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rollinouttahere-writes · 2 days ago

Note

One of the mind-only fics I’ve had rolling around in my head is kinda similar to the Strays AU, but whatever, might as well.

Reader is Akainu’s kid and by some series of misadventures ends up being collected by Whitebeard. Kinda shifts between whether the Reader is a marine like their dad wants them to be, or if they ran away because they don’t like their dad. I typically imagine them as an older teenager, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

Maybe a bit much on detail, but if they ran away, Akainu reports them as missing, either because he won’t publicly admit that his child ran away, or he’s delusional and doesn’t realize how much they hate him, so marines are actively searching for them and when they show up with Whitebeard people think that the pirates kidnapped them, (which may or may not be true, not like the old man wouldn’t).

Breaking Point

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

3.6k words

Summary: An espionage mission gives you the perfect cover to get away from your Admiral father and the life he forced you into. Everything seems to be going according to plan until some pirates corner you.

Warnings: unhealthy parent-child relationship, akainu being akainu, reader being in a terrible mental state, hopelessness, suicide attempt, blood, drugging

I did tweak the prompt a little bit, so I hope you don't mind. I also hope you aren't opposed to darker themes. If it bothers you, I'll write an alternate version of the scene where the reader snaps.

Clothes? Check. First aid kit? Check. Matches and firestarter? Check. Food and water? Check. Hygiene supplies? Check. Emergency shelter? Check. Money? Check.

Looks like you’re all set. Time to head out.

With your backpack slung over your shoulder, you march out of the barracks so you can begin your mission. At least, that’s what everyone thinks you’re doing. You’ll let them keep believing that.

A sharp call of your name brings you to a halt, and you instinctively stand at attention. The empty halls allow for the sound of his footsteps to echo all around you. It’s debatable which is louder. The Admiral’s footsteps, or your own heartbeat.

Akainu comes to a stop in front of you, glowering down at your form. His piercing eyes scrutinize your appearance. Instead of your usual uniform, you’re in civilian clothing for the mission. Spying in a Marine’s uniform would obviously not go well.

“At ease.” You relax your posture at his command. “I trust that you don’t need any further briefing on your mission?”

“No, sir.” Despite the man in front of you being your biological father, this is the only way you referred to him. Both in and out of work. “I understand the assignment in full.”

“As you should. I expect you to come back with results.”

“I will, sir.”

The Admiral stares at you a moment longer, then nods sharply, “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” With that, you take your leave, stepping down the halls of the base to leave. Just as you’re about to pass the threshold, you hear your name spoken again.

Akainu’s expression is as terse as ever as he stares a hole into you. He then sighs and turns away, “Don’t disappoint me.”

Of course those are his last words to you. Resentment twists inside you like a knife. Fuck this. You can’t wait to never have to see this bastard’s face again. You don’t respond to him, and you know that he doesn’t expect you to.

You march out of the base and toward the docks where a privateer vessel is waiting for you. It was a small, inboard paddlewheeler with an enclosed helm that doubled as a sleeping quarters. A nice ship. Shame you’re going to have to ditch it soon.

“(Y/N)!” There was a call of your name yet again, but this time it didn’t leave you in a worse mood for it. Koby sets down a couple of boxes of provisions on the boat, then leaps onto the docks, “We’ve got her all ready to go!”

A wisp of a smile graces your typically stern features, “Thanks, Koby. I appreciate it.”

“Hey!” Helmeppo jumps from the ship to the docks as well, landing with noticeably less grace than the former, “I- whoa- I helped too, don’t give him all the credit!”

His moody outburst makes you chuckle. Almost no one dared to speak to you in such a way given who your “father” is. You’ll miss these two. “Sorry, sorry. Thank you, Helmeppo. The Marines would be lost without you.” The new recruit beamed with pride, seemingly not picking up on the sarcasm.

Koby was looking at you with awe. He’d never once tried to hide his admiration for your strength and rank, and he wasn’t about to start now. “It’s amazing that you get to go on a solo mission! I can’t wait until we get to do something like this!”

Helmeppo has a whole body reaction to the statement, recoiling away from his comrade as if the very words would harm him, “Speak for yourself! Did you miss the part about them having to spy on Red Haired Shanks?!”

“I know! Imagine being entrusted to go after an Emperor!” Koby’s eyes had turned to stars as he fantasized about his own missions some day resembling yours.

“I’d rather imagine literally anything else.” Helmeppo shudders at the thought, “I mean, really? Why are they sending some kid to do this? Shouldn’t an Admiral like your dad be taking on missions of this caliber?”

Hearing Akainu getting referred to in such a cozy term of endearment makes you want to punch Helmeppo in the face, but you refrain. Barely. Hoping that your schooled expression doesn’t bely your true emotions, you answer him curtly, “Because they need to send someone that won’t be instantly identifiable. Do you think there’s a single pirate in the world that wouldn’t recognize an Admiral immediately?”

“I guess that’s true, but it’s still kinda messed up to be sending a kid. There are plenty of no-name Marines that are actually adults. I don’t see why they’re sacrificing you.”

Okay, the twenty questions game was starting to get old. You wanted to get out of here, not linger and explain your mission in excessive detail to a newbie. If you don’t leave soon, you run the risk of Akainu coming over here and asking what the delay is. You shoulder past the two recruits and leap onto the boat, “I’m not a sacrifice. The rank of Commodore wasn’t handed to me, I earned it. I’ve been trained for this for as long as I can remember.”

Koby ducked down to untie your boat with haste, then tossed the rope to you. He’s still starry eyed, and waves excitedly at you as your boat begins to drift away, “Good luck! I can’t wait to hear about everything when you’re back!”

Instead of answering, you just hit him with the good old smile and nod maneuver, then slip inside the cabin. You won’t be back. Never. You’d rather die than ever set foot on a Marine base again.

—

Several weeks have passed since your departure and covert runaway. At this point, they still believe you to be on assignment, and if everything continues as planned, it should be several months until your absence becomes known. Due to the high risk nature of spying on an Emperor, there would be zero communications until you got back. Sengoku wasn’t willing to risk you being found out if the Red Haired Pirates had a black transponder snail on them. Not only would it jeopardize your safety seeing as that you were alone and didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against an Emperor’s crew, but the discovery would likely make them much harder to tail going forward since they would now know to be wary of this tactic.

Of course, you were nowhere near where that crew had been sighted lurking about. Your end goal was to get out of the Grand Line entirely and start life anew on some remote island where no one would ever think to look for you. Ideally, you would be assumed dead. Killed in action while stalking a predator you had no hopes against.

If anyone knew you were still alive and just deserted the marines… Well, you’ve seen what Akainu does to people like that, and you aren’t naive enough to think that you’ll get special treatment because you’re his child. If anything, that would incentivize him more to make an example out of you. To prove that he would never go easy on anyone.

All in the name of his precious Absolute Justice.

Currently, your biggest hurdle was the calm belt. Even if you hadn’t ditched- and burned- your original vessel, it would have done little to help you cross it. Sure, the absence of wind and ocean currents wouldn’t have slowed it down, but its wooden structure never would have stood a chance against the dense population of sea kings lurking in the depths of that part of the sea.

What you needed was something sturdy and fast. A high powered engine in a preferably metal boat that could take a few hits if need be. On top of that, you needed some weapons to assist you in fending off the beasts. As powerful as you were, even you could only do so much against the likes of such a creature.

Despite all of the risks, you feel relatively confident in your plan. All that you need to do is make it at least halfway through. After that, you think you’ll be able to fly the rest of the way out or at least island hop to the North Blue. Of course, you being a zoan devil fruit user came with risks, but hopefully the fear of drowning if your wings grow too tired will motivate you to persevere through exhaustion.

As long as you can pull this off, and do so without calling attention to yourself, you’ll finally have the freedom you’ve yearned after for so long. It’s so close that you can taste it.

“Commodore (Y/N)! Fancy seeing you here.”

W h a t ?

Once hot blood runs cold as ice through your veins. Who the fuck said that? You slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder to see who just recognized you. This could ruin everything. You can’t risk a sighting. You’ll have to kill whoever saw you.

“Whoa! If looks could kill, I don’t think I’d survive that one!” The man laughs and jumps down from the rooftop he’d been perched upon. Oh, fuck. That’s Fire Fist Ace. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

Another person drops down in front of you, prompting you to whip your head back around only to see Marco the Phoenix blocking the other exit to this alleyway. Oh, this couldn’t get any worse! What’s next?! Is fucking Whitebeard himself going to appear, too?!

More Whitebeard Pirates filter into the alley, but Ace and Marco appear to be the only big name members here. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Marco holds up his hands in a placating manner, though it’s anything but. “Nothing much,” he steps closer, “I promise that none of us want to hurt you, but we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“And? How’s that my problem?”

“We need to pick up some medicine for pops, but the only island that has enough of it right now has a Marine base on it. This medicine is really important, we can’t risk it getting destroyed in an attack, so that’s where you come in. In order to guarantee its safety, we’ll let them know that we have an Admiral’s kid in our custody, and that you won’t be released unless we get what we need.” Marco smirks, “Now are you going to make this easy or difficult? Because I can promise you, you’re coming with us whether you like it or not.”

No. No, no, no, no, no, no! This isn’t happening! This can’t be fucking happening! You were so close, and now everything is going to be ruined because of some fucking pirates! Your hands are shaking- no, your whole body is! Your heart is pounding, adrenaline is spiking, your nerves are on fire. No. You aren’t about to give up and let them take you and ruin your life.

“No… you can’t do this to me.” You shake your head and meet Marco’s lax eyes, “I won’t let you!”

In a split second, your arms transform into wings, and you shoot yourself up into the air. Your legs turn next, shifting into clawed talons that you use to send an attack at Fire Fist and the people clustered around him. Everyone but him dives out of the way as the strike slashes through the cobblestones and walls. Ace tanks the hit directly, but all it does is go right through the logia devil fruit user.

“Not bad, but you’re going to need to do better than that to actually hurt me!” Ace erupts into a column of flames and directs it right at you. Just what you wanted. You flap your wings hard, blasting the fire right back at him- but more importantly- the people around him. They all scream as their clothes catch to fire, making Ace immediately panic and focus on them rather than you.

Not wanting to waste a single precious second, you take off, cutting through the air with remarkable speed. That much is to be expected of someone with the Tori Tori no Mi Model: Peregrine Falcon. As one of the fastest animals on the planet, your speed was generally unmatched. Kizaru was the only person that could ever really challenge you in terms of speed. Escaping these pirates should be a breeze.

“You’re pretty good! I wouldn’t expect anything less from an Admiral’s kid!” The voice of Marco comes from above.

You look up just in time to dodge him swooping down to try and grab you. Fuck, he’s fast! It’s time to engage in some real evasive maneuvers. You rip off your backpack and chuck it at him, then shift into your full beast form.

With your body shrunk down to the size of the bird your devil fruit is modeled after, taking the backpack with you would be impossible. You’ll have to come back for it later, or maybe not at all depending on how poorly this goes.

In your true form, you’re able to take full advantage of the speed the peregrine falcon is known for. Buildings all meld into a blur as you rocket through and around them. A family shrieks as you speed through one open window and out the other, then you’re weaving through lines upon lines of laundry, and next you’re in an open market.

As quickly as you shot off, you stop and slip under a table, the cloth on it easily concealing your presence. Your heart is pounding and you’re panting hard as you wait in silence. The tablecloth doesn’t get ripped off by your pursuer or anyone else, so you’re cautiously optimistic that you succeeded in losing him. Now you just had to figure out how to get out of here without being spotted again. All of those pirates saw what you look like in all of your forms, which was going to be a major problem. The second you leave this sanctuary, you’re going to be at risk.

There isn’t a clear, easy option. You’re just going to have to take a gamble and hope that your beast form will be unassuming enough to not catch their eyes again. You peek under the tablecloth to see if any of the Whitebeard Pirates are lurking nearby. It doesn’t look like any of them are here.

