempting to ignore the part of him that knew that it had no reaction because it wasn’t reaction worthy, that even further up the shore, it would still be able to kill him as soon as it grew bored of playing with him. 

For once, he was the mouse.)

It didn’t move, it just. Kept. Fucking. Staring.

Ghost took a risky gamble and decided to ignore it for the moment. There were two things present that could kill him: His injuries or the mermaid.

If that thing wanted him dead, there would be little he could do to stop it. However, the hole in his side and gash in his leg were much more fixable. All he needed to do was stop the bleeding, clean it, and bandage it. Simple.

(It was still staring.)

All of his gear was at the bottom of the sea floor and even if he could swim out there and hold his breath for long enough, well, fish-thing. So he was on his own with nothing but the knife on his thigh and his wits.

But he had a concussion. So just his knife then. Great.  

Forcing what few parts of his brain still worked into overdrive, he knew that the place they were clearing (before things fell apart, as they so often did) should have been nearby; It was some stupidly big house on the seaside that, long story short, was owned by bad people, but was now up for grabs.

It should have at least something he could use to patch himself up and perhaps get in contact with someone who could get him the fuck away from grinning sirens. He just had to hope that if there were any hostiles in the area, they would be easy to dispatch. 

The problem arose with him not knowing where he was relative to the mansion. He was on the shore which made things a little easier, but he had to idea if it was—

“Are you just gonna keep staring at me?” Ghost asked suddenly, interrupting his own line of thought. The mermaid had kept looking at him the entire time Ghost was trying to come up with a plan.

“Yer nice to look at,” it answered, flicking its tail like it was trying to get Ghost distracted again.

Scottish. The fish-person had a Scottish accent.

If he had actually drowned and this was his dying mind fragmenting into pieces and formulating some story for him to calmly drift away to, he would like a new story, please.

Ghost rubbed his temples, slowly coming to terms with the fact that this shit, that smiley mermaids, was his new reality. He mourned his sanity that had stayed in the chopper when he fell out, leaving him on the shore with nonsense.

“Do you want to help me?” Ghost asked, a vague, half-baked idea forming.

“Of course,” it said with a charming, fanged smile; He always thought people were exaggerating when they said someone “purred” something, but fuck if that thing didn’t sound like a cat that finally had its patience waiting at a mouse hole rewarded.

Ghost took a moment to consider how many ways his theoretical plan could backfire. But whatever. Couldn’t hurt any worse than falling out of a helicopter did. “There’s a mansion somewhere nearby. It’d really help me out if you told me where.”

The thing stared at him long enough that he started trying to think of something else, some other plan to get out of there alive. But after some time, it pushed away from the shore, looked left and right, and descended beneath the choppy waves. Ghost stood there staring where it disappeared, surprised.

He shook his head; He finally had a moment without it there, he had to take advantage of its absence. He needed to move as far inland as he could, but not until he had slowed the bleeding on his side and leg.

Ghost carefully pulled off his outer long-sleeve, trying not to pull any clots that might have started. He worked quickly, cutting the tattered shirt into makeshift bandages with his knife, wrapping one around his abdomen and the other around his leg. 

Now he needed to fucking move, somewhere far enough away from the fish thing, out of earshot. His vision wavered as he stood and he stumbled before he could regain his balance, barely catching himself in the sand. He tried again. This time, he was marginally successful but had to wait to be sure the sand was below him and the sky above as his vision did not clear.

Ghost did not know what he was dealing with, but he knew that if the myths about a siren’s song were true, he needed to live up to his name and disappear into the rocks, get far enough that a deadly call would be drowned out by winded plains of tall grass—

“South,” the fish thing he was trying to escape said as he poked back up from the waves and pointed to Ghost’s left. 

God fucking dammit.

Worse yet, the south of him held cliffs, cliffs too tall and sheer for even an uninjured man to climb, with very little clearance between the rocks and the water. 

Gaz has fallen out of so many helicopters, how come the one time Ghost does it this shit happens?

“Thanks,” he said in a deadpan voice. He hoped there wasn’t anything about thanking fae or sirens or whatever that thing was that would lead to him being even more doomed.

Ghost was no stranger to painful treks and hikes made with injuries on rough terrain, but it never made him any less annoyed. He felt a glimmer of hope after the first few seconds that the mermaid was going to stay there, but of course when he glanced behind him, he saw it silently trailing him.

