#also in this universe it takes a little while for things to go back to normal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sparklingchim · 2 days ago

Text

reckless | jjk

pairing: idol!jungkook x producer!reader

word count: 3.7k

tropes: idol!jungkook, producer!reader, established relationship, childhood best friends

rating: pg

warnings: smooches!!, jungkook’s being very touchy <3, smoking, lots of pda, one (1) butt squeeze, lots of teasing n flirting (they're in love ur honour), mentions of jk being on a diet, mentions of oc being bullied in the past, just soft lovesick jk <3

summary: a casual date, the skirt’s a little too short, the night a little too quiet, and jungkook's hands on you like he's never going to let go.

a/n: writing this was so therapeutic im this 🤏 close to breaking no contact ❤️ (also dare i say this is the maybe in another universe couple <3)

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

When you round the corner of the building, it’s not hard to find Jungkook.

He’s leaned against his Harley, dark clothes hanging easy on him, making him blend into the night. He has a faint frown on his face as he scans the empty street, toying with his lip ring like he’s lost in thought.

Once he spots you, though, everything softens. His eyes go all boba-round and warm, crinkling at the corners as a smile stretches across his face. That stupid pretty one that makes your chest feel full. He straightens up a little.

“Sorry for making you wait,” you say when you reach him, rising on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You hug him tightly. You melt into him without thinking. His hands naturally land on the small of your back, holding you close in his embrace.

“It’s okay, baby.” Jungkook leans back just enough to press a little kiss to your lips.

One of his hands dip even lower, brushing over the curve of your butt and the light fabric of your skirt. It doesn’t take long before he grazes bare skin, catching just the edge where the hem ends and you begin.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Oh, it was so fun!” you beam, hands coming together in an excited little clap in front of your chest. You bounce slightly.

It had been a long day filming at one of the major companies in Seoul, part of that new show about the behind-the-scenes process of producing k-pop songs. The set was huge – too many lights, too many people, and so many cameras that you couldn’t even look around without feeling watched.

Everything felt loud and fast and intimidating, like you were going to mess up just by standing there.

“I was still really nervous in the beginning because there were a lot of people, but I did what you told me over the phone this morning and reminded myself that just being there already meant I belonged. That in a little while this would be just another thing that I’ve overcome.”

Dare you mention that just this morning, you felt like throwing up at the thought of today’s schedule – and yet, somehow, it turned into something you ended up loving. Getting to work on something you’re genuinely passionate about, surrounded by new people who love it just as much as you, felt amazing, inspiring.

“I told you it wouldn’t be as bad. You wanted to call in sick,” Jungkook reminds you, teasing you with an arched brow.

“I felt so anxious this morning!”

“You underestimate what you’re capable of.”

“Anyways.” Your shoulders slump slightly. “I’m exhausted now.”

“We can just go to my place if you want.” He gently tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek.

“No. I wanna go to the Han River with you,” you say, lips tugging into a pout.

Jungkook grabs the collar of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. A glimpse of his toned abdomen flashes before his black tee falls back into place. He swings the hoodie around your waist, draping it carefully before tying it snug at the front.

“Can’t drive my bike in a short skirt like this,” he explains in a mumble, smoothing the hoodie down over your butt.

“You helped me pick out this outfit this morning.”

If you’d been left alone in your anxious spiral this morning, you probably would’ve just thrown on whatever comfy thing was closest. But after Jungkook talked you down over the phone, his voice all soft and steady, you felt a little more okay. Okay enough to want to feel pretty, at least. So you stood in front of your overflowing closet, doors hanging open, letting him help you pick something out over facetime.

“Yeah well. You look pretty. I wasn’t thinking about logistics.”

You roll your eyes, but your face warms anyway. “You’re the logistics.”

“Sue me for getting distracted.” He pecks your temple, grinning as he pulls back.

Then he crouches next to the Harley, lifting the seat to reveal a small storage compartment. With a bit of manoeuvring, he pulls out a black helmet, matching his own.

He turns back to you and holds it out like it’s something delicate. “C’mere,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently before slipping the helmet over your head and securing the strap under your chin.

“Too tight?” he murmurs, adjusting the strap with the pads of his fingers.

You shake your head.

He grabs his own helmet from the handlebar, slipping it on with practiced ease. The engine rumbles to life with a twist of his wrist, loud and steady. He swings one leg over the bike and settles in before turning to glance at you over his shoulder. He holds his hand out to you.

“Hop on, baby.”

You take his hand, grabbing his shoulder with your other one for leverage as you climb on behind him. Your hands move to circle his middle once you’re properly sitting.

“You good?” He cranes his neck back to you, looking you over.

“Yes,” you reply, hugging his back. “Drive safely, please.”

The engine hums beneath you, the vibration slipping through your legs and settling in your chest as Jungkook coaxes the Harley onto the road.

The wind rushes past in silky ribbons, threading through your hair and curling under your skirt, making you curl closer into his back. His hoodie sways around your legs, and his scent, clean laundry and the last bit of cologne clinging to his skin, fills your lungs. You rest your cheek against the strong curve of his back.

Seoul twinkles around you in bits and pieces, like someone sprinkled glitter across the skyline. Streetlights blink down like stars with somewhere to be.

At a red light, Jungkook reaches for your hand without even looking, like it’s second nature. His fingers find yours and give them a slow, reassuring squeeze that makes your chest flutter. Then his hand drifts upward, trailing a lazy path along your arm before slipping behind him. His touch lands on your thigh, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It’s just a small stroke, but enough to send a little spark dancing up your spine.

Eventually, the buildings thin out, replaced by the open stretch of the Han River, glistening under the city’s glow. Jungkook rolls into a quiet patch near the railing and cuts the engine.

“My mum would kill me if she knew I was riding a bike with you,” you say.

Jungkook huffs a laugh as he slips off his helmet. With a little shake of his head his hair falls back into place. “My mum would kill me for letting you ride it with me.” He turns slightly to look at you, flashing his soft dimple as he reaches to unclip your helmet.

“And yet,” you retort as he helps lift it off your head, “here we are.”

“Reckless,” he grins, brushing your hair back into place. “But cute.”

After a quiet walk along the river, you settle onto a bench facing the water.

“I even got a bit of the lyrics done for the song we finished producing,” you say, tucking your hands into your sleeves

Jungkook hums, slinging his arm over the back of the bench and letting it rest behind your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You need to let me listen to it.”

“I’m not giving you the song.”

“Ah, it’s always worth a try.”

“I’ll start working with you when you guys are over this...era of music you’re in right now.”

“Era of music?” Jungkook scoffs. “You find new words how to describe the fact that you don’t like the new music every time.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whine, falling into his teasing. “It’s not that I don’t like the new music. It’s just not my type of production,” you quickly defend, truthful.

“At least let me listen to it.”

“When I’m finished you can.”

He lets out a small groan. “I’m terrible at being patient.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t have to remind me.” He’s an impatient boyfriend disguised as your number one fan (which, let’s be honest, he is). Always acting like he’s not trying that hard – when really, he’s the most obvious about it.

You roll your eyes every time he launches into a totally casual, totally unplanned, “hey, wanna show me a little something?” but you love it, every time. You love the way he sneaks into your world like that. Softly, stubbornly.

The sneaky bribes, the casual shoulder nudges, the way he tries to coax you into playing something, anything, even if it’s unfinished. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s just a late night, the two of you curled up on the couch, guitar perched on your lap, him humming half-written lyrics with his knees touching yours and a smile tucked into his voice. Songs that only live between you two.

“I’ll show it later to you,” you finally say. There’s not much of a fight when it comes to Jungkook. “Missed you.” You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging his arm.

“We should do something before my schedule gets crazy again.” Jungkook pats down his front pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Like a small vacation?”

“I’d love that.”

You eye him as he slips a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame with one hand as he lights it. The cigarette glows at the tip, smoke curling past his cheekbones and drifting in the opposite direction as he tilts his head to avoid blowing it your way. You still wrinkle your nose and lean your head away, your clutch around his arm loosening.

“You’re buying me ice cream for smoking next to me,” you mutter, half playful, half serious.

He exhales to the side again, then flicks the ash off the end with a small grin. “I was already gonna.”

You give him a look. “Not the point.”

“I know.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to read something only he can see.

You sigh, the slightest hint of annoyance seeping through, but your fingers find his again anyway, slipping between them. He’s warm, even with the breeze coming off the water. The smoke lingers in the air between you, but his scent cuts through it – familiar, stupidly comforting.

“I say we go on a weekend trip to Jeju,” Jungkook says, his gaze fixed ahead.

Your head pops up. “That seafood restaurant,” you gasp, eyes widening.

He watches you, smiling at your excitement.

“We have to go,” you say, tugging his arm. “I still think about that abalone porridge from that tiny place by the harbour, you remember? With the old lady who called us lovebirds.”

“How could I not?” Jungkook laughs. “She told me to marry you or someone else would.”

You laugh too. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Jungkook snorts, flicking the half-smoked cigarette away and stubbing it out under his shoe. He turns back to you, and you feel his finger brush over your ring finger – it's a subtle, fleeting touch, but you wouldn’t dare miss it.

“I wouldn’t ever let that happen.” He leans in, catching you in a warm kiss.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips, then pull back slightly. “But don’t kiss me after you’ve just smoked.”

Jungkook sighs like you’ve wounded him. Dramatically. Then he leans back in, peppering kisses along your cheek, down the slope of your jaw, and onto your neck, ignoring your protests with every one.

“Jungkook,” you warn through laughter, swatting at him half-heartedly. “We’re not at home.”

“But I still love you the same.” It’s a gentle murmur against your neck, nuzzling the skin there before leaving one last kiss just below your jaw.

“Jungkook.”

He finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and his teasing fades into something more softer, more quieter.

“I love the way you say my name.”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, just slightly lifting the corner of his lips. But his eyes hold the sincerity behind his words, the soft glow of them making you feel like you’re the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

Every time Jungkook says this, you’re reminded of when you still wore uniforms and shared secrets in the quiet spaces between classes. When he said it for the first time, you thought he was poking fun at you like the others for pronouncing words differently because you grew up abroad, in the US.

He told you it sounded softer, rounder, like it meant something more when it came from you. He said it made him feel like someone safe. Someone yours.

He doesn’t say it often, but every time he does, you’re reminded of the past. And a soft, nostalgic feeling settles in your chest at the memory of fifteen-year-old Jungkook and you falling in love for the first time. It’s a bittersweet ache because when you think of that time, all you see is blue, but Jungkook was the one thing that still felt warm. Like hope tucked into a person.