Okay, here goes nothing. You fly out from your hiding spot and high into the air at what should look like a normal speed for a bird. Flying as fast as you can would just draw attention to you. So long as you look like a normal bird at a glance, you should be able to get away unnoticed.

“There you are.”

Before you can even blink, a taloned foot closes around your small form. You squawk in surprise, then immediately shift into a half-bird form to try and break Marco’s hold. Something cold snaps around your wrist, and all of your energy is sapped away in an instant, right along with your powers.

Sea stone cuffs. They came prepared. You fall through the air, but only briefly before Marco catches you. He lands hard on a rooftop, but remains upright and doesn’t drop you. He grins, but his eyes have an odd gleam to them that you don’t recognize, “You’re good. I didn’t think they still made Marines like you anymore.” Why is he complimenting you? Weird.

You start to struggle in his hold, but he’s faster than you and locks the other cuff around your free hand. Now you’re completely at their mercy. This is awful. This is a worst case scenario.

“Now then, let’s get you back to the ship.”

—

The journey from the small seaside town to the Whitebeards’ ship was lost on you. You weren’t processing any of it. As soon as reality sank in, you went completely numb. Every word said by the pirates around you bounced right off you.

They were going to know. You’re nowhere near where Shanks and his crew are. They’re going to know you deserted. He’s going to know you deserted. It’s over. Your life is over. These pirates signed your death certificate as soon as they locked those cuffs on you.

Distantly, you glance at your surroundings. You’re chained to a cot in what looks to be the ship’s infirmary. Only one of your hands is cuffed, the other is free again. They aren’t concerned about a devil fruit user being dangerous while sea stone cuffs are eating away at your strength. What a disaster. Years of training, and this is how it ends.

Fingers snap in front of your face, and you look up sluggishly at the person disturbing you. Twin Blade Thatch is at your bedside, looking… confused? Sad? This is another expression that you don’t recognize.

He smiles slightly, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “You okay there, kid?” When you don’t answer, he looks over his shoulder, “Did you give them something?”

“No,” the voice belongs to Marco. “They’ve been out of it since we caught them. They’re… really upset about getting captured, it seems.”

Thatch lightly claps you on the shoulder, “Don’t beat yourself up about it, kid. It’s not like you got caught by a weak crew. There are plenty of Marines well above your rank that wouldn’t have won this fight either.”

“Yeah, you actually gave us some real trouble there at the start.” Ace was in here too, apparently. “Not many people are able to use my own powers against me, that was pretty smart.”

“Before I forget to ask, do you have any allergies? I don’t want to accidentally kill you with my cooking.” Thatch stares at you expectantly, but his smile fades as you neglect to answer his question. “Is that a… no? Come on, I’m just trying to help you out here, you don’t need to be so guarded. I can even make you your favorite meal to make up for the situation we put you in.”

“It doesn’t matter…” Nothing does.

“Don’t say that. We’ve gotta feed you, kid.” That weird expression is on his face again. You wish he’d stop making it. “It won’t take long to get the medicine we need. You’ll be back with your old man before you know it.”

No! “I won’t go back!” Hot tears start to drip down your face, then pour as the last thread of sanity within you snaps, “I’m not going back! You can’t make me go back there! I won’t let you!”

Ace is standing close enough that you’re able to lunge at him and rip the dagger from his belt with your free hand. He tries to snatch it back, but your frantic state gives you the speed you usually only have with your devil fruit’s help. You aren’t going back, you’ll make sure of it! Marco might be able to heal, but he isn’t a necromancer. Even he won’t be able to do anything about a corpse. Dying by your own hands will be better than being burnt alive by the magma Akainu will use on you.

You raise the knife high, then plunge it down at your stomach. Blood splatters all over your torso… but you don’t feel any pain. You blink once, then twice. Your eyes finally focus on the sight in front of you. The knife is stabbed into a hand. It then closes around the hilt and snatches the weapon from your hands. Ace lets out a string of curses as he rips his own dagger from his hand.

All you can do is stare at him. W… What? Why did he do that? That shouldn’t have hurt him. Why would a logia devil fruit user let themselves get hurt like that?

Nurses rush toward him, but also you. All of your limbs are pinned down by them. Not that there was any need. The fight had left your body as your mind grew hazy again. You didn’t get it. You couldn’t comprehend what just happened or why.

A prick to your neck snaps you out of it. Your head was being held down, but your eyes flit to the side and see that Marco had a needle pressed into your neck and was injecting you with something. In an instant, a warmth spreads through you, and your body goes completely slack.

Marco heaves a sigh and sets the syringe aside. His hand gently strokes your hair for reasons you couldn’t understand. He speaks softly, “There we go, just calm down. You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

On the other side of the room, Nurses are fretting over Ace’s wound. One even goes so far as to scold him, “What were you thinking? You have logia powers! Why would you let yourself get hurt like this?” Even in your sluggish state, your ears perk at the interrogation. You wanted to know this, too.

Ace looked almost offended by the question. “What do you mean “why”? If I’d let that go through me, it would have gone through them instead. Better my hand, than their guts.”

His answer did nothing but spawn more questions. What did he mean by that? Why would it be better for him to get hurt than for you to die? Your life was of no real significance to him. All that you were was a bargaining chip, and you didn’t even need to be alive for that. They just had to make the Marines believe that you were.

None of this makes sense. What is wrong with these people? You’re an enemy. Your death should be celebrated, not prevented. You don’t get it, and your mind growing more and more foggy by the second isn’t helping.

Your eyes are so heavy. Sleep… Sleep sounds good. Just for a little bit. You’ll figure this out after. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.

#yandere one piece #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #akainu sakazuki #marco the phoenix x reader #marco the phoenix #akainu sakazuki x reader #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #thatch one piece #thatch x reader #koby one piece #helmeppo #x reader #reader insert

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mandalhoerian · 19 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.”

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fefispider · 2 days ago

Text

— ִ ࣪𖤐 you and felix broke up and the members send you texts.

part 2/2

- part one is here :)

જ⁀➴ contains: narration, lil bit of angst, fluff, gn reader ! it's really short but I hope you enjoy it!

୨୧ Han

୨୧ I.N

★ your POV

Minho got in touch with the other boys and some of them ended up coming to your apartment to spend the day with you. Chan and Changbin's offer to be a shoulder for you to cry on, along with Minho's insistence into talking better with you about your relationship and Han's suggestion to have some beer all came in handy when you opened that door and let them all in as the clock hit mid-day. Your Saturday wouldn't be so sorrowful anymore, or so you thought.

Of course you were all a mess as the night settled in, everyone lamenting past relationships and you, specially, sharing your recent experience about breaking up with someone you considered to be the love of your life. Minho made you drink water while Chan hugged you, your sad sobs now the only sound that could be heard since no one really knew what to say - and Han was practically dead on the rug, sleeping like a baby.

You didn't really know who opened the door for Hyunjin, but there he was, brows furrowed and eyes fixed on your figure; he hated it so much because he knew Felix was suffering too, and Felix was his favorite person. If Felix was suffering, and the person he loved was too, it meant the universe weren't being too kind.

"I got a day off." Hyunjin announced after you were calmer and listening, Han still asleep.

"What do you mean?" Chan questioned, not really following as it came out of the blue.

"For Felix. And ended up taking that day for the rest of us too."

"Oh." You muttered, remembering his texts. "That arrangement."

"So this is for you." Minho immediately understood, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

"Didn't really want it." You hugged your legs, feeling vulnerable while everyone looked at you and pitied you.

"Hyunjin must've promised something." Changbin narrowed.

"He said he will teach me pottery." You looked at him with narrowed eyes as well.

"Tsk. I'll believe it when I see it." Minho snickered.

"Yah! I didn't teach them yet because I didn't get enough time. Clay takes patience!" He defended himself. "Anyway, meet him on Tuesday, you can use my dorm. Since I know Felix won't agree to meet up with you, I'll set him up."

"Woah." Chan laughed a bit.

"Of course he would meet up!" Changbin was confused.

"No, he's too scared of rejection." Chan added.

"Exactly." Hyunjin agreed. Minho was still comforting you as he held your hand.

"I don't know about this..." You murmured.

"You have to try. Don't you still love him?" Minho tried.

"I do but-"

"You already have your answer."

You were so damn nervous you took longer than usual to get ready, messing with your eyeliner thrice because you couldn't keep a steady hand.

Finally, there you were, pacing around Hyunjin's living room after he literally vanished into his painting studio and left you alone, waiting for your ex. You knew there was so much to say, so many unspoken feelings and miscomprehension between you and the freckled man. But your heart still swelled for him, still repeated his name when the night came in and you held your head against the pillow, unable to close your eyes.

The soft click of the door made you freeze for a second, looking behind you and locking eyes with the guy in your thoughts, his brown eyes wide and startled.

"Y/n?"

"Felix."

Silence. He stared at you for a few instants before turning on his heels and holding the doorknob to leave.

"Don't! I'm here to talk..." You hurried.

"It's okay, I didn't know you'd be here." He opened the door, the familiar aussie accent you didn't realize you already missed was there.

"We set you up! I'm here to talk to you."

"What?" He looked at you again, his bleached hair falling a bit over his eyes.

"Can you... Can we just have a conversation this time?"

"So you wanna explain now?" He tried to sound mad, but there was just that broken tone that showed off how hurt he was.

"I do." You firmly said.

It was enough to make him close the door, squeeze his eyes for a moment and slowly move to sit down on the couch. He didn't say anything, but he looked at you to show he was listening. He wouldn't speak before listening.

You couldn't sit, your mind in a restless state.

"So... I don't know how to begin." You sighed. "I want to say sorry for not really explaining things properly, it's just that you never have enough time and I was afraid to mess with your schedule-"

"I know." His deep voice cut you off. "I'm sorry too. It's my fault."

"it's not." You retorted. "Let me speak..."

"Sorry."

"It's just that... I think there are so many reasons! Gosh, it's much to just say it all at once and get the words out. But I think my insecurities got in the way? Mixed with yours? Like, I'm always so afraid of disturbing you somehow, you're always so busy! My regular job is tiring and all but it doesn't compare to having to keep appearances all the time, we weren't even public to begin with..." You tried to conceal everything, make it all make sense, and you had a feeling Felix was not only hearing you but also understanding when you started. "And you've been different too. Not just loving me and texting me when you're away, not just being you. Felix, I get it you can't always be physically with me. I get it you have to travel all the fucking time and that we will be apart longer than normal couples do... It doesn't mean you have to give me gifts every single time you come back. These expensive things you give me, they don't make up for away time."

He widened his eyes a bit, finally realizing something he never considered.

"Is that why you don't use most of them?" He whispered. "You don't like them cause they're expensive?"

"What? No! It's not that I don't like them. I don't need them. I need you. Only you." You sighed again, he wasn't getting the point. "I date you because you're you, Lix. Fuck gifts and objects, I can't even find use for all of them to be honest."

"Oh... I think I understand now."

"You do?"

"I guess?" He gives you a forced smile.

"I just don't think they're necessary if there's no special occasion. I pretty much prefer to receive good morning and good night texts from you other than getting these boxes delivered to my place with gifts all the time." You finally sat down too, next to him but not touching. "I want our relationship to feel natural again. Just normal, you know?"

"I'm sorry..." He looked away, ashamed.

"Stop saying that."

"But I am. It's the first time I got serious with someone, you know that... So I thought you'd like to get these gifts regularly because it would mean I always remember you." He looked down, you hated yourself for not being so open before.

"It's my fault too."

"it's not. I could've asked and-"

"No! If I just said I didn't like to get all that stuff it could've avoided a break up."

"Or we would've fought because I wouldn't be able to have a proper conversation with you due to my short free time." He lifted an eyebrow. He was right.

"Yeah, that could happen too..." You nodded. "Thing is, I appreciate your texts so much more. I feel you remember me when you send me random voice memos or texts whenever you have time, even if briefly. I know how hectic your days are, specially lately on tour."

He looked at you with pitiful eyes, he was in a mix of sadness and unbelief.