It wasn’t ashamed of being caught, just looked at him like it was wondering why he stopped. Ghost didn’t bother asking; He wasn’t in any position to antagonize it as he had to step further into the water as the cliffs jutted out.

At low tide, it probably would have been a simple (and dry) path, but an encroaching storm had the waves angry, pushing closer to the rocks. He had to watch his footing to keep on the sand and not let the riptide pull his feet out from under him.

When the waves pushed up, the water edged close to the poorly bandaged gash on his shin. When it pulled away, it fell back far enough that the damp sand was the only evidence of the harsh surf for just a few seconds before it all came crashing back.

It was far from the worst hike he had made (while the wind threatened hypothermia if he didn’t dry off, it wasn’t humid), but his entire body ached and having to plot every step in time with the tides and currents made it that much shittier.

“I could carry you.”

And the mermaid. Can’t forget the fucking mermaid.

Ghost didn’t grace the statement with a response. Yes, it could carry him. And Ghost could stab himself in the thigh. Two things plausible by free will and possible by the mysticality of the universe, but neither were going to happen.

“It would be easier — And quicker!” 

It had swam in front of him, smiling without its teeth. It was close enough to tell Ghost that he was not far from a harsh drop off with it being able to swim easily that close to shore.

“No,” Ghost denied firmly, not looking at its smile. 

He didn’t like that it was smiling without teeth now; That meant that it was smart enough to know that the sharp teeth were unsettling, not something you wanted to display if trying to convince someone to trust you. That it had some grasp on manipulation tactics and what looked threatening and inhuman versus what looked kind and charming.

“Why not? You have to be in pain!” 

The tone that could have been easily mistaken for genuine hurt and disappointment got him to glance over. Ghost hadn’t wondered what a siren with sad, begging, puppy-dog eyes would look like, but now he knew.

Ghost shook his head and focused; he had no energy to waste. While his heart was hoping to collapse into a soft bed as soon as he got to the mansion, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. 

At best, he would still have to scope the place out, find medical supplies, food, clean water, and some place to rest. 

At worst, it would be all of that plus having to take on an entire estate infested by people who wanted him dead with nothing more than a combat knife to defend himself with.

When his vision blurred and his feet stumbled, he pressed his hand further into his side. The pain used to shock his system back into alertness, but the more he hiked on, the less effective it became.

Ghost paused and let his head fall back when he saw the perimeter of the stupid mansion’s stupid lawn marring the landscape. Later looking back, he had no idea why the hell he took the fish’s word at face value and decided to land on being grateful that it told the truth as opposed to being disappointed in his own naivety.

The mermaid itself stayed quiet after its pleas to carry Ghost went ignored. Anytime he stumbled, he saw it move towards him with its hands outstretched before it quickly retracted when he did not fall. 

If he was giving it the benefit of the doubt, he’d say it was like the person standing at the bottom of the ladder to keep it steady and catch you should you slip. But he wasn’t and it only served to remind him of an animal getting greedy and opening its jaws before its catch was confirmed. 

Ghost’s path onward would take him further inland, but only after he climbed and clambered over the rocks in his way.

Some traitorous part of his mind must have been listening to the siren as it whispered that the house went down to the water, that he did good in hiking as far as he did, but now he should let the siren carry him to the docks.

He would need to save his energy for clearing an entire mansion on his own and not to mention tending to his wounds, but maybe the siren was kind enough to help with that too. Really, it was willing to help Ghost as much as it could, Ghost just needed to trust it.

“You’re a bit heavy handed with it,” Ghost commented dryly, already growing uncomfortably familiar with the sharp-toothed smile.

“Me?” the siren asked as if it could never be accused of such dastardly things, shock tainting its pretty features as the quiet tune it had been humming petered out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Its smile told Ghost that it knew exactly what he was talking about and it had that freakish purr again. But he didn’t know what was worse: The lack of outrage at the blatant manipulation, or the fact that he called the siren pretty of his own volition.

Well, if it’s a siren, it’s a creature specifically designed to be attractive — is it that outrageous to make a simple observation?

Ghost whished the thoughts were not his own.

“Thanks for the help,” he said, turning inland. He wasn’t even close to the final stretch, but his exhaustion already weighed on him. God he just wanted to pass out. And some painkillers.