And now, years later, even with everything you’ve both grown through and grown out of, that version of him still lives in moments like this. In quiet confessions and shared glances.

Heat nestles in your cheeks. You look away – straight at the river with the twinkling lights reflecting off of it. They remind you of his eyes.

“What?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, like he can’t quite place where your sudden shyness is coming from, but he’s definitely enjoying it.

“I dunno,” you mumble under your breath, hiding your face on his chest while keeping your eyes trained on the water. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“By what?”

“By how much I love you.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Hm?”

“I do too.”

You smile into his shirt, warmth blooming in your chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You really know how to kill a man,” he murmurs, voice low and a little awed.

You look up at him at that.

“I love you more,” he says eventually, like it’s the simplest truth. “Like... stupid amounts. Heart-aching amounts.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You started it.” He peers down at you, eyes soft. “Now let me be in love with you in peace.”

“I’ll let you love me in peace after we get snacks.”

“Will I ever witness a day where you don’t want something sweet?”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head with exaggerated seriousness. “The day can’t successfully end until you’ve had a sweet treat.”

“I actually think you’re singlehandedly keeping the candy industry alive.”

“I should be thanked, honestly.”

You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dust off your skirt as you stand in front of him. Jungkook doesn’t move right away. His eyes trail down to your legs, then to the hem of your skirt, fingers reaching out to tug it just a little lower with that automatic protectiveness he tries (and fails) to hide.

“You’re not cold, baby?” he asks, nodding toward his hoodie tossed over the bench behind him.

“No, I’m okay.”

Still sitting, he tugs you gently by the hips until you’re standing between his knees. His hands find your waist like magnets, thumbs stroking slow circles against the sliver of skin where your top has ridden up.

“I like this spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your stomach, right above your belly button. You flinch a little, giggling, fingers slipping into his thick hair.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, voice light, but you don’t pull away.

“And you’re so pretty,” he says, looking up at you from where he’s still crouched against your tummy. His eyes are warm, sparkling. “Like... dangerously pretty. You know that?”

You bite your lip. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.” He rests his chin just above your waistband, arms looping around the back of your thighs like he’s not letting go anytime soon. “Sometimes I think you’re not even real.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “That’s what people say right before they do something stupid.”

He grins up at you, squeezes your thigh just enough to make you squeak. “Then I must be about to do something really stupid.”

“I feel like that’s something for home. Not public.”

“You think so?” He tilts his head slightly.

“Jungkook.” It’s meant to be a chiding. But instead, it escapes softer than you intended, more like a puff of air. Like we shouldn’t but I wanna know anyway. Like stop talking... but actually, no – keep going please.

Instead of backing off like any reasonable person would, he smirks, then has the audacity to give your butt the lightest squeeze, fingers quick and shameless.

You squeal, jumping back. “Jungkook!”

Flashing you a smile that’s somehow both innocent and guilty, he casually grabs his hoodie from the bench and stands up.

You stare at him, half scandalized, half trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Come on,” he says, slinging the hoodie over one shoulder glancing over at you with that smug softness that drives you crazy. “You wanted snacks, no?” He grabs your hand.

You narrow your eyes, but your feet already fall into step beside his.

It’s not a long walk until you reach the next convenient store.

“It looks kinda busy in there,” you tell Jungkook, peering through the glass. “I’ll just run in real quick. You can wait out here.”

Jungkook squints into the store, brows furrowed. “Who’s in there? I don’t want you going in alone if there’s some creeps.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your elbow. “It’s just a group of girls. Relax,” you say. “What do you want?”

He pulls his black card from his pocket. “Nothing for me. Just treat yourself, baby.”

You snatch the card from his hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”

You exit the store with a slightly overstuffed plastic bag tugging at your wrist. Being a girl who loves snacks, is hopelessly indecisive – and has her boyfriend’s black card – is a dangerous combo.

Jungkook tilts his head, trying to sneak a look inside the bag. “What’d you get?”

“Too much to name,” you say breezily, fishing out the ice cream resting right on top. “Got this for us, though.” It’s the ice cream that comes with two sticks so you can snap it in half and share. “I always think of you when I see this,” you admit, passing him one half after cracking it down in the middle.

“Ah, I didn’t want to eat any sweets today.”

“Too late,” you tease, nudging it closer to his mouth. “You already kissed me, so that’s off the table.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “That counts?”

“It absolutely does.” You raise your brows. “Now eat, please.”

He leans forward and takes a small bite straight from your hand. “Happy now?”

“Very much so.” You swipe the pad of your finger over a smudge of ice cream at the corner of his mouth, then lick it off with a grin.

He huffs a quiet laugh, head tilting as he watches you with that impossibly fond look. “You’re trouble.”

“Says you!”

With a sigh, he takes it from you. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re cute.”

“I know.” You smile around the ice cream in your mouth. “I can’t have a boyfriend who says no to a sweet treat.”

You fall into step beside him, walking slowly as you both nibble at the halves in your hands.

“I’m dieting.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, proving your point.

That’s when your mind slips, just a little, to all the ways you used to be like this. All the self-destructive habits he had to gently pry from your grip. Jungkook has saved you many times. And you want to be there for him just as much he was there for you when no one chose you. When he was the only one who saw you – really saw you – and still chose to stay.

You reach for his hand, linking your fingers through his.

“I feel like sometimes you live your life like it’s harder than it has to be. Like you’re holding yourself back, setting rules that you don’t have to follow.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet breath. “I know,” he mutters, squeezing your hand. “You’re the first person who made me think maybe I deserve ease too. You make it feel okay to slow down.”

“Am I?” you ask sceptically. You hope you do, but are you actually?

He tips his ice cream in your direction.

You laugh. “Baby steps.”

You glance up at him. He’s licking his ice cream, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he doesn’t even realize it’s there. It makes your chest ache a little. In that sweet way.

“Jungkook?”

His head turns slightly, face lit soft by the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp. His eyes flick to you, a soft, curious glint catching in them as your gaze meets his. You lean your head against his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sticking with me through every version of myself.”

It’s a thought that catches you off guard – maybe not entirely, you’re not sure – but suddenly it’s there, clear and undeniable. A reminder that, through every change, every version of yourself, he’s never left. Whether you’ve been at your best or your worst, he’s always stayed. And sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that someone can love you through all of that.

“There’s never been a version I didn’t love,” he says quietly, like it’s not something he even has to think about.

Your heart stumbles a little, eyes stinging in that warm, fuzzy way that only he can cause.

“You make it really easy, you know,” he adds, brushing his thumb gently across the back of your hand. “Loving you. I don’t even think about it. I just do.”

You blink up at him, lips twitching into the kind of smile that only he gets to see. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

He tugs you closer to him, your sides brushing with each step.

“You existed.”

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook idol au #idol jungkook #jungkook scenario #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook scenarios #jeon jungkook #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts angst #bts fic #bts x you #bts x reader #bts #bts imagines

661 notes · View notes

mandalhoerian · 22 hours ago

Text

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

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

< previous | next (wip) >

note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose.

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop.

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense.

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

177 notes · View notes

lolitaonline · 2 days ago

Text

Never Know, Chapter 1 18+ MDNI

Stalker! Best friend! Noah x F! Reader word count- 3,400k+

Summary- You and Bad Omens have been friends for a while. Starting to tour together and become closer than ever. During this time someone from the past begins to make himself known. Noah does not take too kind of a liking to this.

Tw- mentions of health scares/collapsing, medics being called, breaking and entering, watching from afar, gifts being left, stalking, mentions of religion/religious trauma mentioned through out, ptsd, anxiety, mentions of picture taken

An- If I missed a TW or would like to be added to the tag list please let me know. If you would like to be removed or added to the list please let me know. Thank you. I hope you all enjoy, ALSO THANK YOU TO MY LOVE @fadingintothegrey FOR HER AMAZING HELP AND ENCOURAGMENT, go show her love <3

Mature content ahead, you have been warned.

Divider by- @/anitalenia

Soft pitter patter of rain drizzled down the dimly lit street. The buzzing from the blinking streetlight hummed softly in the background.

Footsteps quietly trailed down the dark empty alleyway. Hands shoved inside pockets; ski-mask fitted on like a glove. Not one of the safest towns but safer than most. No-one would suspect a thing, perfect opportunity.

You walked through your front door, kicking your shoes and coat off to the side. You were in need of a hot shower. Your feet hurt from walking around all day sorting through papers for the merch team, safe to say you hated walking back and forth. Before that you had an early morning coffee date with a dude your friend set you up with. He wasn't your type, but you wanted to give it a try. You also felt it was time to move from how you felt about Noah.

Noah is your best friend. You both met at Matt’s party he was hosting; you and Matt went to school together so it made sense that you would be there. It was nice to reconnect with him but to also meet Nick, Jolly, Folio, and Noah. You and Matt were close but you and Noah were a little closer and had more in common.

At the party you and Noah both shared a joint and talked about aliens and the universe. You weren't sure how long you were out with him, but you knew you wanted to get to know him more. At the end of the party, you and Noah exchanged numbers and bid farewell. You both have been close ever since.

You were with them from the start to the present day. You were so proud of how far they have come in the band. They offered you a job to help handle the merch and you happily accepted, you got to tour with them and make more memories together, you couldn't turn that down.

In the beginning you were nervous to be working for a band or even around them. Seeing the behind the scenes of music videos, merch drops, accomplishments.

The growth was exceptional; the feeling of guilt would build occasionally when you started to catch feelings for Noah. You were aware that Noah was a catch, chased by many, yearned for at night, looked for in the morning.

When you and Noah met it was just right around the beginning of talks of creating the band/in the process of creating the band. You and Matt had been friends since school and would attend the same church before he left after high school.

You were ecstatic when he wanted to remain friends. You didn’t have that many friends, but you had a few. Matt was a good friend though; you guys would hang out often and catch up as often as you could when he was in town.

After high school you packed up and left your town. Leaving your faith, stalker, and past behind you. Cutting ties with everyone and never looking back. Matt was aware that you were having problems down there and helped you find a place near him. Ever since than Matt has been like your brother.

After you had a break between the US leg tour of ‘Finding God Before God Finds Me’, you decided to try and give guys a chance. Normally turning them down, not looking for a relationship but you wouldn’t mind one either. You were not the most experienced, but you were still up for trying. Taking this opportunity to try and move on from your friend.