"You're telling me we broke up over this?" He was so mad at himself. "If I made time for you earlier..."

"Felix! Please, don't blame yourself for everything. We needed this."

"We did?" He sighed.

You looked at him with a little smile, your heart so heavy with emotions you realized you had for him in the last days.

"It made me notice just how much you're special to me. Not just because you're my boyfriend. I was worried sick about you, knowing you weren't well and that I was the cause. Knowing I could've used the few days of rest you had after returning to cuddle with you and be with you... But no. I was so convinced I wanted to break up I only noticed it was the worse I could do after I had done it. So it made me realize I was wrong, you see?"

"I see. It was necessary for us to sit down and finally talk too, right?" He showed a soft smile, enough to melt you. "I was feeling like shit, I swear. Like someone physically grabbed my heart and tore it apart. I thought you would never come back to me because you sounded so convicted when you asked for the break up."

He was so sensitive, so honest. You instinctively reached for his face, hand gently cupping his cheek and your thumb running over his freckles.

"I'm sorry for breaking up. I want to keep being yours."

"Mine?" He whispered so breathlessly. "You never said that before."

"Fuck." You giggled a bit, looking away for a second. "Guess I didn't realize how much you're actually who I want to be with forever."

"Oh my God, why are you being so-" He didn't know how to finish, so he just closed the gap between you and pampered your whole face with kisses, cupping your cheeks all the while. "You're mine? You're mine again?"

"Completely yours! But are you mine too?" You narrowed playfully.

"I didn't stop being yours for a second."

And it was enough for you to kiss him bravely, savoring the taste of his mint tongue like you didn't have it for months, slow and tender while you caressed his cheekbones and guided his head to turn however you liked. It felt like the first kiss you gave a few years back, a kiss with affection, care and rediscovered feelings.

How silly of you to have broken up with the one you could never stop loving.

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waylamia · 1 day ago

Text

Growing Pains

recommended listening: Ribs by Lorde

"Why can't you just GO AWAY!" There is a resounding thud, as the door is closed in his face, and that's the end of it. He stands outside the slammed-and locked?-door in shock, shoulders drooping as the clear rejection settles in. Then he hears Josephine choke out a little laugh from her place in the kitchen. "She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her.

-> You reject Caleb's presence for the first time your shared lives. Caleb comes to terms with his role in yours.

reader experience notes: second person perspective. reader uses she/her pronouns, reader is MC but is not addressed by name in this fic, reader is not physically described beyond having hair of unspecified texture. reader is 12 and Caleb is 14.

content warnings: teen angst </3 #brocken, extremely brief and vague mentions of child experimentation/torture/death, my fascination with grandma Josephine as a character of questionable morality, Caleb and MC were raised as adopted siblings and I do and will continue to engage with the complexities of that dynamic in my work (if you don't rock with that scroll past or block freely. protect your peace and party on. <3) pip-squeak usage as I am a pip-squeak truther.

approx. 9k words

Thursday, Caleb decides, is the worst day of the week.

He's sat in the entryway of Josephine's house-two years and he still can't bring himself to call it 'home', not when you aren't around to hear it-after returning from his run. Waiting, now, for you too to return. He unties the laces of his right shoe, slowly. Mind drifting, as it tends to, when you aren't present to keep him present.

The ink had hardly dried on the adoption papers before Josephine had loaded you both up with extracurriculars... Well, maybe that isn't entirely true and maybe it isn't entirely fair, she'd given you a few weeks to adjust. But what little time she was willing to give wasn't nearly enough in Caleb's opinion. Not for two kids who's whole world (at least as far as your memory served.) consisted of the walls of the orphanage and an overgrown garden.

He remembers the first time she'd brought you to a playground. Your face settled in confusion, processing the presence of the colorful plastic structures, their cleanliness and distinct lack of rust. He remembers your little hands darting to cover your ears when two kids hopped on the seesaw, anticipating the familiar, grating screech that would not come from this parks well kept equipment. He remembers being worried. That it was too much too soon. Remembers glaring at Josephine as she sat nearby, watching, neutrally. Like if your little heart exploded again, right then, it would make no difference at all.

He doesn't notice he's practicing the speech until you speak.

'It's okay if you forget... I'm Caleb, I'll always be by your side.'

'Even if you don't remember anything, I can always say it again...'

'I'm Caleb. I-'

"Caleb!" Your voice jerks him from his thoughts, eyes darting around the playground to find you. Tenseness he hadn't even realized he was carrying falling away when he spots you. You've climbed to the highest point, not on the playground-where the other kids are giggling and racing and shoving at each other-but on a nearby tree. He squints up at you through the harsh light of the midday sun. You're smiling, full of pride at your successful ascent. He laughs. All these shiny new toys and you take to the tree. Just like the one in the garden of the orphanage. It's awful smart of you, he thinks, to find something familiar to cling to in the midst of all this uncertainty. He races to the base of it. Knowing your eyes will follow him, that when your gaze lowers down and down and down you're courage will waver and you'll need his help getting back to the ground. It's a bad habit of yours.

Cheeks puffed out at the dinner table from too big bites bites of your food, always a little more than you can chew.

Sure enough, the next time his eyes lift you're own have widened, a barely there tremble where your fingers cling to the branch supporting you. He grins up at you, making no effort keep the little bit of smug amusement at this familiar game from his expression. "You want down?" You do. You always do. But you've gotten wise to the meaning of that particular look on his face, and he can tell you don't want to give him the satisfaction. You've started to take issue with him knowing what you need before you do. Telling him it doesn't make any sense at all.

But how couldn't it? He's spent more time with you than you have.

"I can do it myself." You huff. Stretching your leg in an attempt to reach the next lowest branch, only just grazing it with your toes. Caleb folds his arms and waits. This is a part of the game too. It will go one of two ways, and in the end, the way of it will make no difference at all. Two roads always leading to the same destination.

At the table, he cuts up your food. From the treetop, he catches you.

'...Must be feeling particularly stubborn today.' He thinks as he watches you extend your arms to lower yourself down. All you'd have to do is ask and he'd get you grounded. He wouldn't even make you say please. He's not going to tell you that, obviously. You get away with enough as it is. But it's always true. You've made it half the way back when you slip, the sudden jerk you make to recover causing your load-bearing branch to snap. Your startled shriek catching just as it starts when a soft pressure envelops you. Gravity warping around you until your feet are flat on the ground.

The clanging of pans draws him back to the to the entryway. He blinks down at his shoe, which he has seemed to unconsciously retie, brow furrowing as he moves to undo it once more. A cabinet creaks shut. Josephine is in the kitchen, preparing supper. An increasingly infrequent sight, with her too long hours at jobs that pay only just well enough to provide for the three of you, often keeping her out of the house long past dark. He supposes very few things are as lucrative as groundbreaking human experimentation... But he's a little too preoccupied to tug at that old thread at the moment.

Your new schedules keep you busy from dawn to dusk. Every morning: your stretches, breathing exercises, and pills-vitamins for you both, heart medication for you-then school, then your assortment of extracurriculars. 'To make up for all the time you lost at the orphanage.' Right. The orphanage. Caleb rolls his eyes at the memory. 'It will give you an opportunity to get to know the other children in the area.' He could almost laugh. Maybe, to an extent, there is some amount of truth in her words when addressing you, but when it comes to him... She can try to spin it however she'd like, Caleb hears the message loud and clear.

'I'm doing you a favor, letting you stay here. So keep out of my hair.'

He gets back to untying his shoes, ignoring the presence in the kitchen. He'd seen her car in the driveway when he'd made it back, hadn't said a word when he came inside and neither had she. It was always like that, always quiet between the two of them, words only ever exchanged out of necessity and, whenever possible, through you. He could comfortably call it loathing, on his end, but he could never quite tell what exactly she felt about him. From where he stood she didn't seem to feel much of anything beyond whatever twisted attachment she had to you.

You were the only thing to ever make her eyes soften at the lab. At the orphanage, you were the only one she had wanted.

He was panicking, running down the hall to the Director's Office, told by one of the younger kids that you were 'having a test'. He'd had to rack his brain for what that could mean. Shook off memories of evol experiments and observation pods until it hit him. Adoption interview. He skids to a stop at the door, knob collapsing in on itself before he's even bothered to check the lock. It crashes heavily into the wall as he bursts in. Shouting, already, as he takes stock of the room's occupants.

"You're not taking her!"

The Director, stern set of her features uncharacteristically disturbed by the suddenness of his entrance. Brows raised, eyes wide, mouth agape. It is seconds before she schools her expression. Tells him this is 'none of his concern', demands he 'leave at once'. He thinks of the doorknob he just reduced to nothing. Thinks she would be just as easy to-

You move into his line of sight, head poking out from behind the woman sat in the chair beside you. You tilt it at him, curiously, sat very politely on the uncomfortable leather chair in front of the Director's desk. To your right, occupying the other seat, is-

His right shoe is undone again, he peels it away from his foot, moving to set it neatly on the rack by the door, gaze pulled to the sturdy wall of wood on his way, hoping to see it finally, blessedly swing open. No such luck.

Taekwondo had been Josephine's idea. All of your activities had been Josephine's idea, really. Options laid out and organized for you to look over, ultimately not a choice at all, she demanded the time be filled with something. He'd resented it-mind reeling with images of padlocked rooms, meals pushed through quickly closed shutters. 'Time's up' and 'lights out' and 'test complete'-and he'd have fought her on it, if you hadn't been so awed. You, thrumming with energy over the possibilities, asking an unending string of questions about each option. 'do you get to dress up all fancy for dance class?' 'is sewing the one with the machine or the big sticks?' 'do you have to swim even when its super cold?' 'what about-' His defiance had died on his tongue in favor of trying to convince you to sign up for basketball with him. It made him feel better, the idea of doing these things together. Josephine could take you to as many playgrounds as she wanted, you'd find a tree, and when you couldn't, he'd be one. In his focus in the planning of your new schedules, he hadn't noticed Josephine pursing her lips.

It took a good few hours of back and forth and cross-referencing school and activity times before you'd come to an agreement. On Monday's you'd go to ballet and on Wednesdays, your study groups. Piano lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then on Friday, basketball. All of it done together. Josephine had made a face at that, one he could not name but knew he didn't like. His instincts were good, he'd discover, when just after a month into this new routine she'd called him back to the table after supper.

"She should know how to defend herself." She spoke flatly, Caleb wasn't sure she could speak any other way. Not to him at least. His brow furrows.

"...From what?" He's daring her to say it, more than anything. He knows 'from what'. Had lived through 'from what' already. Hasn't heard a word about 'from what' since Josephine brought you both into her home like it was normal. Like she was normal. Like anything she'd helped everyone at 'from what' put you through was normal.

She sighs, leaving the question to die on the table just like you. Over and over again. He scoffs. She can play pretend all she'd like with you, he is never going to let her get a do over, not really. Not when he still remembers everything.

Silence occupies every bit of space between them, gazes fixed on each other through it. Beacons on separate shores, never to meet. Caleb scowls as Josephine studies him. Like some sort of equation. Something with a solution, rather than someone with a well earned grudge. Always an obstacle, never a boy.

In the end, he'd agreed with her. You should know how to defend yourself. You won't need to, not ever. Not as long as he's around, but just in case. Everything in case.

He didn't understand why she'd felt the need to run this one thing in particular by him first. She'd been plenty comfortable making your decisions up until then, and he harbored no delusions about who held all the power here. Who's will it was that allowed you not to be separated. It is only when he goes to untie his left shoe that he notices his leg bouncing anxiously.

He doesn't like being apart from you. Always afraid when he cannot see you. He's not ashamed to admit it, at least to himself. He has every reason to be scared. Two years of uninterrupted peace. Two years since Josephine clasped your little hands across the hard metal arms of those squeaky chairs in the Director's cold office and promised you a home. Two years and he still sees bright white lab lighting in the back of his mind. Feels static in the air when he jolts awake, gasping, from his sleep. 'Don't... take her away.'