“Well, you’re not gonna leave me all alone, are you?”

He froze.

Was there anything stopping it from making Ghost do what it wanted? If it did want to keep Ghost there until it either got bored and ate him or Ghost died of starvation, the hell could he do about it?

He took a gamble, betting on it wanting to keep him alive. “I need medical supplies,” Ghost answered, pulling his hand from his side and showing off the watery blood on his palm.

It fucking pouted. “I know but…” It intentionally trailed off, making no effort to hide its theatrics. The siren pulled itself up onto one of the rocks, straightening his arms and sitting at chest-level with Ghost. “You’ll visit me on the water once you’re better, right?”

Ghost didn’t realize just how close they were until its arm reached out to graze at the bandages on his side. He froze, scared that if he backed away the siren would put those claws to good use and keep him exactly where it wanted him.

“You do owe me, don’t you?”

Ghost inhaled at the words and its eyes shifted from begging to knowing; It knew that it had leverage over Ghost and was taking full advantage of it.

“Alright,” Ghost said, wishing it was just whatever magic allure the siren had that was making him agree and not his rattled mind actually beginning to like the deadly smile.

…

Three enemies.

From what he could hear, they were left behind to find out what the 141 had been after while the others either laid chased or worked on the clean-up.

It was clear that they didn’t think much of the job they were assigned, doing more standing around and cutting up than investigative work. It was child’s play to dispatch them.

Cut the breaker, and just like in the slasher movies Gaz made them watch, only one doofus went to investigate. Kill him, wait a second, flip the breaker back on to make the other two think their friend was dragging their feet. Sneak in, stab doofus number two while holding the third doofus in a choke hold.

Really, at some point it just becomes survival of the fittest. And by God, they were not fit for survival.

Ghost dragged the two outside to be with their buddy by the breaker and rushed through tending to his wounds. Considering that there were grains of sand in his side, it was safe to say that no amount of isopropyl alcohol was going to prevent an infection.

He bandaged it as best as he could and luckily for him, it seemed that now the hard part was done, his blood decided to clot again. Which definitely had nothing to do with the dry bandages that were now applied and everything to do with the universe hating him.

Ghost only remembered that he needed to change into something dry after the third time his shivers made him misplace the dressings. The shoes were a lost cause but after a lot of pilfering he was able to find something that fit; Cruelly, the pants fit well enough, but the only shirt he could find that “fit” was a tank top that pressed into his side something fierce.

He considered forgoing it in favor of the jacket he found in the back of one of the closets, but he experienced enough wind chill in his life to know that he’d need whatever he could get his hands on if the wind kept up by time the sun set.

With the three enemies no longer responding to check-ins, it wouldn’t be long before more came looking to investigate. Ghost did his best to make it look like the three broke into the mini bar and got plastered, smashing a glass or two on the floor and leaving a vague trail towards the cliffs.

And he fucking hated that he already knew what he was going to do to hide the bodies. Before they were even dead, it was already a part of his plan.

God, maybe Ghost isn’t fit for survival either.

He waited for the painkillers to kick in before he threw one of the bodies over his shoulder and carried the other two by the straps on their vests. It still fucking hurt, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

At some point between looking up at the water to see where he was going and staring at his feet so he didn’t fall on his face, the siren appeared at the end of the docks.

It propped its head up in one hand and smiled at him the entire way. Ghost shivered under its unwavering stare and regretted both his plan and not zipping the jacket.

“I knew you’d come back,” it said happily once he was close enough. And if Ghost didn’t look at the fins or fangs, he’d almost think it was genuine.

Ghost didn’t answer. Not immediately, at least. He waited until he was standing just in front of the siren and even then he still did not answer verbally. He let go of the two he was dragging and dumped the one on his shoulder over the side of the docks and into the water.

It floated for a minute, the corpse eventually being dragged down by the tide. The mermaid lifted its head and watch over the dock as it sank, intrigued.

“You said I owe you?”

It looked up at him and nodded.

“An offering. To make us even.”

“Aww,” it mumbled with facetiously sweet eyes, “You didn’t have to do that!” Ghost stiffened, wondering what it wanted to absolve his debt.

It pulled itself up to sit on the docks, sitting sideways to look back at Ghost with its tail hanging off into the water and wrapping around one of the posts. And it still had some pull over him as he kneeled down to be eye level with it.