This was just right around when the chaos started to happen.

The gifts were first.

Flowers, dolls, your favorite candy, make up

As you all walked back into the green room, laughs and jokes ringing and echoing throughout the area. As you walked over to the couch, wanting to relax from the long day, collapsing on the couch. Allowing a deep sigh of relief through your lips.

The band and you both started to pack and clean up a bit. Wanting to get to the hotel and get as much sleep as possible. You and Noah haven’t had much time to speak today. You both were busy with your respective jobs. You worked the merch booth and kept it as organized and quick as possible.

The boys controlled the crowd and sang to their heart’s content. It was a great show, the crowd was great, you got to meet a few new people and sold a good amount of merch. You were very proud of yourself.

“Hey, Y/n look, did one of your little dates drop this off for you?” Hearing Folio teasing you brought your eyes to open. As your vision cleared and became focused your world stopped.

A doll wearing a black dress, black shoes, and h/c, sitting in Folio’s arms. Her arms sat in her lap all pretty, shiny hair sat nicely on her shoulders. Behind her was a vase full of flowers, big bouquet, dark blue vase, red’s blues, pinks, and whites arranged.

That was years ago, years and years ago. It went so quiet after a while.

He couldn’t have found you, could he? Yeah, you were traveling with a band whose popularity is going up, but no one knew of you. You stayed behind the scenes; you just kept track of the ins and outs of merch.

When you left your hometown, you wanted to leave this piece of your past right with it. You wanted a new beginning, the past was meant to stay in the past, not jump forward 5 or so years.

Fear and shock warming up and buzzing through your system. Where did that come from? Is this a joke? No, no one knows, how could they? This was before you had known them, before you even met Matt.

“Well, don’t you like dolls? You grew up with them, maybe a friend brought them for you” Jolly suggests an innocent idea, not understanding the severity of this. No one did, you couldn’t tell them. You had to figure this out on your own. You’ve done it before, and you won last time. Who is to say you couldn’t do it this time.

The boy’s stood around the room patiently waiting for a reply. The jokes came to a pause, silence filling the room.

Noah could tell by the look on your face that something might have been wrong. “Yeah, maybe an old friend, you used to love Dolls when you went to church right?” Matt tried to offer an explanation.

No one knew of the things you dealt with. Even when you first met the boys it was happening but slowly died down. You and Matt met when he moved down for a little bit in high school and ended up attending your church for a little bit before graduating.

Matt was right, you did like dolls to an extent. Not the barbie ones, but the vintage ones, the porcelain dolls, etc. You never collected them though; you just talked about how you thought they were cute. They kind of creeped you as well, like a love-hate kind of situation.

Your breath and words got lost. You wanted to speak and say something, deny it all and forget about it. Last time you tried to do that there were consequences, your apartment was broken into and ransacked, your car broke down, lost your job. It felt like a curse, try to change your fate, you’re met with consequences.

Every time you tried to ignore it, he got angrier. Why wasn’t his, love, ecstatic to see his gifts. He picked them out for her and chose her to be his. He spent his time and money on those things for you. Some of which he stole but you didn’t need to know that. Just as long as you had them was all he cared about.

You wanted to get rid of him, forget about everything he had given you. Why would you ever do such a thing? Can’t you see that you belong to him. And then you just had to leave him and move away. Did that night mean anything to you, do you remember that night? How could you not, you didn’t drink that much. It’s okay, he will help you remember...

Your thoughts were stuck on the past 5 or so years of your life. Everything you endured, thought, felt, dealt, all of it. It all came to the front of your head. All you could do was stand and stare at the gifts. No words could get through your head. None could be heard, you couldn't even see in front of you. It was getting darker. You knew that but why you weren't sure.

That’s when it all began again.

“What the hell” Noah exclaimed as he caught you before hitting the ground. Bringing his hand up to your forehead, checking your temperature. The boys moved around you making space. The boys were worried obviously; hearts dropped to their stomach when you collapsed. “We might need a medic, I’m not sure if this is because of the gifts or something else.” Nick said heading over to the door, exiting the room looking for help.

“Let’s move her somewhere clearer” Jolly says, moving boxes and bags out the way. Noah lifted you up, moving you to a more private clear area in the room. He did not want to risk anyone seeing and causing a bigger problem. If it was the gifts, he was going to find out what caused your reaction.

You had never mentioned any health issues either, so it had to be the gifts. Noah’s mind was racing with thoughts and worry. Why did you have that reaction? Noah hated the thought of you going on dates to begin with. And now here you are fainting backstage not even 10 minutes after having an incredible day. You were supposed to spend time with him tonight and instead here you are.

“They’re here!” Nick exclaimed, moving to the side for the medics to come in and check on you. Noah did not play with anyone else, especially during tour. Everyone was so determined to work hard and make it big. This would lead to mental health and physical health being put to the side sometimes. When the band got bigger Noah and the boys always made sure that everyone was okay.

Noah moved out the way, giving room for the medics to do their check up on you. “She just collapsed, she was fine and just collapsed,” Noah said to the medics. “She was fine, and she collapsed” Noah kept muttering under his breath. Noah wasn’t sure of the feeling that was coursing through his body. Anger, misery, confusion, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do but he wanted to fix it. Everyone knew that the reaction you had wasn’t normal.

When the medics deemed you okay the boys made their way back to the tour bus. Noah held you tight in his arms. He enjoyed holding you close, despite the situation he was relieved you were safe in his arms and that nothing was wrong with your health but, Noah was going to figure out what this was about.

You were his girl, no one else's, and the fact that someone is trying to come along and destroy it was a problem. As the boys walked through the bus, careful not to hit you along the way, Jolly helps Noah put you in your bunk. Carefully laying your head on your pillow, your breathing was back to normal.

Noah decided to stay with you, laying his bunk directly across from you waiting for you to show any signs that you have woken up. He patiently waited, staring into the black small space before him.

The next time you wake up you’re in the tour bus, laying on your bunk. It was pretty quiet minus the muffled sounds of voices through the thin walls. You take a moment to go through your head and sort out everything that happened in the last few hours.

You were selling merch at the merch booth, watched the boys perform, headed backstage, that’s when it went dark.

The last thing you remembered was when it went dark. You were praying that maybe it was a bad dream, and you just went straight to bed after the concert. “I have to be going crazy” you mumbled to yourself. Bringing a hand up to your head, you could feel a headache coming onto you. Debating on if you wanted to come out and face the situation at hand or deal with it in the morning.

You thought back to when you had your break between the tour. The memory of you coming home and feeling uneasy when speaking with Noah. The window, the uneasy feeling of being watched, the way it felt like someone touched you in your sleep. You thought maybe it was the wind, but you knew it was a person in your room.

Stepping outside the shower, grasping the towel tightly around your body. You walked aimlessly to your bedroom, tossing your phone on the bed. Walking over to your closet you pick out a t shirt and grab some shorts to sleep in. Dropping the towel on the floor as you started to get dressed you noticed something out the corner of your eye.

“I didn’t open that...” your voiced mumbled out. Quickly slipping your shirt on; you walk over to your dresser.

When you were getting into the shower you don't remember opening your drawer, you didn’t even walk over to this area. You had gone straight to your bathroom to lay down for the night.

Peeking inside you take notice that it’s the drawer that keeps your panties, before you can investigate if anything is missing your phone starts to buzz.

“Noah <3 Calling”

Attention turning over to where your phoned sat you turn back to drawer and dismissing it. “I had to have left it open this morning...idiot” you mumbled out.

Walking back over to your bed, grabbing your phone answering it quickly. “Hey, doll, just wanted to make sure you were home okay” you could hear his grin from the other side of the phone. Noah was aware that his nicknames for you made you flustered.

“Hey, yes I made it home safe” you replied dismissing him. You were laying on your bed, legs pulled up slightly. You enjoyed listening to Noah talk, he had a nice voice, even better when singing. “We have a few new shipments coming in of hoodies and sweatpants, and then we have decided which ones to keep or scrape” Noah trailed on through your ear.

“Anway's what are you doing right now” Noah asked, he liked talking about work but when it was with you, he wanted to talk about anything else. Noah was private about his feelings; he cared about you deeply and you knew that but other than the nicknames Noah didn’t show interest in you like that. Noah wasn't one who showed interest in those things, maybe a quick fling yes, but never a relationship.

During this time, you were on the “Finding God Before God Finds Me” Tour. But you were given a two week break to get some rest. The boys offered for you to stay with them for a little bit, but you opted to go home for the day. You were thankful that today was the start of your two-week break. You had worked extra hard today to make sure everything was perfect before you had to get on the road again.

“I just got done showering, I was going to start dinner, watch a shower and sleep” you chuckled out, rubbing your eyes, feeling sleep slowly slipover. “What are you going to make, and you better not watch Demon Slayer without me, you promised” Noah rushed out accusingly. When Noah found out you had never seen it, he was so shocked but took this as a chance to spend time together. “I won't, I promise, thank you for introducing it to me, it’s really good” you laughed out, balancing your phone between your jaw and shoulder. You reach inside your fridge grabbing some left-over pasta from the night before.

“Well, that's really cool, how are the boys doing now that we get some time to breathe” you teased out. Throughout the car rides Jolly was starting to feel home sick but pushed through until the break. You were starting to worry about it, but you were happy knowing he was doing good at home.

As you and Noah continued to talk the more you felt more ‘exposed’ for some reason. Like the hairs on the back of neck rise. This uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. The more you waited on your pasta to heat up the more creeped out you felt.

Dragging your attention back Noah speaks up “You, okay? You went quiet?” Noah asked through the phone. “Yeah, I just feel uneasy right now for some reason, like I'm being watched.” You replied, quickly grabbing your food and making your way back to your room.

As soon as you left the kitchen you felt much better. You couldn't shake that off feeling you have coursing through your blood. “You need me to come over?” Noah offered, he wouldn’t want you to be alone especially if you were scared or had an uneasy feeling about it. You didn’t want Noah to have to drive so late it was turning to be 12:00 am and you knew he wanted to get some work done in the morning.

“It’s Okay, I should be okay, I think I just need to stop watching so many horror movies” you joked back. Attempting to lighten the mood a bit. Noah on the other side was a little worried about you. You did sound distracted from the conversation halfway through the phone call.

The clock resting on your bedroom wall was looking to strike 2:00am. This made you cut off Noah feeling bad for keeping him up so late.