He unties his shoe, takes it off, and just holds it. He can't put it on the rack with its pair. He can't leave the entryway until you get back.

He didn't understand why she'd bothered to mention Taekwondo classes to him, to get his assent, until they had finished with signing you up.

It was an all girls class. Caleb would not be attending with you.

Josephine was very good at solving problems. And that's what he was, wasn't he? An exponent attached to you? A negative factor that needed canceling out?

It will be a very long time (a lifetime, his first) before he understands what it was she was after, what she had already started to see in him-what she was afraid of, for you.

From then, their relationship settled-like scum on the surface of water-into what it is now, which is not really a relationship at all. A family, by law. But by circumstance, by experience, something worse than strangers.

He's still adjusting to being away from you at school, now that grade division has seen you sent to different campuses entirely. The daily relief of the final bell sounding, signaling he's soon to see you, quickly stolen by the dojang with it's bolded sign reading 'WOMEN ONLY' at the door. For the first few weeks, when he'd walk you to the building after your piano lessons, he could swear that instead of the soft thud of the double doors swinging shut he'd hear the shrill beep of an observation room door being unlocked. That while he waited outside for it to be over, when he heard your name called it wasn't your name at all, but your number, or one of the other not-your-name's they used to call you. He'd still be waiting outside the dojang now, instead of the entry to Josephine's home, if the workers hadn't started shooing him away. The world, like he's always suspected, seeming to exert every effort to keep him from you.

That was when the running had started. Going straight back to Josephine's house to stew in all of his anxiety and overthinking was an unproductive and unappealing prospect. He had to find some way to get the energy out, to save himself from rumination. The first day, it came to him like instinct. You'd finished your piano lessons, he'd walked you to the dojang, the workers stationed at the door watched to be sure he'd leave, and he took off, running. By the time it was exertion making it difficult to breathe and not the fear that you wouldn't come back out of those double doors, he would return and your class would be over and the pair of you would walk home, together, how you were meant to be.

That schedule, that routine, got you through the better part of two years, and then you decided to introduce a new variable.

You've made some new friends at the dojang. Which is... good, of course. He's trying to let it be good. Trying to ignore the scratching in the back of his skull that says what your lived experience thus far has shown, that everyone is out to get you.

There'd been an argument at the dining table over it, your request to walk home with your friends instead of Caleb. The two of you locked in a silent glaring contest after you'd asked Josephine and he'd said 'No.' and you'd said 'Why?' and he'd said 'No.'

"Caleb." Josephine's voice is stern. It gives him pause, even as he refuses to break eye contact with you. It's not her tone, though he could never shake his irritation at her seemingly unshakable neutrality, it's just that he's trying to recall the last time she'd addressed him directly. Three weeks ago, he thinks, Sunday afternoon. He'd been caught sneaking an extra soda for you. "Caleb." She tries again. This time, he hears what she means to say. 'Who do you think is in charge here?' Caleb is 14, and Josephine is however the hell old she is, and he harbors no delusions about who holds the power here. But it's you they are talking about here, your safety. Of all times, of all things it should be now that the two of them see eye to eye.

"Grandma, she-"

"Is nearly a teenager herself. If you can walk twice that distance to the grocery store alone, there is no reason she can't make it back here with the company of her friends." Always hyper-logical. Always leaving little room for argument. Always serving her own ends. Either unknowing or uncaring of the turmoil he is under. Probably both. Everyone is out to get you. Josephine's continued presence, continued control of your lives, his constant reminder.

That's the end of it. The table is quiet.

'Fine,' he thinks, 'he'll just have to run farther.'

And so it becomes: get out of school, pick you up, go to piano lessons, walk you to the dojang, run the distance between there and the house and keep going after that, until he's pretty sure he feels his lungs starting to collapse. Then he'll turn around and run the distance back to Josephine's. This way, when he gets there, you're already back. He steps through the front door, you call out to him, and he can breathe again. It was a system that'd worked every Thursday since, up to and until today. Hence the sitting by the door, and the issue of his shoes.

He's back, Josephine's back, the sun is going down, and you are nowhere to be seen. In the weeks since this routine began you've never been this late before. After class corner store and park visits with your little pals never keeping you out this close to supper.

"Your time would be better spent working on your assignments or helping prepare the meal than standing idle at the door." Josephine is matter-of-fact, as ever. And as ever, Caleb is unmoved, he's still cradling his left shoe. She sighs, not having to look up from her work to know she is being ignored. "She is perfectly fine. She'll be home soon." A statement made with the surety of someone who has a tracker in your flip phone, a heart rate monitor on your little wrist watch. But Caleb really doesn't give a damn what the data points on her phone screen are telling her when its been 2 hours and 43 minutes since he last saw you. Of course he's been counting. "She needs to be allowed to find her place in the world." He frowns at that. You had a place, both of you did. Next to each other. What else is there to have?

He raises his left knee, poised to slip his shoe back on. Glancing briefly toward the kitchen. Josephine couldn't stop him, if he chose to go look for you. And the longer he spends in her home, the older he gets, the less afraid he is she'll try to send him away. Try, being the operative word, he wouldn't go without a fight. He thinks you'd fight too.

He's just begun retying his laces when the door bursts open. Nearly sending him straight to the floor, collapse halted only by quick activation of his evol. Though it isn't his influence over gravity that finally lifts the weight from his shoulders.

You look like you went running, like you ran all the way back home. Which doesn't make a lick of sense to him, considering the hour. Something's off.

"That was a dramatic entrance." His tone is light, relaxed, like he hadn't just been preparing to rip a hole through the fabric of the city to get to you. He stands, looking you over. The anxiety that's been threatening to burst from him like foam from a shaken can of soda not dissipating so much as he crushes it down, just as he would a can that'd dare to spray at you. "Having such a good time you almost forgot supper, they said it couldn't be done!" He ruffles your hair, the action familiar, playful and purposeful. He draws himself closer to you, inspecting for damage, reading you for signs of discomfort or discontent.

Your breathing is ragged, the first thing he'd noticed upon your arrival-that and your shaking-which isn't uncommon after your classes but is never so... noticeable. Especially so long after the class itself has concluded. His mouth curves downward. You're also not looking at him, which is weird for you. You've always had kind of a staring problem. Josephine has a theory about that, about you taking in as much information-data. is the word she'd used-as you can to make up for all of the blank spaces left in your memory. Caleb tries not to think about it during the day time, it only makes him angrier at her. He lets his hand graze your cheek as he removes it from the top of your head. It's warm... and wet?

"Pipsqueak, what's wrong?" He's on his knees in front of you in an instant and, yup, you're crying. The hairs on the back of his neck raise at the same time as his eyes soften. Caught between wanting to make someone hurt for the expression on your face and wanting to help you forget why you're making it. You still won't look at him, no matter how he angles his head, and you won't speak either. Josephine is quiet from the kitchen. Listening, surely, but making no effort to intervene. The first step of the scientific method is observation. Caleb prefers a more direct approach. "Hey, talk to me." He moves to wipe the tears from your cheeks, attempting to hold your head still enough to make eye contact. This appears to be the wrong move.

"Stop it!" You swat at his hands. Rubbing at the tear tracks he'd failed to sweep away. Your gaze still lowered. "Just leave me alone!" You take a single step forward, but make no other effort to get past him. Mostly because you can't. The entryway is small and Caleb is making himself as wide as possible to block you. Unwilling to let you go when you are so clearly upset. There's a way that this is supposed to go, has always gone. Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"Not until you tell me what made you cry." He's using what you call his 'don't-do-dumb-things' voice, though it cracks in the middle, betrayed by his age and the depth of his feelings both. It is a voice that has always left admonished enough to raise your white flag. Today though, it just seems to further incite your ire. You huff, show your teeth like a cornered animal, shaking your head aggressively as you wipe a fresh wave of tears away with your sleeves. When the task is done you leave your arms high, defensive.

...defensive?

He's shrinking in on himself before he can put conscious thought behind it.

"Just move!"

He does, a little. For show more than anything, a vain attempt at compromise. He is torn between wanting to abide by your wishes and feeling that this is all wrong wrong wrong. Your behavior today... it's all so weird and backwards. He's left scrambling to keep up.

You're quick to take advantage of the gap he's created, attempting to wriggle past him, all sniffly and tense. He has this feeling that if you make it to your room it will be hours before he gets the chance to get to you, he has to stall you long enough to get you talk to him. "You need to take your shoes off before you come inside!" Does he care even a little whether or not you track dirt or mud or grass into Josephine's house? No. Is he going to lay awake in bed tonight thinking about how stupid it was to reprimand you when you were so obviously at the end of your rope?

Yeah.

You look at him for the first time since you got home, which feels like progress until you full on growl, crouching down to untie your shoes in the most comically angry way he thinks anyone has ever done it. He mirrors you out of habit, reaching out to where your hands, in all their shaky frustration, struggle to undo the knots in your laces. "Let me-" This is another, in his growing series of wrong things to do.

"I told you to leave me alone!" You shriek, and then there's quiet. Caleb freezes, making note of his mistake and your reaction to analyze later, and giving you a second to process what just happened. Usually, this is the part where you take a deep breath, cry harder, say you're sorry for being mean, and let him hold you and stroke your hair and tell you 'shh shh its ok' until you're ready to talk. Today, you take your finally undone shoe and throw it at him.

...What the hell is going on?

While he's left stunned from your surprise attack, you shove him. Pushing him into the wall, more from the way it feels like you really mean it than the actual force applied, regardless it is enough for you to dart past. "Hey-hold on!" He's quick to recover, to follow your hurried steps through the living room and down the hall. He catches up, he's always been faster, and all that running- "Wait, can't we just-" He reaches for you before thinking better of it, fingers just grazing your arm before pulling away, every time he's tried to touch you you've just gotten more mad. It takes you only a second more to cross the threshold of your bedroom, not sparing him a glance as you shut him out.

"She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her. She almost sounds... relieved. Like a breath exhaled after too long being held. Does she think this is funny? He turns his gaze back to the door, the lock. He could just... open it. Could break the door down, if he felt like he needed to. "Give her time to settle." It bothers him that she knows what he's thinking. It bothers him more that she's right. He sees your face in his mind, eyes all teary and red, brows drawn and lip curled, all teeth.

"She doesn't shut me out. Not me... Not ever."

"Come cut the vegetables." There has always been a distinct difference in Josephine's treatment of the two of you, though it could be noticed only by one who knew to look for it. She is always straight faced, always composed. She does not strain herself in speaking, neither out of joy nor agitation. It is down to the choice of words. To the order of them.

Josephine offers you guidance. Suggestions, advice, requests. To Caleb, she gives orders.

And Caleb, who has always known his place, follows them.

With a sigh and a final glance at your door, he turns to pad over to the kitchen. Josephine studies his face, that same clinical manner that makes him tense even now, before smiling and handing him a knife. "She's growing up, Caleb." She gestures toward the cutting board, the assortment of washed veggies. "There are things she'll want to work out on her own." Her gaze is focused on the bubbling pot, stirring diligently, steadily. She contains what would otherwise overflow. He understands, in theory, but can't reason why 'on her own' can't include him. The thought alone turns his stomach. He redirects his attention to the work provided to him, the rhythmic movement of the knife, the repetitive thud of it hitting the cutting board. "I had... thought you'd be the first one to want for distance." The knife slips, crashes harder than intended into the board. He looks up to her, face drawn.

"Why." It is a question as much as it is not. Leaves him in the same robotic manner as small talk. 'How are you' and 'what nice weather' and 'why would I ever try to be without her?'.

"You're at that age." The non-answer of someone who has been alive longer, who has seen more, and believes themself superior for it. He can't bring himself to care. Even as she turns to him with that familiar, analytical gaze. Seeing him, standing beside him, but never with him. The relationship between the lens and the slide in the microscope.

"What age Grandma?" He jolts at his own words. The title he only deemed necessary to use when you were in earshot. Reasons with himself that maybe you can hear from in your room.