“Your debt was absolved when you came back for me.”

It raised a clawed hand to his cheek and traced one side of the Glasgow smile, trailing from the corner of his lip all the way to his ear. Ghost tried not to blush, but it didn’t matter much.

“You’re in my head,” he commented with as much anger as he had when the beast had pulled the same trick earlier. Debt and absolve. How convenient that it used the exact same words he just thought to himself.

It tapped the claw against his cheek and he felt his heart in his throat clogging his fear but felt no desire to pull back. It smiled and did not deny the allegation; It almost looked… happy that it was called on its manipulation.

“You don’t owe me,” it said, looking Ghost in the eye. It wanted to come across as earnest.

“Think of them as a gift, then,” Ghost said before the freak could read it out of his mind. It was also before he could think about it at all, but whatever. Again, whatever fallout would be far from the worst or stupidest or most painful thing to happen to him that day.

“Really?” the siren asked. And Ghost hesitated to use genuine in regards to a creature that clearly had the means to twist his mind, but his surprise seemed to break the knowing smile from his face. “A gift?”

Ghost nodded. And he really wanted to think that the mermaid felt as touched as it looked. It was pretty when it blushed, the red flush highlighting the scales that decorated its cheeks.

Ghost smirked when its blush worsened. He knew the thing was still in his head.

“No strings attached?” it asked, even more earnest than before. He didn’t realize that such a simple thing would completely throw the siren off of whatever game it had been playing.

But for whatever reason, Ghost had become sure of the idea that if it did want him dead, he wouldn’t have made it off that beach in the first place. “None,” Ghost said, shaking his head. “What’s your name?”

“Soap,” it answered after a beat.

Again, he spoke without thinking, this time saying something far worse than a gift offer.

“A nickname, I hope.”

The mermaid looked shocked at his words for a second before it broke into laughter, something it tried and failed to tamp down. Its hand left Ghost’s cheek and went to cover its mouth

“Yes,” it said between chuckles and a broad grin, “Yes it is.” Its face was red again from the effort it took to stop laughing.

God, why did it have to have dimples too?

“And you?”

“Ghost.”

“Oh, you’re one to judge!” it said, toothy grin returning.

His side should have been screaming but it wasn’t. Same for his ankle. An incentive to stay that he didn’t even need; Ghost liked seeing it smile genuinely.

Jesus, it almost made him forget he was sitting next to two dead bodies.

“Soap?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Soap again made direct eye contact; He took a breath to answer but his eyes snapped to the hilltop and the fins where his ears would have been perked up.

“You hear someone?” Ghost asked quickly, looking up as well but seeing nothing.

Soap’s eyes were darker as he asked, “Friends of yours?”

The accusation was there, thrumming under his words.

“No,” Ghost said, not bothering with a sarcastic answer— All for the best really as he doubted Soap was willing to listen to one. “I have to go,” he said simply, not offering more explanation.

But Soap seemed to catch on anyway, the dark look directed up the hill. “Don’t go far?” it asked, turning to him with that begging look.

Ghost, who had been planning to sneak past whoever was coming from the house and hijack whatever vehicle they brought, nodded and headed for the sailboat on the other end of the docks.

Of course, because having a waterfront estate wasn’t enough.

As he left, he heard the quiet splash of Soap getting back in the water and then the significantly less graceful sound of two large objects being dragged in as well.

He was almost relieved as he silently moved across the creaky wooden planks; Facing impossible odds with enemies on his tail (heh) was much more familiar to him than any social interactions, especially with mythic sea creatures.

The boat was a good bet to get out of there but only if the skies didn’t open before he could remember which ropes did what; It was a bit fancier than the ones he’d trained on.

He scoffed at the boat’s name.

Ogygia — He doubted that any fucker in that mansion could name the myth it belonged to.

Well, the fuckers that used to be in the mansion.

Ghost ducked into the cabin; his lip curled at just how expensive everything was in there. He wedged himself behind the door, out of sight if they glanced inside but in a good enough position to jump them should they decide to do a proper sweep.

He waited; He heard some vague mumbling but the lapping water made it hard to tell where it was. Several minutes of nothing passed and when he was finally done waiting, he waited some more.

It wasn’t until a quiet, “Ghost? They’re gone — you can come out now.”