“Sorry, I did not realize how late it was.” You apologize not wanting to keep Noah awake or causing him to oversleep and miss something. “It’s okay, doll. I will let you get some sleep. Call me if you need anything. You know that though” Noah teased.

You hang up the phone, tossing it to the side. You loved talking to Noah and bonding over time. Feeling a yawn coming, you moved your plate of your eaten food on your desk. “I’ll take it down tomorrow” you mumbled to yourself.

Making your way back into bed. Slipping in between the sheets, curling up and getting comfortable. Mind wandering around. Nothing in mind, just drifting off to sleep.

She looks so beautiful sleeping, capturing a picture isn't wrong. Her beauty radiates so brightly, and she can't see it. It’s such a shame.

“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll come around soon” a quiet voice whispered into the dark, a hand gently grazing your cheek as you curled deeper into your sheets. The touch tickling your cheek lightly.

Deciding to just stay in your bunk and not face the issues of the night, you turn over. Forcing your eyes shut, you didn’t want to have to explain and dig up something you surely wanted to forget about. This was supposed to stay in that town. Buried and forgotten.

Noah was aware that you were awake, he could hear you mumbling to yourself. He knew that you didn’t want to talk about it right now. If it had brought that strong of a reaction from you, he didn't blame you for wanting to be alone or for not wanting to talk about it.

Noah knew for sure he wanted to help you; he needed to help you. Moving out from his bunk he makes his way to the other room where everyone else was chatting. Not wanting to burden the mood of the rest of the night. It will be handled tomorrow; they have the day off and can hang out together.

-----

Dear, Reader

I have missed you

I hope you didn't forget me while I was away

It’s okay though, I am here to protect you, don't worry

No one can get you

Not while I am here, remember

I am your God

What I say, goes

What I want, I get

And you, my love, will be mine

sincerely, your Love

A rosary, letter, and rose is left to lay in your bunk. Where you spent some of your nights, laying in the dark reliving memories and thoughts. Silent cries and guilt. The tour bus is quiet, only sounds to be heard are the creaking of the floor under the heavy footsteps.

Taglist- @fadingintothegrey @like-a-omen @veejezhyk @english-fucker @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @bluestdai @kaliforniahigh @flowery-mess @concreteemo @dollieomens @calleyx13 @fadingangelwisp @hurricanesfollowyou @lacy1986 @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @xxkittenkissesxx @iluvmewwwww75 @silent-stories @veephoenix @graceylove @marvelousmal @thenmaybehellaintsobadafterall @amelia-acero @disappearintothegrey @concretejunglefm @concretenoah @tikosblogg @xmads-omensx @tosoundlessdarkistare @hedonist-k1l @bloody-spades @theanarchymuse95 @renegadebirch @concreteangel92 @elysian-after-dark if you would like to be added, shoot a message <3

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fluff #noah sebastian bad omens #stalker best friend! noah #noah sebastian #noah sebastian davis #bad omens x reader

46 notes · View notes

beekeeperspicnic · 3 days ago

Text

On Creative Projects and Looking After Yourself

I went to an ultra competitive university and perhaps the most important lesson that I learned from that experience is that burnout is real and it's awful. I pushed myself so much to get into that university and to keep up while I was there, I genuinely think it took years for my brain to recover and for me to feel back on me feet - emotionally, creatively, etc. I made a personal promise never to do that to myself again.

(Here's a picture I drew attempting to convey how I was feeling at the time so uh....)

With this project I've tried to be really open about how I've taken breaks, given myself days off, paid attention to my energy levels and responded to them, because I think it's important to talk about those things. I'm someone who crams a lot of stuff into my life because I think that's how I'm wired (“My mind rebels at stagnation!" etc etc) but these days I try to do it within a framework of being kind to myself and doing things which sustain me, like:

Brisk walks and getting actual daylight in my eyeballs

Sleeping well (easier said than done but I tryyy...)

Spending time with friends and loved ones

Balancing the 'output' of creative work with 'inputs', like reading books, playing games, travelling to museums, going to the cinema etc.

Acknowledging that the above isn't actually resting. It can recharge you in some ways, but it's not rest. Resting isn't synonymous with 'doing things you like and enjoy'. You know when you're sick so you give yourself a free pass from being productive and just veg out in bed or in front of the tv? That's resting.

My cat is a good reminder of this last one. Miss Malkin is a master at it.

This past three months or so in the run up to release, I knew that I was acting a little like a runner sprinting towards the finish line - putting in a burst of energy that wasn't sustainable. I was also dealing with being in a state of heightened stress, as I worried about getting everything done on time and encountering issues along the way.

I did try to take some opportunities to have days off, meet with friends etc, but only enough to keep my head above water for the duration.

I got back from being a guest at 221b Con about five days ago with a week off from my day job ahead of me and the plan was to get back to answering emails and working on all the stuff I still need to do for the game (which is a lot!!!) and also to have some fun catching up on games and tv shows etc, but I realised I was kind of on the brink of burnout. Completely running on empty. I desperately needed to rest. The true, 'not doing anything' kind of rest. Convalescent rest. 'Switch your brain off' rest.

I've ended up spending five days basically doing nothing. I slept a looooot, like 10-12 hours a night. I got a fair way into that video about the Beverly Hillbillies. I made this cute house in Minecraft, which is one of my top "resting my brain but still want to do something which feels productive" activities. I've cuddled my cat. I've sat in the sunshine listening to music. I've had long baths. I've watched trashy tv.

Any time a little voice in my head said I should be more "productive", I hushed it up - I was resting. Resting is important.

And today... I realised I felt so much better. I'm still going to be gentle to myself for a while, continue resting and begin mixing in a few 'input' activities, but I feel like a little hedgehog coming out of hibernation and finding that it's spring.

Anyway, I'm sharing this to remind all of you to be gentle with yourselves too, and that resting is an important part of a healthy creative life.❤️

53 notes · View notes

leonsliga · 1 day ago

Note

I love that thomas and manu ship themselves. with a lot of other duos, it's just wishful thinking (totally fine) but their friendship? god <3 so real. the pictures, the "we've been married for 15 years", the interviews... why so romantic if not romantic lol in another universe, they are 100% together

Right? Everything’s so easy and natural with them. And while I don’t mind a bit of wishful thinking myself, the bond Manu and Thomas have is so authentic and genuine that it’s hard not to get a least a little sappy about them. And there’s just. so. much. lore. Even setting aside the iconic decade partners Instagram post and Thomas saying they’ve been married for 15 years, we’ve had so many moments that just really only make sense with them. Like when Thomas named one of his colts Manuel because he was born on Manu’s birthday, or how, during Bayern’s dominant 2012/13 season, Thomas would train with Manu during matches to keep his reflexes sharp. Or, well, just about any of what they said about each other here:

And, along those lines, sometimes they say things that just have such old married couple undertones that it’s genuinely hard to interpret them any other way, like the time reporters asked Manu if he would go golfing with Thomas at the DFB training camp and he replied with “I can’t golf. I could carry his luggage or whatever.” Or the time Thomas was asked about Manu’s perfect match against Porto back in his Schalke days and he immediately remembered his platinum blonde hair from back then. And then of course there’s the time Manu said Thomas was more than a teammate for him (aka Neuller heritage).

We also can’t forget when the two were decorating Bayern’s Christmas tree in 2015 and Thomas asked Manu if he holds onto the ornament baubles as tightly as he would a match ball (translation: Thomas wanted Manu to hold onto his baubles tightly 😏). Or how, when asked about whether or not Thomas would like to be Bayern’s official captain one day, Thomas was quick to reply, “I hope not. I’ve always tried to take responsibility in the team, but Manu is very welcome to remain my captain until the end of my career.” (in case you needed more proof that these two were robbed).

But that married couple-ness isn’t just in their words; it’s in their actions too. Take any of the times they’ve held hands during matches, or all the loving face cradling, head rubs, and head pats. And of course, the hugs. The many, many hugs. Especially from the side, so Thomas can grab onto Manu’s waist.

Also, I refuse to let any of you overlook that time Thomas gave Manu a full-on neck message in the tunnel (which, I might add, Manu was so unfazed by that it’s hard not to wonder if this had happened before).

And while we’re at it, talking about niche Neuller moments and all, there was that time they might very well have kissed behind a poorly-timed German flag back in 2010. And all their other Euro 2012 qualifier shenanigans that same year.

Fast-forwarding a bit to the 2012/13 season, and we were in for a treat; we had Thomas pulling a Luis Suárez and going in for a little nibble on Manu’s arm. Because not even the great Thomas Müller is immune to the cute aggression Manuel Neuer inspires.

Also, what about the time Manu got absolutely piss-drunk during the treble celebrations that same season and decided he needed to hug Thomas IMMEDIATELY? Or how we got the closest thing to an actual kiss we might ever get when Thomas kissed him on the cheek here?

Honestly, 2013 was Bayern’s year in more ways than one, because not only did it bring us the treble, it also brought us this iconic verse in the Neuller gospel:

But let’s get back to the way they talk about one another, because it doesn’t matter what the situation is—they always back each other. Before the 2014 World Cup even started (and Manu all but fingered him during the post-win festivities), he was already convinced Thomas would be the key to their success—a sentiment that carried over to club level, where he insisted Thomas was the linchpin in Bayern’s attack.

With Manu, it’s often the little things that speak volumes, like trusting in Thomas’ fitness, his ability to influence a match, and his importance for Bayern. He’s quick to remind everyone that Thomas always stands up for the team, that he’s dangerous regardless of position, and that his constant communication is a game-changer. As Manu would put it, “we (Bayern) need Thomas”.

Even when Thomas fell out of favor at Bayern for a time, Manu rushed to his defense, reminding everyone that “he’s a mature player who doesn’t buckle so easily”, and, despite dealing with a lot of criticism, Thomas remained important for the squad and was always in demand (in one way or another). Put another way, he had faith that Thomas could handle it.

For Thomas’ part, he has no problem casually reminding everyone that he thinks Manu is the number 1 goalkeeper in the world, that he makes a good striker, and, even though there are many good goalkeepers, Manu is special—just a step above the others and superb on the ball.

When his mans was shafted for FIFA World Player of the Year in 2015, Thomas knew just what to say: even if Manu didn’t win, he was the FIFA World Player in his heart. In fact, his decade partner was pretty much the reason Thomas felt so confident going into Bayern’s 2020 Champions League tie versus PSG; after all, in his words, “we’ll still have Manuel Neuer between the sticks”, a sentiment he echoed after they won.