She pauses, gazed fixed but unfocused, before finding the words. "Older brother's start to find little sisters more obnoxious than cute." Up and down her eyes go, then briefly to the counter, before she turns back to her work. She sighs. Whatever she was searching him for she cannot seem to find. "You're pretty good at that." She says, not bothering with another look up. He observes his progress. Vegetables finely chopped, a small collection of which have been cut into the shape of flowers, hearts.

He hadn't realized. He bristles, feeling in some way caught. "You work late. Someone has to make sure she eats." He means for it to be a barb. As with everything else, she accepts it neutrally.

"You take care of her Caleb, very well." A pause again, a call to attention. "Like a good brother." His brow furrows. That word keeps coming up. Ever since she brought you two home. You've started to use it too. There's something that feels not quite right about it.

He's not your brother.

Before the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage, he was nothing to you. You were nothing to him.

The train of thought cuts off abruptly. That isn't right either.

Josephine watches, quiet. The scientific method demands observation first.

It isn't right for you to be nothing to him. Not ever. So there is no before. He's fine with that. But what was he, to you, at the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage again? What is he now?

Josephine turns on the radio.

It strikes him as odd. She is someone who does not need outside stimulus, someone who takes no interest in distraction. When he looks to her, watches as she stirs the pot, he tilts his head in question. She does not face him as she responds.

"She is a very special girl." Caleb knows this, resents her saying it anyway. To him, you're special because you're you. Because your eyes are your eyes and your hands are your hands and they took his without needing a reason to. For Josephine, for the other scientists, for the company that funded them, you're special because of what you do. What they can do to you. What it means that what was done could be done and you could live.

You are a breakthrough, not a person. A future, not a girl with one.

"I know you aren't fond of me."

He won't argue that. Without you present there is no need to pretend at anything else. Josephine turns the radio up.

"You understand the work we were trying to do. Whether or not you agreed with it." She lowers her voice to a whisper. Caleb stands silent, wires crossing, gears turning in him.

The mechanics of the conversation click into place.

"I didn't. And I don't." The music is a cover, in case you can hear from your room. Their separate work is a cover, in case the discussion pulls expressions from them they'd prefer the other not to read. It is oddly compassionate of her. Oddly just.

The expectation, for the first time in two years of wool and shutters and roses, is honesty.

"Perhaps because you didn't see it for yourself." There is a dreaminess to her voice that makes him feel ill. "It was... remarkable. Like watching the birth of a planet in the flesh." 'Watching,' He thinks. 'like some kind of god.' But he can't say it, not through the growing tightness in his throat. How she speak so casually about it, find any sort of beauty in it, is lost to him. He hadn't seen, no, but he'd heard. Still hears you screaming in his sleep, still wakes shaking.

"You should know that I protested." There is a creaking, cracking sort of sound, and when Caleb goes to bring the knife down on the half of uncut leek before him he finds it has been twisted beyond recognition. Josephine hums. A sound like a confirmation. "Though I suppose that wouldn't matter to you. Your concerns are more... present. Too young to be troubled with longevity."

He is concerned with your longevity.

With that, he tires of the game. Dropping the useless knife. Silencing the radio himself, a brief bout of whirring and static before all is quiet, all is crushed. Even still, when he goes to speak he finds himself whispering.

"There is nothing you could say to me that will make me think you were in the right. Not when you killed her over and over while she screamed and hurt and apologized." His breathing is ragged, has been for longer than he's been speaking. " I heard everything. I remember everything." He raises his head, evol dragging Josephine's gaze to meet his. "I remember for her."

He is met with the mask. Always the mask. He wonders if there is even anything to see underneath. If, with pretense peeled away, her face would be hollow and black, like looking into the depths of a well. From the surface, no way to see if it has gone dry. Or maybe, it would be better described as blank, like an untouched page.

No, not untouched. Erased.

What other way is there to live with what you've done.

"Do you care about her?" He doesn't mean to ask. Doesn't even mean to think it.

"More than I can express in words." There is no room for doubt in her tone. Nowhere to hide a lie in the silence surrounding them.

Still, he doesn't believe her.

"You... wanted to stop it. You protested." All of her assuredness is met with equal uncertainty on his part.

She nods slow. "I did."

"But you didn't." The whole room is heavy, ceramic dishware straining against the increased pressure, a low hum in the air, all around.

"And did you?" For once he has provoked an emotion, something unnamed, quiet and cutting. She sighs, aggrieved. "What could one person be expected to do. Even if I had voted against-" She cuts herself off abruptly, expression shifting to something calculating. Some sort of clarity settling over her. Focus. "It wasn't a failing, on your part. To not have saved her. What could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little, watched over as you were?" Something new breaks through the usual, almost robotic, calm. A fraction of a fraction of the warmth she brings to her voice when speaking to you. The shift in attitude causes his control of the space to falter, a weight lifts, pressure lightening over everything but him. Josephine takes a step forward, he takes one back. She hums, low, gathers up his chopped vegetables to deposit into the pot. Temperature lowered to a simmer. "...You're old enough to be told. Smart enough, I believe, to understand." The knife, the one he'd mangled, scrapes across the cutting board. The practical, evenly sliced bits and cute, carefully shaped pieces of veg falling indiscriminately into the vessel. Everything about the scene unsettles him.

"Caleb, I need to know that I can trust you." He doesn't respond. He knows he isn't seeing the full picture, that in whatever game they are playing she is dozens of steps ahead. 'It wasn't a failing ... to not have saved her ... what could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little ... You're old enough ... Smart enough ... to understand.' Josephine cuts the heat on the pot, steam rises, simmer receding. There is no relief in the realization that everything he believed is true.

"I don't trust you. I'm not going to trust you." He gazes at the ground, head lowered. A small sign of submission. "But that doesn't mean I can't... understand." His eyes flick up and back. A half a second not enough to see a deceptively gentle smile settle on her face.

The deal is made. Transparency traded for cooperation. Information for compliance. There is the feeling of something wrapping around his throat. Invisible, but nonetheless felt, over faded scar tissue, the memory of the buzzing and beeping collar he'd earned after he'd-

"The food will get cold, and it is getting late." Josephine says, content. Pointedly avoiding looking at him, lest she have to extend herself to offer him care on top of everything else she's done for him. "Just for tonight you may eat in your room." She prepares three plates, portions entirely equal, but only one carefully arranged, specially shaped veggies in neat little piles.

In exactly one aspect, she and Caleb are identical.

"Take this one to her door on your way." She holds two plates out to him.

'And be on your way.' Goes unspoken.

He takes the offerings wordlessly. Turning to walk, stiff and careful from the kitchen and down the hall.

"Caleb." she calls as he reaches the arched threshold between the kitchen and the living area. He freezes, but does not turn. "Be a good brother."

His brow furrows. It is said like a command, like a fine print term to their agreement he'd missed.

"...I will."

He could swear he hears the smile in her voice when she replies. "We'll talk on Thursday. When she is out."

He thinks he nods, or he tells himself to nod, but the only action of his body he is cognizant of is the falling of his feet as he covers the distance to your room.

----

He isn't surprised when his knocking at your door is met with silence.

His mouth is drawn into a line, empty hand still raised as he debates knocking again, knowing you won't answer. Your plate of food hovers at his side, held in the air by his evol.

"...Gran said we can eat in your room tonight, I brought your plate." He waits, for a beat and then longer, nothing. He frowns. Barely swallowing a frustrated sigh. You'd had a long day, a physically demanding class, and you would still rather go hungry than see him. 'Alright then,' he thinks, 'other means.' He grabs your plate from the air.

"Okay, okay... I'll leave it at the door for you." He lowers both his plate and yours to the ground simultaneously. Righting himself slowly, and taking one, two, three, four and a half steps in place before your door-the distance his stride measures between his and yours-lowering himself to the ground with each step. He sits, arms and legs crossed in front of him, uses his evol to open and close the door to his own room, and waits.

It isn't long at all before your door clicks open and you come, as he guessed you would, crawling out-low to the ground, like a little mouse-to retrieve your supper. Your hand freezes, half extended, when you notice two plates instead of the expected one, and the pair of legs folded just behind them. You sigh, like someone bested, but otherwise remain unmoving.

Caleb waits patiently for you to decide the next move, hopeful that your lack of shaking is an indication of some amount of calm. That you have settled, like Josephine said, and will let him in. While the silence drapes over you both like a blanket fort, he busies himself looking you over. Searching for clues pointing him toward the problem. Whatever left you worked up enough to shut him out entirely. You aren't hurt, not anywhere he can see, and he does feel some relief at that. Nothing physical seems to be wrong with you. The only visual difference he can find between earlier and now is a changed shirt, and a significantly less tearful face. Your head stays low, body shrinking in on itself the longer the silence looms. Behavior from you, finally, that he has a frame of reference for.

You get quiet after you yell. It's one of the first things Caleb figured out about you. A burst of emotion followed by shyness, worry. Josephine commented on it once, and only once, halfheartedly joking under her breath that perhaps it was 'just your nature to explode'. Her mug had shattered in her hands, ceramic slicing into the tender flesh between her right thumb and pointer finger. Neither of them spoke a word about it.

"...'m sorry-" you only barely get the word out before he is reassuring you.

"-it's okay." His arms unfold. Hands sat in his lap, open, always ready for you to take.

You don't say anything else. Apology as far as you had planned, as far as you are willing to go, and then you are stuck. Caleb grabs both plates, holding them out to you.

"...Food?" You growling stomach replies for you. You nudge open the door.

----

Your chopsticks are placed gently onto your emptied plate. As you ate in your-relatively, considering the day you've had-companionable silence Caleb has been careful to keep his tracking of your movements to the corner of his eye. For all of your staring you don't particularly enjoy the favor being returned. He takes the last bite from his own plate-his pace set to match yours-before stacking the dishware and utensils in the space between your bodies on your floor. A physical barrier providing you the distance you require to be open and honest. Caleb, once more, exercises his endless patience.

"...I'm mad at you." You finally say, knees hugged to your chest. And, yeah, he kind of figured.

"Aw man, really?" The frowning emoji is all but spoken aloud in his tone. You look at him, expression somewhere between glaring and baffled and he snorts. Maybe it isn't the time to play with you, but you just make so hard to help himself.

And maybe, secretly, there is a small part of him that thinks you deserve to be poked at, just a little, for scaring him.

"...You're the actual worst." Your head falls over your knees, face tucked in. He's grateful you don't see his mouth twitch downward, the furrow he quickly straightens out of his brow. He shuffles around the remains of supper over to you.

"Alright, alright. 'm sorry for teasing..." He pets your head, smoothing your hair as he goes. "...do you wanna tell me what happened?" You tense and his hand freezes, afraid to have re-triggered whatever part of you didn't want him touching you earlier, but you are quick to relax again. He moves his hand to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing a heart over the peak of your arm before stilling. He should tell you that you don't have to talk about it, if you aren't ready. But he doesn't want to, can't bring himself to.

Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"...they don't like me." You whisper, a choked little sound immediately following. Tears still left to shed, it'd seem. He puts an arm around you, hugs you into his side as best as he's able with you all folded over yourself.

"Who doesn't like you?"

You mumble something into your knees.

"Huh?" He leans into you, cheek resting on your shoulder.

"The girls in my class."

"...your friends? Or other girls?" Your head lifts with an annoyed huff. Like the problem is him being slow and not you being extremely cryptic.

"They aren't my friends and its your fault." He turns his head to meet your eyes, face twisted in confusion. You're glaring, again.

"My fault? What did I do?" He'd only even seen the girl's on maybe three occasions, crossed paths while seeing you off or meeting at the door on your return home. And he'd been polite even though, if he's being honest with himself, he kind of wished they'd never shown up.

You shake your head. "It's not what you did it's what I said I wouldn't do." You turn your head away from him, gaze dropping to your fingers drawing shapes into the floor.

His jaw drops. "Okay. Pip. You've lost me." You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and shove yourself out of his hold. There's no real aggression behind it, not like earlier, but he allows it all the same.