Damn the bastard for making Ghost feel bad with a lilt in its voice like he was expecting Ghost to have absconded when it hid as well. After it called out, Ghost waited for a moment more, an ingrained insurance to see if anyone shouted at the unexpected voice. But all he heard was a sad sigh from the other end of the boat.

He emerged quietly, not a squeaky floorboard or falling trinket to give him away. And fuck that stupid, manipulative siren for making him feel bad when he stepped out and saw it laying its head on the side of the boat, staring off at the water with a forlorn expression.

“If I asked for another favor,” Ghost started, not letting himself be distracted by Soap’s look of surprise and delight upon seeing him, “Would that put me back in your debt?”

Soap left its head on its arms as it smiled at him. “Not so long as you promise to visit me again.”

Ghost sat on the deck of the boat, his back hunched to be eye level with the siren. “I need to get out of here before more of those guys come back.”

“I take it they’re not fans of yours?”

“No, oddly enough.”

“Hmm…” Soap’s smile fell to something sadder. “The closest town is further south — you just have to keep following the coast.”

Ghost nodded but made no move to get up.

“You never got the chance to tell me why you didn’t kill me.”

Soap thought for a moment, no doubt debating if he should be honest. Ghost wouldn’t blame him if he backed out or lied to his face — he wasn’t owed the truth — but damn if he wasn’t curious why a siren who seemed wise beyond his years spared Ghost, of all people.

“You’re not the first person I’ve saved from drowning,” Soap admitted, as Ghost had guessed. “Most people when they come to… they want something.”

Ghost, for whatever godforsaken reason, argued in favor of being a part of the majority of people that Soap killed. “I wanted something. I wanted to get away.”

“Yes, but I mean they wanted something.”

He stared uncomprehendingly.

Soap chuckled and dropped its head, amused by his confusion. “Ghost, what was the original myth of sirens?”

He looked askance, wondering what that had to do with anything — He was no Odysseus and had no mast to tie himself to.

“Ghost,” Soap said again, “They wanted something from me.”

“Oh,” Ghost said, his stupid mind starting to put it together. “Oh,” he said, realizing what the siren meant. “Oh,” he said with contempt and a curled lip, his disgust at people he didn’t even know blatant.

“But see?” Soap chuckled, “Different. Didn’t even consider it a possibility until I spelled it out.”

Ghost’s mind followed along slowly, struggling with the idea that so many people held that level of entitlement and the idea that he wasn’t killed because he’s a loser who forgets about sex the majority of the time. “Oh,” he said again.

Soap reached a hand forward and tapped its claws against his chest. “You heard the song and felt the pull of desire, but that was not what you wanted.”

Oh God, he actually was saved by being a loser.

Its hand flattened and fingers splayed as best as they could with the webbing. Its hand felt his heartbeat before it drifted down, just on the edge of the bandages on his side.

It mumbled, barely audible, “Though I fear for the first time in my life I may be made a hypocrite.”

“What?” Ghost asked, the words almost lost to the waves, barely floating on the surface.

“Nothing,” it said quickly with a knowing smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

There was a gap that Ghost wouldn’t have described as awkward, but somewhere in his empty skull was a voice saying that he was messing things up and had to say something.

And he couldn’t stay there forever even though he’d settle for a few more minutes. Whatever Soap was may have been easing the pain but his wounds still needed proper medical attention.

His throat had dried at some point so when he tried to speak, his voice cracked like a pubescent teenager and he had to give himself a second before he tried again. Second time’s the charm and he managed to croak out, “What happens now?”

The siren’s smile turned bittersweet once again. “I believe this is where we part ways.”

“But I still need to visit you again; I owe you for the directions,” Ghost reminded it, entirely earnest and only a little concerned he missed something when Soap laughed.

“Ah, yes,” it mumbled, a mischievous glint in its eyes, “I almost forgot…”

Soap reached up, brought a clawed hand to his cheek, and leaned in slowly. Ghost froze like an idiot, no clue what he should do.

But maybe Soap liked idiots because instead of laughing at him, it brought its thumb to his chin and parted his lips. Ghost felt the blush burn across his face. Despite Soap seeming to know his mind better than he did, it waited; Ghost did not pull back.