And let’s not forget about that time a reporter asked Thomas to weigh in on the debate of who should be Germany’s number 1: Neuer or Ter Stegen. Thomas’ answer was immediate: “It’s a difficult decision, of course, but Manu has always been my goalkeeper. That’s why I’m standing by him.” Long story short, they’re always in each other’s corners, and they make no secret of it.

The point is, even when they make mistakes, they’re each other’s most fervent protectors. If the world is against them, then at least they still have each other and always will. Take Manu conceding against Gladbach, a team many would consider to be our goatkeeper’s kryptonite; Thomas was quick to remind the media that he’d saved Bayern’s points plenty of times in the past, and that this time, he just didn’t have as much to do before the goal and was probably a bit cold at the time.

Then you’ve got Manu on the other side of the things, supporting his husband’s rights and his husband’s wrongs, speculating that his red card (yes that one) was because he didn’t see Tagliafico and pretty much already had his foot up, aiming for the ball.

Hell, even when Manu was out of commission for a majority of the 2022/23 season (due to his nearly career-ending injury), Thomas visited him in rehab every day, no doubt for emotional support (and so he could tell his husband his best dad jokes). Although Manu was away from the squad physically, he was there in spirit; Thomas made sure of that, posting Manu’s autograph card from that season above his locker:

But it’s more than sticking around in each other’s darkest moments; they celebrate each other’s achievements too. Whenever Manu wins anything (and I mean anything), guess who’s first in line to congratulate him. It doesn’t matter if it’s World’s Best Goalkeeper, best goalkeeper of the 2019/20 Champions League season, FIFPro World 11, or even his DFB Pokal performance, Thomas will be posting about it (and probably already has). It doesn’t even have to be football-related, like when Manu was awarded the Bavarian State Medal for Social Merit for his charity work. Hell, even when Manu was one of the 3 FIFA World Footballer of the Year finalists, he was overwhelmed with pride (chill babe, the results weren’t even in yet). But by far my favorite instance of these two celebrating each other’s victories actually came from Manu: when he made sure the squad celebrated Thomas’ milestone 500th win with Bayern and refused to let him even try to be modest about it.

Honestly, let’s face it: we could make an entire separate post about all of the Neuller content that came out of Thomas’ 500th win. We had Manu running the length of the pitch to celebrate Thomas’ goal in that milestone match, Manu’s comments in his post-match presser, Thomas’ special thank you to Manu after the fact, the “married for 15 years” comment, and a new Neuller ad where Manu gave Thomas a special anniversary gift…there was so much content that it was almost overwhelming. We were so well fed that week 🥹

Also, speaking of Manu’s comments in his post-match pressers, I’m pretty sure at least a good 1/4 of Manu’s love language is praising Thomas in them, as you can see here, here, here, and here. The rest is him basically reciting his glorified wedding vows to anyone who will listen (and physical touch, duh).

Then you’ve got Thomas turning every Instagram story he can into him gushing over his Schnapper’s skills:

And he has no problem following Manu’s lead either, waxing poetic about his man in post-match interviews.

For as much praise as they heap on one another to the press though, they’re also no strangers to openly flirting with each other as well, if you couldn’t tell from that video from the Audi FCB Tour at the beginning. So, in that spirit, lovely people of the jury, I present to you exhibit A, where Manu told Thomas he’d “given himself a present 😉” after his 400th Bundesliga appearance (whatever tf that means).

Alright, now onto exhibit B: Thomas posting a picture with his two dogs and Manu asking “who’s more handsome”, only for Thomas to answer, “you, dog 😀”. Get a room you two!

Oh, you need more evidence, you say? Well, I’ve got you covered. Have a pic of Thomas brazenly checking out Manu’s ass, because not even he can resist the biggest bakery in Germany.

What’s that? You still need more? Well, aren’t you demanding! But don’t worry, there’s more blatant homoeroticism to come, because here we have exhibit D, where Thomas called doubles tennis with Manu “a dream come true”:

Actually, speaking of doubles tennis with Manu, I’m pretty sure this clip was the inspiration for the movie Challengers. The DFB has yet to confirm this of course, but I have no doubt that that confirmation is coming any day now 😉

Anyways, Neuller is so real and so powerful that at one point Bayern just caved and started funding some club-sanctioned dates. Usually they’re chaperoned (because Bayern might be a little homophobic with it—either that or they don’t trust Thomas not to try and conquer Manu any time they’re left to their own devices—it’s a toss-up really) by the likes of Basti, Mats, or even half the squad (see: 2022 Audi Summer Games). But not always. Sometimes we get Schafkopf dates (because they’re literal senior citizens and their date nights are just them playing cutesy little card games like the old bitties they are).

But anyways, back to our regularly scheduled shipping nonsense, because we still have exhibit E to go through: one day Thomas decided to make Manu’s goalkeeper training a little extra special by showing up shirtless (pretty sure the point of goalkeeper training is to keep him focused, not distract him with your lean, muscular body, Thomas, but I digress):

And lastly, I believe this gem deserves at least an honorable mention:

Let’s take a minute for Manu’s “Schnapper” nickname as well, which, although it may not be one that originated with Thomas, I think we can all agree he’s made it his own. After all, he uses it pretty much every time he talks about him.

As a brief little side note though (I feel like a lawyer giving my closing statements atp 😅), I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the fact that Thomas literally follows a Neuller fan account. Whether it’s intentional on his part or not, it’s still a fun addition to the lore.

So, in conclusion, if not romantic ship, why romantic ship-shaped? 🥺 I’m with you; in another universe, perhaps one not so distant from ours, they got married and grew old together, settling into a house in the mountains, surrounded by horses and doggos. I’m just glad they found each other in this universe at least, because, as it turns out, a Schalker and a Bayern Ultra make one hell of a dream team ❤️

They didn’t know it yet, but they’d go on to coparent the most dominant and successful club in Germany

26 notes · View notes

teratomatica · 20 days ago

Text

you always land on all fours

#umineko #umineko spoilers #ikuko hachijo #ikukos turn for a more serious piece... the old man has reigned for too long #now. INCREDIBLY LONG INCOHERENT TAGS RANT INCOMING FAIR WARNING HAS BEEN GIVEN:#it makes me so so sad how little discussion there is about specifically ikuko because imho she fits so neatly into a lot of the more #overarching Big Themes of the game in a way that i have not ever really seen people take notice of or point out in a meaningful way #like even just off of the top of my head. the significance of names and what it means to go by a name that's Not Yours (she has like 4+)#what it Means to be a witch how it represents a person's deepest insecurities and flaws & how its at its core a coping mechanism #the fact that it takes two to create a universe and trying to do it on your own anyways has the capacity to bring you intense misery #^ (how she's shown to be extremely dismissive of her own work and skill until a collaborator comes into her life and helps/encourages her)#and even the family/patriarchy/misogyny stuff that is so prevalent in the rest of the game comes back around to her. even her Only Friend #(young&stupid atp to be fair) remarks that shes Weird for being unmarried + the little she does say about her past invites the question of #to what extent her self-image stems from her family deeming her a freak outcast & effectively disowning her while celebrating her brothers #and i have lot in my mind about the witch thing specifically because i think her particular situation is very reflective of what umineko's #entire magic system and fantasy facet as a whole is meant to represent for an individual. from what little we see of (what is presumably)#her Real personality she is shown to be deeply self conscious in a way that is JARRINGLY diametrically opposed to both 1.) what we see in #featherine and 2.) what we see when she is acting as a Public Figure. because both of the above are very much purposeful acts that she is #putting on in order to obfuscate her true self. and i have always been very resolute & adamant about not totally equating her to featherine #not only because im very firmly in the camp of “featherine is the avatar of the Pen Name & tohya is part of her too” but also very much b/c #i feel very strongly that the stark differences between the two are very centrally relevant to her character & her psyche. as is the case #with most other witches featherine's personality traits serve to reveal/magnify a lot of ikukos inner workings by playing on her #insecurities/reversing them e.g. ikuko being very quick to downplay her skill/achievements becomes featherine being the COMPLETE opposite #to the point where she barely registers even other witches as living beings rather than just fun touys. BUT even though i do champion the #ikuko/featherine separation so hard i ALSO think it is purposefully relevant that at first glance the line between them seems so blurry #her introduction implying a more nebulous separation between her reality/fantasy counterpart is i think is an intentional move on her part #like it is part of the front she is putting up when acting as the Author. as opposed to Ikuko the person who we (in a way ironically very #similar to the way that the Real Battler is presumably only shown during the boatscene) only very briefly get to see take up screentime #which even on a meta level lines up very well with her apparent underlying nature as a like. extremely private largely reserved/shy person #hit tag limit but if by some miracle anyone is still reading this thank you... please see ikuko with the love she deserves... ok ily byeee

472 notes · View notes

gods-perfect-idiots · 6 months ago

Text

❤️💛

#soft poolverine my beloved #I contain multitudes as far as trope enjoying goes (Logan likes Wade's yapping AND Logan likes to shut Wade up the old fashioned way)#(aka sticking his tongue down his throat)#(among other things but we're sticking with that for this one lol)#Wade is yapping about something #anything really because he can monologue about anything under the sun #and Logan just reaches over wordlessly and grabs his face and Wade just KEEPS TALKING #and every time Logan comes up for air Wade just starts up again #and Logan just smirks and takes a deep breath and goes back in #he gets some silence for a moment AND gets to feel that endless energy fizzing on his tongue #as Wade focuses his nervous mental energy on exploring Logan's mouth for a bit #you know they are SLOPPY kissers #just drool and teeth and tongues EVERYWHERE #I bet kissing Wade is interesting too because his tongue and lips are all ridged and scarred #anyway I just think Logan would shut him up once in a while for like hours long makeout sessions #and then peacefully go back to listening to him yammer endlessly about the minutiae of the My Little Pony Extended Universe #poolverine #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #deadpool #kinda wip?#are any of these ever really FINISHED or do I just give up on them and move on 🫠#also dont get me wrong they def fuck nasty too #but I think Logan “Touch Starved As Fuck” Howlett would really revel in just being able to touch him lazily for hours #idk man I'm too far gone I need to be anaesthetized #deadpool & wolverine #deadclaws #wade wilson #poolverine fanart #deadpool x wolverine

74 notes · View notes

microwavetoaster-selfships · 14 days ago

Text

SiirrrrRE

MILES AXELROD GET THE FFFUCK

OUT OF MY WORKPLACE GARAGAGE MOTHERFUCKGIJTBT GOD DAMMITTT!!!!!! AWEERRHAAAAAAAAAAHAHGYG

All it cost me was my glasses and the massive grime and grease stain across my forehead now. I swear I'm not beyond-fucked insane when I say that the damn oil smelt like brown sugar what was that. Think that was the messiest I ever got fixing a car cause magically I did not care about anything anymore.