He thinks he might still get yelled at.

...Or, he would think that, if you didn't look so shy.

You've turned to sit facing away from him now. He leans back and watches you with a tilt of his head. You take another deep, steadying breath before your hand shoots out to rip the comforter off of your bed, huddling yourself under it completely. He blinks, and, afforded the security of you being unable to see his face, grins a little.

Silly girl.

"Uh oh. My pip-squeak got swallowed by a blanket monster. Now I'm gonna have to eat all the cookies and chips in the house by myself." He nudges a lump of covered extremity with his foot.

"Caleb..." You groan, muffled by the thick, downy barrier between you and the world.

"Pip!" He replies, with all of the enthusiasm of a guy who would really like to know what's going on.

There's no further groaning or sighing or huffing from you. Just quiet. You're sat so still for so long that he's almost worried you fell asleep sitting up. He opens his mouth just as you finally speak up.

"They were only being nice to me 'cause they wanted me to introduce them to you. 'Cause they thought you were cute." He hears you, even through the muffle and your keeping your voice intentionally low. His lips purse. "They asked me to, while we were hanging out today. Got mad when I said no." He stares at the blanket pile that makes up your body. "They said... a bunch of mean stuff about me over it... I forgot most of it already. One of 'em threw her juice at me, and they laughed when I started crying about it." Your hand reaches out from the wadded comforter, pointing at your discarded shirt on the floor, the front stained pink. He worries himself over not having noticed, and as if you can hear his thoughts you continue. "...I turned it backwards before I came in, so my jacket would cover it. I don't know. It's embarrassing."

It's silent. In the wake of your confession. You stewing in your mortification, and Caleb trying to get to somewhere more useful than really angry at a collective of little girls.

As usual, he grounds himself by focusing on the most important thing he can do, taking care of you.

"...Does the blanket monster have room in its stomach for one more?"

You contemplate it, for a moment. Caleb is already gripping at a corner of the comforter, waiting for your permission to move in.

"...yeah... I guess."

He lifts the comforter, slides underneath, and places himself in front of you. The limited space leaves your noses all but touching. Your gaze is on your lap, where your hands sit, you're picking at the skin of one of them. Caleb keeps one arm raised above you both, providing what little structure he can to your makeshift tent. The other, he uses to swat at yours. "Hey, don't do that..." He takes your hand in his to stop you, to steady you, an anchor.

"If they got to hang out with you for a month and they still don't like you then they don't deserve you. And frankly, I think they should have their brains scanned, something is clearly misfiring." It's dark under the covers, but even still he can see you trying to fight down a smile. He smiles too, no fight at all. "And if they don't like you, I don't like them." You start to giggle and his grin widens. He doesn't tell you that he didn't like them regardless. That he is, in some part, relieved that the last few miserable weeks of Thursdays are finally over. "You can tell them I said that. Or I can, next week. When I pick you up." Silence falls. His smile slowly falling with it.

"I still... want to walk home by myself. After Taekwondo." To his great misfortune, you choose now to look directly at him. Leaving him to hope desperately that the relative darkness, covers him trying to school his expression.

"...how come?" He asks, quiet and making great efforts to suppress a whine. "I'm gonna be 13 soon. And I have to... I want to... be able to do some things by myself."

'She's at that age...'

He had been doing so well, not thinking about his conversation with Josephine.

'She's growing up, Caleb.'

'There are things she'll want to work out on her own.'

'Be a good brother.'

He doesn't know how.

He doesn't want to.

He wants to tell you no and to walk you home and to tell those little brats from your class to fuck off and-

"...alright."

You perk up, surprise clear on your face. "really?"

"I have conditions." He looks at you seriously. You nod, a single, strong movement of your head. He raises his hand to count. "One, you get a 30 minute window after class time to make it home. Two, if those girls say or do anything else to you you have to tell me. Right away, no exceptions. Three, if it rains or snows I will come to get you. You don't leave the dojang alone when the weather is bad." He lowers his hand. "If you agree to the terms, your request is accepted."

"...what happens if I don't come home in 30 minutes?" Your smiling when you say it. He scoffs, you must be feeling better if your already feeling mischievous.

"Well, pips its seems that the obvious outcome is that I would come find you. And you'd lose your privileges. Indefinitely."

"What? That's not fair? What if its super windy and I-"

"Clause 3."

"Well fine, no weather but what if I wanted to-"

"Clause 1 Pip, come on."

"You are such a meanie!" Your pounding at his chest with your little fists, but your both laughing, and there's no venom behind it. "Fine, whatever. I accept your stupid terms." You hold your hand out to shake his. The verbal contract warranting seriousness, a real seal. He rolls his eyes like he isn't the one that started it and gives your hand a firm shake. Neither of you bothers to let go.

For a moment you just sit there, quiet under the comforter together. A somberness falls over him, a resignation.

Being a good brother... kind of sucks.

He doesn't know where the thought comes from, what part of it is difficult to swallow, but regardless he shakes it off. Pulls up the roots before they can dig deeper into him. Josephine was right about everything else. Whether he liked it or not, she was probably right about this too. All he wanted was to be what you need. If this is what you need, he can be it. He'll be happy to. He won't ask for anything else.

Actually, that's a lie.

"One more thing." When he turns his eyes back to you he catches that you've been staring, a familiar warmth washes over him.

"Hm?" You tilt your head. He makes sure you intend to hold his gaze before speaking, a finger brushing your cheek affectionately.

"Next time you're mad at me, don't run away. Don't hide from me when you're upset." He tucks an errant strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't care if you throw things, or hit me, or yell. Just let me..." Fix it. "...just let me help."

You look him over, he doesn't know what for, what to show you, just hopes you find it. Whatever you need, whatever you want. He'd give you anything. You extend your pinky to him. "Promise?" A question. Another contract. More serious, even, than the last.

He locks his with yours, mouth lowering to rest on his hand. "Yeah. Promise."

...

This fic did everything but take me out back and shoot me I swear. I estimated this concept to run me a clean 2.5k words. Brother. It has been a long week. Will be crossposting on AO3 hopefully tomorrow. (And checking for spelling and grammatical errors... listen I just needed to be FREED OF THIS.) But for now, thats all I've got. love ya <3

#love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lads caleb x reader #calebmc #caleb x mc

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mountquokka · 1 day ago

Text

100 follower special: You can’t go up

Woosan X fem!reader

Word count: 3,883

Warnings: Co-CEO husbands woosan, dom San, switch Wooyoung, sub reader, jealous receptionist, threesome, mxm, oral (f and m receiving), degradation (slut, cockslut), nicknames (princess, baby, babyboy, love), daddy kink, sir kink, spit roasting, sucking cum off fingers, dirty talk, swallowing/cum eating, face riding, mentions of double penetration, woo getting fucked from both sides at once, woo gets needy and desperate, face fucking, choking, begging, facial, some hair pulling, let me know if I missed any

Summary: What will happen when you get denied entry for the way you dress to visit your husbands and they show you how wrong she was?

Notes: I keep switching between Woo and Wooyoung because I kept getting lazy to type out his name 😭 Also definitely the longest fic I’ve ever written so far🤭

Taglist <3: @hongjoongtime117 @lee-sang1625 @wontini

You had walked into your husbands' company excited to surprise them. You decide to be comfortable and wear San’s hoodie and the sweatpants Wooyoung loves much. You walk up to the front desk wondering why the normal receptionist wasn't there. Then you remember that she had recently had a baby and was on maternity leave. You walk to the desk and noticed the new receptionist side eye you. You ignore it and continue what you were doing.

"Hi I'm Y/n and I'm here to see San and Wooyoung" the receptionist scoffs and replies "do you have an appointment?" "no I don't, I usu-"

"Then I'm sorry, you can't go up. MR. Choi and MR. Jung only take appointments. You see they are very busy men" You were caught off guard by her response and tried to explain. "I know they only take appointments but they know me and Nayoung knows and just lets me up."

"Yeah sure. I totally believe that they know you. There's no way such successful men like them would know someone like you" "what do you mean someone like me?" The receptionist laughs "oh honey have you looked at yourself? You’re in a business dressed like that? No one would ever take you seriously"

You started getting annoyed with her attitude and responded "you aren't understanding, I'm with them." There was a slight pause. Then she starts laughing harder. "YOU?! With them?! That's fucking hilarious. Like they would ever be with a bum like you. They would want someone more sophisticated, like me" you were beyond pissed now. Not only did she just insult you, she said she'd be a better fit for them. You walk away from the desk and pull out your phone. You open your group chat with the guys and send a message:

You: can one of you come down to get me from the lobby? The receptionist won't let me up😒 Woo🖤🐈‍⬛: oh you’re here?🤩 Woo🖤🐈‍⬛: wait why not?🤨 You: yeah I was trying to surprise you You: because "I don't have an appointment" and some other shit I'll talk about when we get back up to your office San⛰️💜: I'll come get you princess You: thank you Sannie 😘 San⛰️💜: of course ❤️

You walk back to the desk and smirk at the receptionist. She gave a stank face and asked "what are you smiling about?" "about how fucked you are" Her face changed to one of confusion "what are you taking ab-" Before she could finish her question, the elevator dinged and San walked out. He was dressed in his signature black suit, looking as sexy as ever.

"So what's going on here? Why won't you let her up?" the receptionist heard the slight aggressiveness in his voice and tries to answer innocently "because she doesn't have an appointment sir, I was told not to let anyone up if they don't have an appointment." she tried to give some sort of puppy dog face to get him to not be mad at her. "She doesn't need an appointment and I would like you to make note of that from now on. Am I clear?" San declares completely ignoring her pouty face. The receptionist was completely shock and you smile at the look. "But sir- " "AM I clear?" he asks more sternly. She nods and glares back at you. You go over to San and grab his hand and he interlocks your fingers together. You turn around to see the look on her face and it was exactly what you expected. Complete disbelief. You chuckle and turn back towards the elevator. Of course you reach up to kiss San on the cheek before going in to really piss her off.

When you got to their office on the top floor of the building, you go over to Wooyoung and give him a kiss on the cheek. "So what happened?"

You take your seat on Wooyoung’s lap and start explaining. "so basically she said I can't go up cause I don't have an appointment AND that I didn't belong because of how I was dressed. I tried to explain that I'm with you two and she just laughed at me saying that successful men like you wouldn't be with ‘someone like me’”

San was pissed at what he was hearing and goes to his phone on his desk. "Sannie what are you doing?" you asked. He didn't answer and dialed a number. “hey Yuri? Can you pull out the list of hires for the temporary receptionist position… No you can hold them I'll come pick it up... Thank you" he hangs up the phone. "That bitch is gone" "that was kinda hot " Woo say chuckling, while playfully biting his lip. "San did you just?” he nods "no one talks to our wife that way and gets away with it"

You go over to him and gives him a kiss. You pull away and smile lovingly at him. "Thank you Sannie. I love you." He smiles and kisses her forehead "I love you too Princess” Their moment was interrupted by a throat clearing. "And I love you Woo" He smiles and replies "I love you too baby" you go back over to him and take your spot on his lap and kiss him as well so he's not left out.

You make yourself comfortable while the men work. You just casually play on your phone with Wooyoung occasionally kissing your cheek and forehead. Then the words popped into your head that the receptionist said to you.

"They would want someone more sophisticated, like me"

You then got a major wave of possessiveness and cuddle closer to Wooyoung. You bury your face into his neck and start giving light kisses. Wooyoung noticed your change in behavior but didn't say anything and let it happen.

The subtle kisses started to turn to kisses, bites and licks. Wooyoung started to let out quiet groans but tried his best to ignore and keep working. Until you full on bite his neck; knowing he's weak to bites. "Fuck" Wooyoung groans "baby I'm trying to work, can't you wait just a little longer? It's almost lunch." You get off his lap and move to straddle his thighs. You look at him with big doe eyes and a pout "please sir? I want you"

Wooyoung groans at your little begs and really tries to refuse but you just look so cute he can't say no. "Fine baby. But only for a little bit I really need to finish this report" Wooyoung moves his chair away from his desk and squeezes your ass. "Did you wear these just for me?" you nod. He smirks and continues to squeeze them. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. The kiss quickly deepens and you both let out soft groans into each others mouth.