(The last time he kissed someone would have been three years ago; What started as a celebratory drink in a Chicagoan bar culminated in a very drunken game of truth or dare — and Ghost learning that Rudy was a very good kisser.)

He couldn’t bring himself to move forward even though he wanted to but maybe Soap was still in his head as it did so for him. The siren’s teeth were sharp and its tongue distinctly inhuman but he didn’t mind — especially not with that tongue licking its way into his mouth and the teeth carefully nibbling on his lip.

While Ghost was a happy participant, he wasn’t much of an active one; He didn’t do much other than sit in shock and flip between being anxious over fucking up with no alcohol to smooth over his nervous inexperience and being flattered that Soap wanted to kiss him.

(And that was probably why it’s been so many years — Who the hell calls themselves a participant of making out?)

Soap pulled away and he hoped it wasn’t because he messed it up. But it looked happy.

And it’s happy grin grew into something proud and delighted at the sight of the blush on the human’s fiery cheeks and his speechlessness.

“There,” it said rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip, “Now I’ll now when you return.”

Ghost sputtered and his heart raced.

“Until we meet again, my dear Ghost.”

It kissed his cheek and descended beneath the waves.

…

Ghost sat in the water with his legs crossed and waited.

The beach was covered in rocks and boulders, with tall cliffs not too far off to the north. The wooden shack behind him had too many holes in the roof to be considered a house, but he could get to those eventually.

The rickety dock wasn’t far, but he preferred waiting in the water itself. He watched a stolen sailboat bob up and down on the waves; The paint hadn’t dried yet when he had to leave last but now the Minos was properly named.

He didn’t get a warning before there was a siren barreling him over, almost knocking him into the surf as it slithered into his lap and snaked its tail around him.

“Simon!” it shouted, which most people would do in greeting before they knocked someone over, but the siren never really cared for what others thought of as right or proper — Nor did it care for Ghost’s hearing, clearly.

The siren’s excitement and relief quickly faded into anger and arms that had looped around his neck pulled back to hit him with every word as it yelled, “Where have you been?! Two weeks my fucking ass! You stupid, stupid git!”

“Hello Johnny,” he greeted, smiling even as the siren oh-so-viciously and very heartlessly attacked him.

“Shut up, you bastard,” Johnny demanded even has the attack turned into holding him close. Simon held him even closer.

“I love you too.”

“Oh, ye’ bloody bastard,” it said, accent growing thicker with every angry word, “I do love you, but ye make it really fucking hard when you up an’ vanish for a month after you promised me ye’d be back!”

Through the theatrics, its concern was palpable.

Simon nodded, “I know.” He tucked errant strands of hair that seemed determined to stay in Soap’s face behind its fin-ear things that he still wasn’t sure if it actually used to hear. “It was an emergency — We had three minutes between it getting called in and us rolling out.”

The wind left Soap at that; There wasn’t much it could argue against the moral high ground of saving people for a living. (That was how Soap put it, at least.)

He continued, “And after that— uh, I got a little… held back.”

“What,” it jabbed weakly, “Did you fell out of a helicopter again?”

“No,” he laughed. And Soap laughed a little too at the idea.

“I was kidnapped for a few weeks.”

“WHAT?!”

It’s shout was loud enough to disturb a flock of birds that had been resting on the rocks.

“It’s fine, not the first time and probably won’t be the last,” Simon shrugged.

“WHAT?!”

Yeah, in hindsight, not the greatest assurance.

“They weren’t even good at tortu—” Simon cut himself off, realizing that wouldn't help either, but it was too late.

“Oh,” Johnny shouted, “My fucking GOD!”

At some point, the line between concern and annoyance grew blurred and tangled, but it seemed Johnny wanted to use it to strangle Simon.

“You’ve lost your land privileges,” it said all of the sudden.

“What?” Ghost asked, not processing the sentence before Soap switched their positions, now holding him as it swam out into the water.

“I let you out of my goddamn sight for just one goddamn moment,” it said, ignoring the complaints from the human in its arms.

“Soap,” he tried bargaining, “I don’t know if getting kidnapped again—”

“Shut yer trap!” Johnny demanded, mind too taken by the damn emotional rollercoaster it was just dragged on to care for Simon’s jokes. “Bastard,” it hissed again and held Simon closer, trying to do everything shy of burrowing under his skin.

“At least this time I have a much more handsome captor,” Simon couldn’t resist joking and held Johnny just as close.