I uh. Hit the tag limit but I'm sure this will still pop up if I search his name in my blog search feature.

#you canyou can see int he photo the stearing is on the right. it has clutch and wverything.#same model same make same year fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuck #i have seen. ONE other land rover here. but it was white. this one is. g.greeb.#was trying not to be a freak and take five hundred pictures of this random guys car but.#what are the fucking odds. like seriously. again it was like. fully british imported here to the US. right hand driving and everything.#i .oi got to work on it. I saw it in the parking lot and blitzed for the fucking work orderss once i finished mine.#It came in for an oil change heuauaihehaiahahhahahahahahahausgahaha #i mean it wssnt an oil LEAK just a typical oil change but. fuck.#so british so so british the. the caps on the air valves on the wheel were little UK flags.ni.#i wanted to pull it into the bay but i was like. no. nay. i dont want to fuck up this guys car. only manual I've ever driven was a tracktor.#and that was like. ages ago.#I dont know. im sure there's a rent a car service in England.#Same model make same. everything. four doors. stupif. back area that sorta has seats but sorta not. fuck.#what are the odds. here. british car. in this specific shop. and. green. and same evetything and.#i accidentally locked the stearing wheel trying to start it so that was fun but we good we good.#me. me got to work on it. i honeslty have a conxerning amount i could go on about all of this.#Fucking. deppression gone. obliterated. non-existant. i dont gaf about anything possiblh upsetting anymore.#everytihng is sunshine right now and rainbows and flowers and sparkles.#and no other work orders came in while i was working on it thank goodness so i could dwaddle a little bit. oooohohhhhh #surprise husband jumpscare or some shite what the ever loving fucking hell.#tried not to be a freak about the entire thing but videos and games never did being in it justice of course.#proper. persectiv of not being through a camera lense and.#everything is good my heart is full i sorta could cry right now if something pushed me over the edge but good tears.#im so just. i have so mang feelings for him that it is like. an overwhelming amount. love him so much it is spilling out of my heart.#i dont know. universe came by to say hello. hi.#this is insane everyone is insane everyone is just nuts. everything is good so good right now.#stress has practically melted away everything is good. peaceful. okay. and it's not even my Friday.#My friday is tomotrow but man. ooohhhhh i needed this.#“Axlerod could fix me” not what i MEANT but oksy that too thst also works go for it.#sorry not to go over it again but i cant stress it wnough just. what are the odds. seriously.

8 notes · View notes

spaceyaemonds · 2 days ago

Note

Jack would be so tender with his daughter. I bet the reason she’s such a daddy‘s girl is because he just is always there. A silent protective figure, such a beacon of safety and I think Jack, even in his bad moods, he needs to be with his daughter. Even to his surprise because he’d think he was terrible company (would want to spare her) bc he’s moody and cynical. Even though she’s a baby they have a crazy understanding where they’re just at peace with one another, they kinda crave this silent closeness. It’s very cute/jealously inducing to mom.

I also think PittFest would be something hard for him to swallow because even though his family is safe, (they never went) it’s an event he can see his (eventual) wife and daughter going to and the knowledge that the world is kind of getting more crazier frankly terrifies him.

i love these future snippets of the cute domestic family. I’d love to see any more HCs if you got them. Like he comes home from a day shift and takes a bath with her while mom gets bedtime ready. He’s just in awe of her little baby toes and little rolls of fat as she splashes around getting out all that energy. He gives a big kiss on the head as she squawks in annoyance because he interrupted her playtime.

Or Jack and Robby trying to build a playhouse and absolutely flailing because there’s so many instructions and pieces. they end up taking the entire afternoon and rage cleaning several times, but after a couple of beers, they managed to complete it. of course, bug is annoyed the whole time she can’t play with her toy but playing princess tea party with her daddy and uncle Robby soothes her a bit.

Or Mama is getting a postpartum check up and Abbott going down to the ER to bother Robby with the baby, said baby getting whisked away by Dana, Perlah and Princess as they coo over her doughyness and gummy smile. Abbott is kinda like…they just stole my baby as he chats to Robby.

also like a little blurb of Collins and what she thinks of Mama and Bug. She was very present in the beginning of her life as she was still with Robby and she still has that closeness, but she did take a step back during the break up. Maybe it was her experience with bug that helped hee realize she wanted motherhood and during the Season 1 shift she sees Bug being a precocious toddler and it’s a bit of a tough pill to swallow. There’s like a complex feeling of love and jealousy, but then shame because of the jealousy, but overall love and sadness. She doesn’t regret her decision of abortion obviously because it was a right thing for her to do for herself at the time (and the optics of her relationship with Robby as her senior and honestly who knows if Robby could’ve handled it). But there’s always that ‘what would’ve happened’ especially as she’s facing infertility and since it seems that mama had a similar thing happen to her and made the opposite decision. Maybe as she’s driving home, she calls Mama and mama gives her her perspective about what she was feeling in deciding to keep Bug/how Abbot at that time was honestly a very reliable person and that helped her making her decision and how she thinks Collins is going to be such a great mother.

it’s not an over exaggeration to say I’m obsessed with this universe, and we’re constantly getting fed. You’re such a great writer and you really bring these characters to life. Thank you so much.

hi friend!! ahhh okay i’m answering this below the cut!!!

Jack loves his girl. Literally the second he sees her, his whole life is changed. He doesn’t leave her side unless he absolutely has to, which is more often than he would like for it to be. It’s a big reason why when he gets time with her, he just sits and holds her, at least while she’s still small enough to just want to be held. Before they all lived together, some mornings after a really rough shift, he just shows up at readers place, asking in a really solemn voice if he could just see her for a few minutes. Those mornings, he tends to spend the whole day with her while reader works unless she’s still being breastfed, then mom gets her for feedings. I definitely agree that he thinks he’s bad company! Especially as she starts getting older! But even then, they can just sit in silence, him watching her color or play, and her just wanting to be close to her daddy. Mom absolutely adores it, but can’t help but wish her baby wanted to do that with her too (even though bug literally goes to her mom all the time and they do almost everything together LOL).

When he goes home after PittFest, all he wants is to sit on the couch with his girls. When he heard the news, they had been getting ready to go to the aquarium, and he knew they were disappointed. He had to beg them to just stay in the house until he called. All he could think about was what would have happened if they had gone to the aquarium and it happened there? It shakes him to his core, and he spends that night extremely quiet with his baby on his chest and reader gripped to his left side.

I love them too!! This is just so much fun for me, I genuinely could not have imagined the amount of love that this is receiving, and I just am so glad to do and share all of this with you guys!! I have LOTS of headcannons!!

I think he craves doing the bedtime routine (feeding her, bathing her, putting her jammies on) after working a day shift because 1) it gives mom a little break but 2) that’s all the time he gets with her when he works days usually. He feels like he misses SO much that he just craves it. He also loves the baby smell mixed with the nighttime lotion, he’ll never admit it, but it helps him sleep at night too. He definitely also does interrupt whatever she is doing when he walks in, and though she sounds annoyed, her little laugh makes the annoyance worth it to him!

I’m gonna do separate drabbles for Robby and Jack building a playhouse, Jack taking the baby to the ER while mom gets a checkup, and the dynamics with Collins!!! Keep an eye out for those, I have lots of thoughts on them!!!

friend😭🥹🩷 this is so so sweet and i love how much you love it! your (and others who leave comments and asks) kind words keep me motivated to write! i know i said earlier, but i genuinely could have never imagined all of this positivity and kindness coming from my lil idea! thank YOU so much for your kind words!! i am so so SO excited to keep sharing it with you!! please feel free to send ANY and all thoughts/headcannons, just anything like this!!

#🐝 answers asks #🐝’s anons #the pitt x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #(tagging for navigation purposes #i apologize if it annoys anyone if i clog up the tags #i literally love this little universe so much #and i love talking about it with you guys #and just ugh #sharing this with you guys has brought me so much joy you have no idea🩷

244 notes · View notes

pineapple-lover-boy · 2 years ago

Text

Listen I know it was forever ago but what if after lesson 16, whenever the brothers mention how much MC reminds them of Lilith Mc is like, “Who?”

They’re grateful for what she did and honestly I love the thought of them being the only one to see her ghost and they’re besties but like

This is to piss the brothers off and stop them from comparing. They can talk about her. But not compare. Lilith supports this and does not want her greatx70 grandchild to be a walking memory.

#also in this universe it takes a little while for things to go back to normal #this is coming from someone who’s favorite is Belphie #give me the angst give me the trauma that definitely isn’t a mask for my own #give me the extreme guilt that Belphie feels and that slowly turning into an obsessive love for MC #give me all that toxic shit #I’ve been wanting this for idk how many years now #nothing has truly scratched this itch #and I unfortunately don’t have the motivation to start another series #I am planning on adding another chapter for my current one though it’s been to long #but yeah I’m still not over it #and that’s ok #maybe #kinda #no not really #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me belphegor

29 notes · View notes

klutzytomb · 3 months ago

Text

Old Taylor drawing I actually really love

#bro is going through it #y’all don’t even know why yet #luckily I have at least a little self control to not share my page-long bullet point list of plot things that's not even done yet #it’s like only halfway done just on the plot outline ALONE #I’ve also got some sketches of the first page-ish #I know how it’s gonna open #should probably mention he’s a fan character for a comic I’m working on #it’s takes place in the pinky and pepper forever universe #if you’ve never read it GO DO THAT #unless the warnings are things you don’t want in a comic because that’s understandable #it’s about a 15 minute read I feel #cringe cabinet #oc tag #taylor mar #UGH I LOVE HIS STORY BUT IVE GOTTA KEEP AN AIR OF SECRECY #one day. one day it will be seen #this was concept art and I’ve been looking back at this in particular while looking to change his design

4 notes · View notes

sincetheducksleft · 10 months ago

Text

S3E6 "University": Sympathetic characters and intergenerational trauma

Tracee burning her son with a cigarette because her mother held her hand on the stove is like the entire fucking thesis of this show, even more so because it specifically undercuts Tracee as one of the most straightforwardly sympathetic characters we've seen.