Wooyoung pulls away from your lips and starts kissing down your jaw and to your neck. You let out soft whines as he leaves a trail of kisses. He removes a hand from your ass and slides it up underneath the hoodie and squeezes your breast and plays with your nipple. He hums as you moan softly at the action and switches to the other. Then he slides his hand down into your sweatpants and make direct contact with your dripping wet core. "No bra or panties? So bold of you. You naughty little slut” you moan a little louder at his words as he starts moving his fingers against your slippery folds. "Please Woo I want your fingers. Please?” "what's my name baby?" he asked as he starts to rub your bundle of nerves. "Fuck please sir" he smirks and takes one of his fingers and slowly pushes it into your heat. You slowly start grinding against the finger and let out little whimpers. Wooyoung watches you fuck yourself against his finger with darkening lust filled eyes, slowly adding a second finger. You moan a little too loud and Wooyoung grabs your throat pulling you to his lips in a sloppy kiss "you have to stay quiet baby or do you want the whole floor to hear how much of a slut you are for me?" “Fuck I'm sorry sir. it just feels so good" he bites his lip as you move your hips faster.

San is fully aware of what's going on. But he has such good self control, he keeps working, even though he's twitching constantly due to all the sounds happening right next to him. He tries to subtly adjust his pants but it doesn't go unnoticed by Wooyoung. "Do you want to join Sannie? That looks a little painful" "you know I can't… as much as I really want to." Wooyoung starts thrusting his fingers faster them pulls them out of you causing you to whine from the emptiness.

"Oh come on Sannie, just look how much she's dripping for us” he knows he shouldn't look because he'd give in but he does anyway. He instantly groans at Wooyoung's glistening fingers, all self control gone. He goes over to Wooyoung’s chair and pulls the fingers into his mouth, sucking off your arousal. You whine at the action in front of you.

“Fuck, you know I can never pass up a chance to taste our princess” His eyes are filled with lust as he grabs you by your throat and pulls you into a desperate kiss. Wooyoung continues to squeeze your ass and play with your nipples causing you to moan against San’s mouth. You both pull away to catch your breath. “Please daddy, sir please?” “Please what princess?” San asks stroking your cheek gently with his thumb. You whine “I want you both” Both of the guys smirk at your response. San pulls you off Wooyoung’s lap and turn you so your back is to his chest. He moves your legs to hang over Woo’s and gets onto his knees. He starts pulling your sweatpants off “It’s a good thing you’re here baby. It’s lunchtime and I seem to have forgotten my lunch today. You wouldn’t want your poor Sannie to be hungry now would you?” You shake your head and bite your lip. He smirks and lowers his head to your dripping core. You moan at the contact and your hands instantly goes to his hair. Wooyoung leaves kisses and bites on your neck as his hands go up and down your body. He removes your hoodie, leaving you completely naked in their presence. He plays with your nipples before going to your clit.

You whine at the stimulation arching your back off wooyoung’s chest. "does Daddy's tongue feel good baby?" San groans at Wooyoung calling him daddy "y-yes it feel s-so good. Fuck~" he smirks and rubs your clit faster. You almost scream as you get closer to your high. “I'm so close. Fuck~" Wooyoung looks down over your shoulder at San who is looking back at him and subtly nods. "cum for us baby. Drown Sannie in you sweetness" you moan at his words and release into san’s mouth. San lapped up everything and pulls away, face glistening. Wooyoung takes the fingers that was rubbing your clit and sucks off your arousal groaning at the taste. You whimper as you come down from your high.

San gets up from the floor and goes to Wooyoung. He pulls him into a deep passionate kiss, groaning into each other's mouth as they savor your taste on San's tongue. After completely coming down from your high, you take in the scene going on next to you and whine. You reach to both of their prominent bulges in their suit pants and palm at them. They both groan in each other’s mouths and pull away from the kiss, a string of saliva still connecting their lips together. "someone's really needy today, aren't you princess?" you whimper and continue to palm at their twitching lengths. "please. I wanna feel you both”

San moves to the side and Woo taps your thigh for you to get up. You land on the ground on shaky legs. San held you against him so you don’t fall. Woo stands and stretches before going to the couch in the opposite corner of the office space. He makes himself comfortable leaning up against the arm of the couch. He starts to unbuckle his belt and you whine at the bulge in his suit pants, barely being contained behind the zipper.

San carries you over to the couch and places you between Woo’s legs. You paw and the waistband of his pants, waiting for him to keep going. Woo smirks at you and slowly undoes his button. You start to get impatient and decide to take matters into your own hands. You make yourself level with his constrained member and start mouthing at it over his pants. Woo’s eyes widen and groans at the feeling. He tries to push your head away but it felt so good finally getting attention that he just lets it happen. But San wasn’t having it.

He pulls you away by your hair and Woo whines at the loss of your warm mouth. “Relax, you’ll have cock in you soon. Be patient” He lets go of your hair and Woo pulls his pants down to finally release his member and your mouth waters. The tip glistening with precum just asking to be devoured. You decide to not waste anymore time and take it into your mouth. Both you and Wooyoung moaning in unison. You take him in inch by inch until your nose hit his pelvic bone. Woo reveling in the long awaited feeling of your deliciously warm mouth.

San watches as you take Wooyoung deep in your throat. He grinds his boxer covered member against your ass. “My needy babies” he moans as his grinds turn into soft thrust, imagining you gripping his cock. As they started to speed up, you beginning to meet his thrust. “You want it princess?” You moan around Woo’s member and release with a pop. “Please daddy, please fuck me” San slaps your ass as he pulls down his boxers. He glides his throbbing cock against you, the tip grazing your sensitive clit. You whine again against Woo and he moans at the vibration.

San lines himself up and slowly pushes in. He groans at how tight you are, despite taking them both just last night. He starts off slow with his thrust, savoring in the warmth. He feels you clench as you gag on Woo’s dick and starts to speed up his thrusts. He continues to thrust into you as you keeping choking and gagging on Wooyoung. “Fuck~ I’m gonna cum keep going baby” Woo groans as the tightness in his lower stomach was close to snapping. San speeds up to an inhumane speed causing you to take Wooyoung deep in your throat as he releases with a whiny groan. You don’t hesitate to swallow all of it.

The sound Woo makes, along with the sound of you dripping core, push San over the edge. He cums deep into you causing you to cum as well. Milking his cock with every clench of your spasming pussy. “Your pussy feels amazing as always princess” you moan at the dirty praise. San pulls you up so your back meets his chest and kisses you. His tongue entering your mouth, tasting the remnants of Wooyoung’s cum. “You should saved some cum for me. Greedy girl.”

Your make out session was once again interrupted but this time by a whine. Both you and San look at Wooyoung, catching your breaths. “I’m still here too” San chuckles at his pouty husband. “Aww does my babyboy feel left out? Hm?” Wooyoung blushes at the nickname and pout “maybe I do” “come here love”

You and Wooyoung switch places so that he’s in front of San. San takes his chin in between his thumb and index finger and pulls him into a passionate kiss. San licks his bottom lip, asking for entrance which Woo immediately accepts.

They pull away after a while to catch their breath. “Why don’t you clean princess’s juices off my dick” Woo wastes no time getting on his knees on the floor in front of the couch. San sits on the couch and Wooyoung takes his place between his open legs. He admired San's glistening cock and licks his lips. He licks a strip up from his balls to the tip, moaning at the taste of your sweet juices.

He takes San deep into his throat, rolling his eyes back as he gags. “Good boy. You like being daddy’s little cockslut don’t you” Woo pulls off his dick with a pop and looks at him with lustful eyes. “Yes, yes I love it so much daddy, please fuck my face” San grabs Woo by his hair and pushes him back onto his cock. He moans feeling the tightness of Woo’s throat around his tip. San starts his thrusts slow then picks up knowing he can take it. Nothing could be heard except for gags and groans from the two men.

The guys stop for a moment when they hear little whines coming from the side of them. They look over at you, you’re slowly rubbing your swollen clit as your cum filled hole leaks out San's cum. They both groan at the sight. Woo gets up from the floor and back onto the couch. “Sit on my face baby. We can’t let that delicious cum go to waste”

You take your place, hovering over Woo’s face on shaky legs. He pulls you down, your pussy making direct contact with his tongue. He wastes no time sticking his tongue inside and licking out the cum San left behind.

As Woo shows you no mercy, San settles between his legs and takes a freshly lubed fingers and teases Woo’s hole. Wooyoung whimpers into your pussy as he slides 2 fingers into him. He stretches him open as Woo continues to eat you out. When San deemed him stretched enough, he lines himself up and thrust into him all at once, know he loves the pain.

Your moans start to get louder and San pulls you into a kiss to quiet you down. He pulls away and wraps his hand around your neck. “Didn’t Woo tell you to be quiet? If you do that again, I'm telling Woo to stop and I know you both don’t want that.” “Fuck~ no please I’m sorry~! His tongue feels so fucking good please don’t make him stop” He hums at your begs and tightens his grip on your throat “Then shut the fuck up and take it” He pulls you back into a kiss as he speeds up his thrusts into Wooyoung. The office was filled with the sounds of slurping from Wooyoung’s mouth and San’s balls hitting Woo’s ass.

“I’m s-s-so close!” You whine and Woo suddenly stops right before you could reach your peak. You whimper as your high starts to fade. “No no why’d you stop” Woo moves you from his face, panting “I want to feel you cum on my cock. Please baby? I wanna feel you clench me as you cum” you moan at the thought and move off the couch, barely keeping balance. San pulls out briefly so he can flip Woo onto his stomach. You lay on your back on the couch and Woo lines himself up to your pussy. He pushes in with no hesitation and starts thrusting slowly. San lines himself back up to Woo’s hole. Pushing him down so you’re both chest to chest as he begins to thrust into Woo, causing him to thrust into you. You both moan in unison, beginning to make out to keep each other quiet.

San's thrusts pick up, thrusting faster and harder. Woo’s cock hitting deeper into you, kissing your cervix. Both San and Wooyoung’s names leave your mouth at the wonderful pleasure you’re feeling right now. Woo’s own moans and whimpers leave his tongue as well, being in his favorite position. In between the two people he loves more than anything in the world.

“Aww does it feel good Woo? Does it feel good getting attention from both sides?” Wooyoung couldn’t even speak anymore, only whines so he nods instead. “Yeah? I know it feels good cause you’re clenching the fuck out of my dick right now. Mmm such a good boy. My good boy. I know you’re close to cumming, cum for me babyboy.” Woo releases into you with a almost pornographic moan. San pulls out and Woo slows his thrusts starting to feel the overstimulation. “Don’t stop now love, our princess still has to cum” San explains as he slowly strokes himself.

Wooyoung whimpers as he continues to thrust into you, trying his best to fight the sensitivity. You whimper his name as you started to get close again, begging him to go faster. “Please sir I’m so close. Please go fas-” Wooyoung grabs you by your throat again and pounds into you at an inhumane speed. “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna-” “cum for us baby” you cum hard, Wooyoung following right behind you.

You lay there catching your breath as your highs die down. “You both were so good for me. I think I should give you a reward. On your knees now” you both immediately get to the floor, knowing what was coming (it’s San btw 🤭). He stands facing the both of you and strokes his leaking cock in your faces. You and Woo open your mouth and stick out your tongues with desperate looks, wordlessly asking for San’s cum. He groans as he releases onto both of your faces, some landing into your mouths and you both hum in satisfaction.

When San came down from his high, Wooyoung was the first to start licking your face clean of the sticky liquid. You return the favor. Then Wooyoung pulls you into a kiss passing the cum back and forth between your mouths. “Alright that’s enough. I don’t have energy for another round. Not when I haven’t had food.” San chuckles at his lovers.