[preservationofnormalcy]

Ever encounter cursed water sources? Or have records of any of them?

I mean, plenty. You know, “Cursed” is kind of a broad term. Could mean there’s a revenant in there, could mean it’s haunted. There’s a couple lakes in the country that had a big enough ship sink that Jones took a little slice of it.

I mean, I guess I could tell the story about how I almost got drowned.

This was a few years back. Or geeze, more than that, come to think of it. We’d been hearing stories about a cursed lake in backwoods Minnesota. Usually we’d just file that as an urban myth, maybe send some YouTubers out to make a ridiculous video. Y’know, downplay the urban myth so that nothing comes in to take that place.

But this one had some…frankly really concerning elements. Boats capsized, pets missing. We had some really worrying photos rolling around social media. Everything pointed to some kind of revenant. Vengeful spirit, cursed to roam the watery depths and inflict on others the kind of pain it felt, etc. Standard stuff.

So they sent me, winter coat and all, up to this lake with another agent. It became pretty clear we weren’t seeing a revenant - the carcasses it left behind were stripped bare, so it clearly needed to eat. We tried to stake the place out, watched people fish and swim despite the clearly placed “no swimming” signs. We were getting nothing.

I wanted to try one more thing before we left. Not my smartest idea, and no one should do this over a body of water with extranormal activity of unknown classification. Leave the dumb ideas to the trained dumb decision professionals.

Anyway, I found myself in the dead of night sitting in a crappy rowboat, barely a moon in the sky. I had a life jacket on, thank god. I had rowed out to the center of the lake, not really knowing what I was doing or looking for. I ended up just shouting “we’re here to help, we’re from the Office” out over the water.

It was about a half hour before I heard any kind of reply. I saw some bubbles and tried to figure out what was causing them. “Hey, can you hear me? I’m here from the office, is there any way I can help?”

I heard from behind me a quiet voice say “I need my skin…” and everything went black. The boat turned over like it had been yanked down and I was pinned under it for a second. There’s that half second when you get dunked in the cold water where you’re in shock, you don’t know which way is up. I knew I’d done the stupidest possible thing when I could just barely see the shine of the moon above me, glimmering off the ripples I’d created when I fell through. I could feel hands on me, and I tried to orient myself before I got pulled under. The waterproof flashlight in my hand was on, and after that second of panic I swung it around to whatever was holding me. It recoiled, all long arms and hair, long teeth behind curled lips. It let me go, and I scrambled, throwing off my jacket and swimming up to the capsized boat. I could barely hold onto it, trying to climb up onto the underside - for whatever reason, I could only think of that scene from the Titanic, and I was sure I’d be going out like DiCaprio.

I had just barely caught my breath when I heard a hiss. The thing had breached the surface, just barely, glaring at me over the back of the rowboat, putting a hand on the wood. As if it were trying to push it under the water, make it too heavy to float.

“Selkie!” I knew what he was, and I panicked. I knew the proper thing was to greet it in Gaelic, but I didn’t know any. “Your skin. It’s gone. Someone’s stolen it, is that right?”

The glare softened, but claws gripped the wood, scratching grooves in it. The selkie, that person dipped back under the water until just his eyes were showing.

“We can help,” I said. “We can find the thief and we can bring it back.” I was sure that we could, but needless to say I would have taken any way out at that point.

After a long, tense moment of silence, we managed to come to an understanding. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but it was enough that I could ask him to put my boat back upright and let us give him our card.

The case got handed over to someone else after that. I never learned what he was doing in the States, but I did hear he’s in Seattle now. I wonder how he’s doing.

...Holy ████, Norm.

What? That’s not even my worst story.

I was gonna talk about my ASMO date with a rusalka, but that's terrifying.