(800 words; spoilers for all of season 3)

I'm currently rewatching The Sopranos with my mom, and one of the first things she mentioned (not as a complaint, just as an observation) is that there really are no purely sympathetic characters on the show. By the end of the first episode we've seen our main character commit acts of extreme violence -- but it would be misguided to say we're supposed to root against him, because the mafia-aligned characters who oppose him are usually just as bad, if not worse.

Rather, I think The Sopranos is supposed to make us question what makes a character sympathetic or villainous, and how this relies on narrative, perspective, and arc (or the lack thereof).

Tracee enters this episode as something close to a purely sympathetic character -- a single mother, presumably a former teen mom, baking bread to thank Tony for helping her son. It's a specifically feminine/domestic act, both motherly and naive, that also positions Danny (the son) as a priority in her life. She almost represents the mother figure that was so missing from Tony's life, except that we're also supposed to see her as a naive child, making her tragic instead.

Speaking of tragic, we find out quickly that she's in a relationship with Ralph, which stops your fucking heart if you've been paying attention and know he's straight up violently insane. (Not to say that the escalation of his behavior in this episode isn't supposed to surprise us -- just that it's an escalation of existing behavior, not an introduction of a new trait to his character).

But right as we find out Tracee is pregnant, presumably setting us up for the tragedy of her death (which, yes, is exactly what ends up happening), we also find out that Tracee has a history of abusing her son to the point that a social worker got involved. And we also find out, in the exact same breath, that the social worker and Tracee herself believe she burned her son with cigarettes because her mother held her hand on the stove when she was little.

It's such a perfect parallel to the overall theme of intergenerational trauma and the cycle of abuse and dysfunction, and also to Tony specifically as a product of his own father, and it completely undercuts the simplistic, arguably stereotypical depiction of a helplessly naive little girl we've seen in Tracee.

Although she's generally being used as a highly feminine, mother-adjacent victim in the context of Tony's story, there's another story out there (Danny's story) where she's the abusive parent who fucks him up for life, and another where she's an abused child whose mother fucks her up for life. She's both a source of pain and someone forced to absorb pain, and it's like a perfect microcosm of how the human condition is portrayed on The Sopranos.

Every character has the potential to be a main character, every character has depth and complexity that is revealing of the human condition. Everyone has the potential to be sympathetic or villainous, and how we see them in this story relies heavily on how they're used in a narrative sense, but if there's a truth at the heart of that narrative it's that everyone is both.

Even Ralph has his moment of sympathy in this episode, reminding us (again) that he had to drop out of school in 11th grade. Unlike Tony, Ralph actually was forced into this life.

And it's just so fucking typical that Tracee, who's apparently just starting to gain some insight into why she abuses her son and starting to do better, would have her story abruptly ended as a minor plot point in the story of some other asshole's unresolved issues and childhood trauma.

Tracee's story may be profound and revealing, but that doesn't mean it will be told in full. That life will treat her like more than a side character, that the people around us care about our own narrative satisfaction. That's not how The Sopranos works because it's not how life works.

It's not a profoundly meaningful tragedy that leaves us reeling at the end of this episode. Rather, it's the fact that Tracee's story ends abruptly, in the middle, without resolution or satisfaction, that leaves us empty and cold. Wondering what the fuck just happened to Tracee, and what the fuck is going to happen to us in our own lives, and whether we'll get a chance to put meaning to it before the big nothing.

Everyone we meet has enough depth and complexity and narrative power to be a main character, to have their story told in full with an arc and a meaning and a true profundity of purpose, and most of them never are.

#another thing worth noting is that Tracee abused danny in a way that was closely tied to her own abuse but distinctly less cruel #intergenerational trauma is something like fate BUT that fate weakens with every generation #every link in the chain is a little less fucked up (but also still fucked up)#you ever hear “we're all just coming out of the caves”?#the idea is if you go back 50 or 100 or 1000 generations to the very first mom ever #it was probably some poor 16 year old kid trying to raise a baby in a fucking cave #worrying about this fucking baby while scrounging for berries and running from tigers and being raped by neanderthals #so if she was the first mom ever she probably wasn't very good at it with all that other shit going on #and we as a species are trying to get out from under that insane trauma one generation at a time #and we all pass down a softer punch... but it's going to take a longgggg time to ever truly get away from it #s3e6 #university #longer rambles #the sopranos #tony soprano #tony #tracee #ralph

6 notes · View notes

fairy-angel222 · 1 year ago

Text

𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 ft Gojo Satoru

— Six years. He’s loved you for six years. He was too young back then but now he’s not. And he plans on showing you that.

᧔♡᧓ Semi Yandere! Gojo x Fem! Reader

᧔♡᧓ Content: age gap (gojo’s 21 n reader is 27), obsessive behavior, smut, pussy eating, porn with some plot, cheating while in talking stage, petnames, praise, breeding, baby trapping, manipulation, gaslighting

᧔♡᧓ A/n: reader always saw gojo as a brother since he was so young, and never really developed feelings for him. it was just lust taking over when they fucked

Six years of friendship with your current best friend. Six years in which her little brother Gojo has had a crush on you. Six years of you only cooing with a giggle as you ruffled his fluffy white head of hair before calling his doting nature cute.

Six years.

Six years that he’s waited for you, becoming more of a man for you. Working out, gaining experience. It was all for you.

You’re twenty seven now, barely any different since the first time he met you. Your soft features still as beautiful as ever and your body just as perfect as he remembered. He’s studied you over the years. Every single time you came over. Studied your patterns, your every move, your likes, your dislikes, he’d even gotten to know your type.

He’d loved you since he was fifteen.

But he’s not a little kid anymore. He’s grown. Twenty one years old. Mature enough to be yours, to take care of you. He deserved you after waiting for so long. And he would show you. Show you that you needed him just as bad, craved him as much as he craved you. He’s the one for you, you just had to open your eyes and see that.

Gojo knows you feel at least a slight bit of attraction towards him. Hell, you’d called him handsome so many times— even though it had been strictly platonic— that you have to had felt something.. right?

On his eighteenth birthday you were there with him, his friends and his sister. He’d even brought a girl, introducing her as his girlfriend to try for a reaction out of you. But you didn’t bat an eye, you were genuinely happy for him. It made his jaw clench, but he was reminded of why he loved you. You were so sweet and caring. A big smile on your face as you embraced him in a hug, giving him the present that you’d been so excited to get. It was something that he had wanted for a while. A part of you saw him and his sister as the siblings you’d never had.

He didn’t need your gift, of course. He had enough money to buy anything he wanted. But it being from you made it special.. so so very special. Especially since you had listened to him. And it was his turn to return the favor. The random expensive gifts never stopped, every time you came over for the next three years it seemed that there was always something wrapped and waiting for you. Somethings just never change, you thought to yourself, piecing together that the boy’s crush had never left.

Then his gifts started getting more and more.. well, whatever you’d consider those matching lace sets that were accompanied a little note that made you swallow hard. Followed up by short dresses and eventually fancy shoes and purses to match. Not to mention the collection of jewelry you’d gotten from him.

Then he was.. less subtle, sending small smirks and winks your way. Finding any excuse just to be next to you or let his hands innocently wander during a hug.

You were not going to tell his sister. You didn’t want there to be any problems between them. You also couldn’t just start coming over less, she was like family to you. So you let his harmless crush continue.

…

Gojo swears luck was on his side, the universe wanting to make things easier for him. You had a boyfriend, a guy you worked with who was a good five years older than you. Like he said, you had a type, and he checked out none of these boxes. He knew everything about the dude, and he knew that he was not good enough for you. He tried to warn you, but what did you do? You smiled at what you took as him being worried about your well being.

So when you came knocking on his front door, flinging yourself into his sister’s arms as you cried into her shoulder. He knew. That asshole had broken your heart. He’d deal with it. He’d truly make the guy regret hurting you.

You were at his house all week, falling into the stage of the break up where you sat in your room (with their house so big you were bound to have one if your own) watching tv with a tub of ice cream and a string of adorable laughter. Anything to take your mind off the sting in your chest.

Then you were out. Everywhere. Going to clubs and parties with his sister just as you two did when you were a little younger. It was reckless, what if you got hurt? What is someone tried something? You were a sight for sore eyes after all. He would make sure to never let that happen. It was why he always accompanied you, whether you were aware of it or not. It was no surprise that you were never able to get laid, despite all the ogling eyes set on you.

…

Gojo leaned against the bathroom’s door frame as you emptied your stomach’s contents into the toilet in front of you. Small moans of displeasure filling the room as your body slumped against it. After math of a night full of drinking.

His arms were folded across his chest, muscles bulging through the tight black fabric which was paired with grey sweats which hung lowly on his hips. Gojo chuckled, pushing himself to stand straight before walking over to you. Stooping down to your current height with the shake of his head. “You should know better than this baby.”

Your brows furrowed, opening your mouth to question him before your head was over the bowl once more. Tears welling in your eyes at the massive headache that had sprung to life. “Shh shh shh baby.” He whispered, “let it all out, you’ll feel better soon.” He soothed, pushing stray strands away from your sweaty forehead while stroking softly at your hair. Whispering little words of encouragement as he held you, smiling sadly when the hug caused you to break down in his arms. No doubt reminding you of your recent breakup.

“Here, i brought you some panadol.” He reached for the two pills and the cup of water on the counter. Letting you sit with your back against his chest as he guided them up to your mouth, bringing the cup to your lips right after. “Here, drink it all okay?” You nodded, swallowing down the water along with the pain relievers. Gojo’s lips pressing softly to your head as he continued to stroke your skin.

You’d fallen asleep. And he’d laid you down on his bed instead of yours. Tucking you in and leaving you to rest.

Downstairs he found his sister, an empty cup sat in front of her along with the pill bottle. She’d clearly been hungover too. “Where is she?”

Gojo gave her a knowing look. “She’s sleeping.”

“Where?”

“My room.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing, not liking the way she was watching him. Was she really that selfish over her best friend.

“Satoru.. she’s twenty seven. You need to get over this stupid little crush of yours and go find someone your own age. She doesn’t want you, she never will.”

Gojo seethed, fists already at his side as he stared angrily at his sister. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Satoru come on-“

“No.” His voice was firm, he didn’t look angry anymore, he looked hurt. “Just.. shut up, please.” A part of him knew that maybe he’d just never be enough for you.

…

Making his way back upstairs Gojo had a plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs along with a glass of hot tea. He walked into his room to find your eyes only just fluttering open with the small stretch of your body. Blinking your eyes to adjust to the bright light while taking in your surroundings, realizing immediately where you were, and who was standing at the door.

“Oh.. Satoru, hi.” Your voice was timid, embarrassed to have been seen in your drunken state by the boy.

“Hey, how’s your head? I brought you breakfast.” He set the food down near the bed before taking a seat next to you. Allowing his fingers to play with the fallen hair from your bun.

“T-thanks.” You nodded, shifting to sit up before grabbing a strip of the crispy meat.

He wouldn’t stop staring at you, couldn’t stop staring at you. And you smiled in his direction, “thanks a lot, i should really get back to my room though.”

He shrugged, “or you could just stay, it’s not like we’re doing anything.” He grinned. “Yet.”

You couldn’t help the way your cheeks heated up at that statement. “It’s okay, i think i’ll just-“

“Stay. Come on, don’t be like that. I’ll even put on your favorite.” Reaching for the remote to search for your favorite show. You bit your lip nervously, not understanding how he could act so normal after all the inappropriate gifts and advances.

His smile never faltered as his hand ‘accidentally’ found yours, slipping his fingers into your own. Not allowing you to let go even if you tried.

…

The next few days were.. good. Gojo had assumed that everything was going well. They were going well, until you decided to ruin everything.

Toji Fushiguro.

A forty something year old man with two children. That’s who you were talking to. Gojo didn’t appreciate how hard you making things for him. You were supposed to be his and he was supposed to be yours.

He was tired of waiting for you to come to him, so he went to you. Knocking on your door with vigor and a small scowl. When the door swung open you were mid-laugh, Toji coming into view behind you with a glass of champagne in hand.

“Seriously? You’ve been ignoring us for him? Him?” Gojo accused pointedly, “My sister misses you, she’s been crying. A lot. Says you’re choosing a guy over your friendship.”

His jaw was hard as he fed you lies through his teeth. Watching your eyes widen as you pondered. Were you ignoring your best friend? You’d seen her just earlier today. You guys had hung out, gone for lunch. Talked about who you both liked with big smiles and non stop giggles. It didn’t feel like anything had changed. “I.. I didn’t realize- i’m sorry.” You didn’t know what to say, it made zero sense. But why would he lie?

Gojo silently cheered as you sadly asked Toji to leave. Giving him a small kiss on the cheek and promising to call him tomorrow. He was not very happy about the last part, but at least he was alone with you.

As soon as he left Gojo marched into your apartment. Nearly falling over his two feet when the scent hit him. Your scent, stronger than ever, that sweet strawberry smell that he’d grown to love.

“Satoru, i didn’t-”

He couldn’t help himself, he really couldn’t. “It’s okay I forgive you.” Turning around for his hand to snake to the back of your neck, heart rate speeding up as he crashed his lips onto yours.

You whimpered in surprise, Gojo controlling the kiss as he backed you up against a wall. His lips quickly traveling down to your neck in desperation. “You know, i’ve waited so long. So fucking long. Waited for you. For us. I’ve given you everything, i’ve done everything. But it’s just never enough is it? You’re just too ungrateful huh baby?”

You moaned loudly. “Satoru.. what are you.. hmm.”

“I’m taking what’s mine baby. Taking what i deserve. I’m not a little boy anymore. I’m a man. I can take care of you.” His lips moved with force, sucking harshly at your skin as he kissed down your chest, free hand roaming to your ass with a squeeze. “I’m old enough to be yours. This isn’t just some crush anymore. I fucking love you.”

You could feel your heart pounding as he uttered the words you wished he hadn’t. “Satoru we can’t.. your sister’s my best friend. I’m still older than you.”

“She’ll get over it.” He breathed, making quick work of your tank top that clung deliciously to your tits. “We’re both consenting adults now aren’t we. If you tell me to stop, i’ll stop.”

Your mouth went dry, lips parting to demand him to go but you couldn’t. You didn’t want him too. What was wrong with you?

“So what will it be baby? Stop? Or don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop..” You mumbled in shame, avoiding his eyes as you looked away. Gojo’s fingers dug into your cheeks, forcing you to turn back to face him.

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said, don’t stop.” You said a little louder, cheeks burning up under his touch.

“Good girl. I knew you were playing hard to get.” He grinned, “You love the chase as much as i do.”

Gojo’s arms hooked under your thighs, lifting you onto him before reattaching your lips. Carrying you to your bedroom to drop you onto the sheets. Lips never leaving yours as you both hurriedly undressed. He was addicted to you, and having you set fire to his veins. This was all he’d ever wanted.

Gojo dropped to his knees before you, kissing lightly at your pussy before enclosing it with his mouth. Tongue lapping you up hungrily as you moaned, fingers finding his hair with a tremble.

“Satoru— feels so good, haah.” You breathed, Gojo burying his face between your legs with a tight grip on your thighs. Allowing your legs to wrap around his neck as he devoured your sopping heat. You were so sweet— just like everything else about you. And he couldn’t help but rut against nothing as more blood rushed to his cock. Finding pleasure in getting to taste you after years of jerking off to the image.

He’s seen your room more than you, always snatching a pair of anything he could find. Just to be able to hold you in any way or form. Feel you on his skin. Touch something that had already touched you.

Gojo pulled away with his face glistening, “Learned how to do this just for you baby. Wanted to be good for our first time.” He smiled lazily, eyes dark with need as he got back to work, sending muffled groans into your bundle of nerves while you mewled loudly. Back arching with the curl of your toes before trying to pull away.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Gojo growled lowly, fingers digging painlessly into your flesh as he pulled you impossibly closer, tongue flicking at your clit before his lips closed around it. Sucking and swirling the sensitive bud into his mouth with a satisfied hum. All while you cried out above him, moans getting louder each time you called out his name.

It was like music. The sweetest song ever. Hearing you moan for him, moan out of pleasure, need, lust. Knowing that it was him making you feel so good. He almost came right there, determined to give you the best orgasm of your life with just his tongue. You tugged at his strands, your vision blurred in the nearing of your high.

“Satoru— o-oh fuck Satoru, ‘m gonna cum. Nngh, you’re gonna make me cum.” You moaned noisily, lewd slurps and sloppily kisses filling your ears as he made out with your wet pussy.

Gojo loved how much you were squirming, your legs tightening around his neck as you screamed. You actually screamed. He made you scream. His tongue was awaiting when you began to shake, toes curled and eyes rolled back as you squirted nonstop. The clear liquid gushing onto his face and tongue in long streams.

You whined at the overstimulation when he licked a stripe up your pussy. Collecting every last bit of your sweetness before standing up. You were panting, hard. And Gojo felt accomplished as he smirked. “Has any older man ever made you cum this hard baby?”

Your head was dizzy, trying to bring yourself back down to earth as you blinked up at him with the shake of your head.

He scoffed in pride, “Now try telling me that i’m too young for you now.”

Gojo was quick to lay you flat on the bed and crawl in on top of you. Consequences of your latest activities still fresh on his chin and chest. There were so many positions he wanted to take you in, but first he wanted to see you fall apart under him. See your face contort into one of pure bliss when he started pounding into you.

“You ready for me?” He husked, impressive cock already swiping up and down your slick filled folds. You nodded, looking up at him through your lashes with parted lips. “Ready.”

You both shared a drawn out moan when he nestled his cock past your tight entrance. Feeling him graze your gummy walls before reaching deep within you.

You felt so good, so tight.. warm. And he felt so deep, so big.. perfect.

“This pussy was made for me.” He grunted with a loud groan, slowly speeding up his pace till he was fucking into you with no end. Hips snapping into yours as his cock kissed your spot, prodding at your cervix with every hard thrust. “Fuck- look at how well you’re taking me. Fucking swallowing me all the way in.”

You only moaned in response, teary eyes meeting his sinful ones as he molded you around his cock. Making sure that you knew nothing but the shape of him, the feel of him, when you were done.

Letting out the whiniest cry, your arms reached up around his shoulders, clawing at his skin when you felt your stomach tighten.

You could feel him so deep, the roll of his hips allowing his fat tip to curl up and kiss exactly where you needed it most. The fast pace pulling short screams past your swollen lips.

“Satoru— haah, you’re so deep. I love it s’ much Toru. So m-much— ahh.” You couldn’t think straight, your brain only registering the way he was sliding in and out of you. It was all you could think about in that moment l, the way he felt.

Gojo watched you fall apart, just like he wanted. Your glossy eyes closing as your head fell further into the pillow, unable to control your noises as you got closer and closer.

“You don’t know how hot you look right now. I love seeing you like this. All for me.” His voice cracked, cock twitching in an aching cry to get its release.

“S-satoru, ‘m so close. Gonna cum again.” You choked out, nails piercing into his broad back as your hands roamed down.

“Yeah? Gonna make a mess f’ me again hmm? All that denying me, making me feel like our love was one sided. You put me through a lot you know.” He shook his head. “If only you knew the lengths i’d go for you.”

His eyes were crazed, and a shiver raked through your body at his words, whimpering as you succumbed to the building pleasure with a mewl. “O-oh fuckk.”

“Nuh uh, baby. Apologize to me first then you cum.” His tone was firm, serious. He wanted to hear you say it.

“Ahh, ‘m sorry Satoru— ‘m so so sorry. You’re goid enough f’ me. Mature enough. You’re perfect. Please let me cum. I need to cum.” You cried, the man on top of you pretending to ponder your words which went straight to his cock before smiling darkly. “Go ahead baby, cum for me.”

Your body shook as you yelled out his name, your surroundings becoming blank when you began to squirt messily, again. The intense orgasm seeming to stun all of your body’s systems as you failed to come back down. Gojo’s continued thrusts keeping pleasure flowing through your sensitive body.

“I love you so much baby. I always did. It makes me so happy that we can finally be together. Fuckk— ‘m all yours. All yours.” He buried his face in your neck, his own eyes closing shut as his body trembled, stilling inside your warmth before you felt his cum pumping into you in spurts. The thick substance coating your every wall in white.

“And now you’re mine.” He didn’t pull out, staying buried inside you in hopes of you two being connected forever. There was one thing he knew and you forgot. You hadn’t taken your birth control in a while, and a part of him hoped that you had seen this coming. That you wanted it. But one thing remained true either way, he was never letting you go.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #satoru gojo

10K notes · View notes