[bbagelbitch]

Assorted Nekoma headcanons: (just for funzies)

(they've been sitting in my archives for YEARS)

First years:

Lev actually managed to get a girlfriend at one point about halfway through first year, she asked him out because she thought he was cute, broke up with him a week and a half later after realizing he’s a dumbass and a bit of a weirdo

Shibuyama is one of those people who you’d think he’s just listening to Taylor swift or something but he unplugs his earbuds and its like- little darkie or some screamo heavy metal LMAO

Shibuyama has a helicopter mom which feeds his anxiety to the point that he carries pepper spray with him sometimes

Tamahiko has a pet tarantula

Inuoka is the kind of person who’d wear shorts when its snowing out

Inuoka and lev will both unironically do Fortnite dances during practice

Shibayama totally has a bunch of allergies and is a picky eater

Inuoka and lev are basically just human garbage disposals (will eat ANYTHING)

Lev can’t swim

Biblically accurate lev Haiba (gets the worlds WORST sunburns every time he goes outside)

Lev has low blood pressure and will randomly faint when standing up too fast (Kenma has the same problem but refuses to admit it)

Inuoka is one of those people who types in all caps the majority of the time. Every literature and language teacher he’s ever had has told him off for using way too many exclamation points. (He can’t help it he’s just a happy little dude)

Lev texts constant updates about what he’s doing t the team group chat to the point where he’s been kicked off of it more times than he can count. (Usually for talking about taking a shit) (see Charles Boyle from B-99 for reference)

Second years:

Fukunaga and Kenma rarely have actual text conversations but they’re constantly sending memes back and forth to each other

Tora actually has fairly curly hair and it was a borderline afro when he was in elementary school (he’s part latino in my mind argue with the wall)

Kenma listens to almost exclusively video game soundtracks (skyward sword is his favourite)

Tora totally listens to girypop rap (he is 100% a Flo milli Stan sorry)

Tora has asked kai for advice on how to talk to girls SEVERAL times and the information that you should just talk to them like they’re normal people blows his mind every time (how does kai do it? Is he a witch? A demon?

Fukunaga owns at least 3 cats and they all have weird names (inspired by my friend who’s cat’s name is Fax Machine)

Kenma is the world’s driest texter (canon actually)

Also fukunaga uses :3 constantly

Fukunaga and kenma constantly bully Tora about his obsession with looksmaxing and say shit like “he can’t talk he’s too busy mewing” LMFAO (you either drip or you drown taketora)

Tora knows how to braid hair cause he’d help akane with her hair when they were younger

All of the second years used to bite people when they were kids

Third years:

The third years have done group costumes for halloween since their first year

Kai is basically the team’s dedicated tutor (Kuroo is too snarky and yaku is too impatient)

Kuroo listens to western (English) music cause he thinks it makes him seem cool and he developed a superiority complex about it. “Oh you haven’t heard of Radiohead?”

Also kuroo and yaks have pretty similar music taste (a lot of modern rock) but the key difference is Kuroo likes arctic monkeys and yaku likes the strokes (they argue about which band is better constantly (yaku is right, its the strokes))(cause they always have to be arguing about something smh)

Kai also totally has a longtime girlfriend in high school bro is possibly the only person on the team who’s done ANYTHING with a girl (probably one of the only people on the whole damn SHOW)

Kai defo knows martial arts I would not want to face him in a fight

Kuroo still uses emoticons instead of emojis :3 ;D and whenever he does, yaku makes fun of him and tells him to “get with the times”

Yaku 100% repeats what Kuroo says in a mocking tone whenever the opportunity arises

Kai is the type of person to say “personality” when asked if he prefers tits or ass

Miscellaneous:

Nekoma is the most neurodivergent team in the whole show bruh like come on 

(autistic: Lev, Kenma, fukunaga.)(kenma totally also has ARFID)

(ADHD: Inuoka, Yamamoto, (both textbook cases of ADHD in guys) Kuroo, fukunaga) (Fukunaga my AuDHD king)

(OCD: Tamahiko, shibuyama (I just get vibes ok leave me alone) 

(Yaku isn’t neurodivergent he just has anger issues lmao) 

Kai is the only sane one on the entire team

Kuroo is also 100% one of those kids who got diagnosed with adhd really young so he appears mostly normal thanks to being medicated from the age of like- 6

Every single person on the team is oblivious as to when someone is flirting with them (kai is the exception)(girls pull out the wow your hands are so big and you’re so tall all the time and NOBODY reads into it)

Kai exclusively smells like a mix of vanilla and sandalwood and on the other side of that spectrum, Yamamoto reeks of axe body spray and b.o. No matter how many times Kenma tells him that axe actually drives girls away, Tora never listens.

Akane becomes manager of the boys volleyball team once she reaches high school (the first years will be third years by then)

The team all protective as HELL over akane (canon tbh)