You all get cleaned up and back into your clothes. San grabs the folder with the list of potential temporary receptionists and you all head down to the lobby. You walk up to the desk, shit eating grin on your face and your husband right behind you.

“Time to pack up your stuff bitch. You’re done.” The look of shock on her face at your words was priceless. “You both are just going to let her say that to me?” They both shrugged with emotionless faces. “I’d just do what she says, before we have security escort you out.” Wooyoung said sternly. “This is bullshit, I fucking quit” “well you were getting fired anyway so that makes my life easier” San said unamused. She then storms off after grabbing her stuff.

“Ok can we go get food now? I actually did forget my lunch at home and I’d like to eat it” both you and Wooyoung laugh at Sans’s pouty face.

“Ok Sannie let’s go get you some food”

#atz fanfic #atz smut #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez smut #ateez san #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez wooyoung #ateez woosan #woosan #wooyoung #choi san #kpop fanfic #atz

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kyri45 · 3 days ago

Note

Is it q&a time?

It's q&a time, it is.

✨SBP: Second Star Q&A! 22/04✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If it’s not answered here, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@dezzyboo ha chiesto: Hi kryi I wanted to ask. In the new part when Mac got upset was that because potentially doing the ritual it had weakend him and so when tang spoke it hurt his ear or did he get upset because he could tell the ritual failed

because the ritual failed.

@elle-the-fan1 ha chiesto: okay. Here is me guessing the stone egg name and gender. If it’s a girl her name has to be Yuebei Xing. If it’s a boy it could be Wei-Chen or Pāramitā, (Depending if you wanna go either Journey To The South or American Born Chinese) HOWEVER!! ….If it’s twins there names could be either Jidu and Luohou or the more popular Rumble and Savage. If it’s triplets, it would be Yuebei Xing, Luohou, and Jidu…..any of the ways work. For me anyways.

good guess to all of them except for Rumble and Savage, who are shadow clones in the AU and already made an appearance .

@goldenunicornmaster ha chiesto: Love the update! I love that everyone is getting involved contributing energy to the new egg. Really shows how big the monkies’ family is. Neither are alone anymore. Sandy tearing up really got me, he’s so sweet and he’s gonna be a great uncle. Also Red! I see you! Definitely getting some ideas of a potential kid ideas with MK in the future. I see you ya aren’t slick.

Oh yes, Red is totally thinking of that (but they are too young to even marry, so yeah)

@pan999flo ha chiesto: Ever considered of drawing Ao Bing once? I thought about him because I always see how cool you draw Nezha etc.

Thank you! Maybe in the future, I liked the movie.

@autism-autobot ha chiesto: We've seen how Macaque acts when he's injured and Wukong's response to that, but what would happen if the roles were reversed? Wukong is injured and behaves a certain way because of it, and Macaque reacts to it.

Wukong would be a drama queen about it for the attention. Mac would be both annoyed for that and angry bc he got himself hurt.

@injuvanillafruit ha chiesto: Hey Kyri 👋, Can you share with us your shadowpeach headcannons. The past and present ones to be exact.

I'll give u just 2 cause I'm too tired and I aint got the time:

Past-> The 2 of them had an almost co-dependency at some point, the ones that even when they argued they would come back to the other because they didn't had a healthy way to be able to solve their own issues by having me-time.

Present-> Macaque still goes almost everyday at his dojo, but Wukong sends one of his clones around midday to quickly check on him and give him kisses (although he gets jealous if the clone start to be too touchy.)

@shevijra ha chiesto: Will you ever draw a fankid for Red Son and MK? And maybe their parents (every single one) reaction to them, or to the news that MK is pregnant or smth. Love your art as always!

yes. once

@twilight-bai-he ha chiesto: Do lmk gang ( Mei, MK, Wukong, Macaque, Red son etc) get emotional when watching movies/TV shows ?

Mei not as always, MK literally everytime. Macaque is more composed and Wukong will try to hide it. Red Son once cried watching star wars: the return of the Jedi.

@chernobylcatfish09 ha chiesto: I’m currently reading your shadowpeach bio parent au for the first time bc it seems to be completed now (I may be wrong, I am pretty lackluster in the smarts department), absolutely delicious btw But question, this ain’t an important question this is just for for funzies: If wukong and macaque collected anything together, what would it be? (examples being like figures, different coin types, plushies, discs of something, anything like that)

I think Macaque is one of those who would collect dools. Or statues. While Wukong kids of collects every single kind of his own merch.

@yourlocalclown-emily ha chiesto: Fav Spicynoodles fics?🙏

I guess Happy and Provided For

@stinkyexhaust ha chiesto: Will Kai also inherit MK's monkey powers?

Some. Not all of them. Actually in terms of powers he's much more Red Son than MK.

@internet-grab-my-tumblr ha chiesto: Am I the only one who thinks it’d be really funny if while everyone is focused on the ShadowPeach baby drama, IronBull decided they also want another kid but don’t bother telling anyone and just…pop up in a few months like “hey we made one too” with no warning and everyone freaks out? And then the ShadowPeach baby gets a buddy to grow up with and Red Son is unexpectedly a big brother too …I may or may not have an IronBull OC I could turn into that theoretical baby lol

it would be so much in character of them bc I bet they went "oh our arch-enemies are having a kid? Then we will have one as well and it will be even MORE powerful than theirs and they shall battle once reached the adulthood!"

@drpepperlover545 ha chiesto: Question, if the baby is born will the celestial realm find out?

Eventually yes, they can't hide them forever.

@selein13 ha chiesto: So... how did wukong and macaque react to the courtnapping tie? Also, how long was Mei laughing at them before she was able to get enough composure back to untie them?

they untied them a couple of hours later. Mac already foresaw how it would have happened and Wukong just laughed and told his kid good job.

@pettrainer ha chiesto: Hi just lil curious will you do a spin off of a time-skip? Like thousand or a few hundreds in the future ( whatever you think is far enough ) of the monkey family. Like what’s going on in there live, who doing what, or if Mac/Wuk have baby # 4 or 5, lol I can see them having a big family, but of course if that’s how you want your story to go.

mmmmhhh probably not. Might write something instead.

@weaverpop ha chiesto: Would Nezha ever take over as Jade emperor? I mean, he IS the rightful heir bc he’s the grandkid of the previous Jade Emp.

he is WHAT?

@loverfella ha chiesto: Sooo what would happen if there was a scenario where Wukong gets jealous and what would he do? I've seen so much Macaque getting jealous I wanna know what would happen if Wukong was the one that got jealous. Same goes for Mk, what would happen if he saw someone flirting with Red Son (I ADORE YOUR ART OMG ITS SO GOOD AIEBEJDJWJSJ)

@quesocheeso made a lot of lovely shadowpeach comics featuring jealous Wukong.

@macaquethemoon ha chiesto: QUICKKKKKKK QUESTION who do you ship more with MK outside of the comic? Mei x mk Or Redson X MK Or chimera(forgot how to say it) Redson x MK x Mei ALSO IM SO INLOVE WITH YOUR ART STYLE AND COMIC LOVIES

red son x MK

@epicloversposts ha chiesto: Hiya just wanted to ask would Macaque ever use the secret knowledge of Wukongs and Mk's weakness against them if he ever catches them trying to over train themselves? Or would he just join them instead?

yes he would. (playfully of course)

@sugerstem ha chiesto: About the ShadowPeach Bio Parent AU, I didn’t see Ne Zha at the coronation, was he not invited or not allowed? My guess is that he wasn’t allowed or too busy but I think surely he would’ve gotten an invite (I say hopefully)

He was the person tlaking to Guanyin

@autism-autobot ha chiesto: How'd the honeymoon go? (Assuming shadowpeach had one)

They went to the othe side of FFM and made it every monkeys problem.

@anxiousbb-witch ha chiesto: Thank you Kyri for making this wonderful AU and for introducing me to LMK with it! It was a roller-coaster of emotions and I still blame you for every tear dropped and everytime I almost snapped my phone in half with your wonderful art and storytelling.

aww thank you!

@craftyphilosophercreator ha chiesto: Are we going to see Bai He and Mk interact anytime soon? I'm curious about their relationship with each other.

maybe, I haven't planned much yet

@amc-2-wild ha chiesto: So side question. Who did you get to voice act for the comic finale you posted on YouTube? Also, I absolutely loved your comic, enjoyed the ride and I can't wait to see what else you create (been following the ISAT AU some and everything you do is amazing thank you-)

@hyperwukong012 as Sun Wukong

Ender as Red Son

@sam-i-am-27 as Mei

@wee-dopey as MK and Macaque

@shevijra ha chiesto: Heya Kyri! Did you perhaps watched the latest Nezha? Even if not, does your AU has Ao Bing, Nezha's boyf- I MEAN- best friend? I'm curious what would happen if our celestial monkey, or/and Mei met Bing, what would happen? He is such a sweetheart, I bet he would be happy for Macaque and Wukong about *you know what* Anyway, I love your works, your sense of humor and your gayness. Be well, my friend!

Well, don't know why he would be happy actually but yeah i watched the movies. Glad you like my sense of humor ahah.

@nanayobiznes ha chiesto: can we perhaps see bai he's fit during the coronation? :]

uuuhhhhh I'm so sorry but unfortunately i really don't have the time to draw that as well rn.

#ask box #shadowpeach bio parents au #sbp second star

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drabbletron · 1 day ago

Note

Psst, 18 for Rumble? Is that possible? 👀

Bucking In The Bathroom: Rumble X Reader SMUT

|| It is very possible! This is my first time writting for him so hopefully its good. Barely edited and written on the clock lol! Enjoy! ||

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Rumble hasn't stopped moaning since you first put your mouth between his thighs. First came the licking to tease him, then the nibbling to get him to open up, now comes the best part where you can smush your face right into his pretty, periwinkle valve. The soft mesh like a pillow against your cheeks as you lap at his entrance, trying to shove your tongue as deep as it will go and then deeper still. He just tastes so good! Supple, wet, and irresistible!

Your hands come up to wrap around his massive thighs, keeping him right where you want him so he can't squirm away from you.

"Ah, slag, you don't let up do ya?! Ya like it that much?"

You hum, pressing deeper into him and using your thumb to run fierce circles over his anterior node as a response, making him grip the walls in the corner of the too small bathroom as he bucks helplessly into you. The ceramic tiles crack under his fists and his helm tosses back, knocking a few lose with a moan.

Outside the bathroom the bar goers hardly hear a thing over the pulsing music. No one knows if it's the singer in the song or the mech at your mercy wailing, and frankly you don't even care. His pretty lips are all yours for the taking and you lose yourself, eyes rolling, to his taste. If you werent drunk before, you'd consider yourself that now. Valve drunk as he overloads against your face with a call of your name.

Rumble's dizzy processor can't tell which way is up and which way is down as the graffitied bathroom spins in his optics. He knows he's finished, but the way you slurp against him, so very hungry, gives him the urge to take more.

"If ya like it so much, maybe you should keep at it?! Feels crazy like, like -- hell I dont even know, just keep doin' that!"

Amid his encouragement, Rumble's servo finds its way to the back of your head to jam you further into him. His grip is bruising, but his moans make it more than bearable. Then he falls forward to catch himself on the stall, metal bending under his grip, and you're dragged back onto your ass, off balance and drowning in his plush valve while he humps your face because he hasn't let go of your head.

"Jus' like that! That's it! 'M gonna overload --! 'M gonna--Agh, frag yeah!"

Hot transfluid spills from his valve down your chin and throat as his still thrusting hips smear it all over your face. You're certain to be a terrible mess after this encounter, but with the way Rumble looks, hunched like a wild animal above you and venting like it's going out of style, now's the time to admire and bask in what just transpired.

Through rough venting and heavy static, all he can utter is this: "Maybe next time I'll return the favor."

#maccadam #mtmte #transformers #transformers x reader #mtmte x reader #tf mtmte #valveplug #rumble x reader #tf rumble #tf rumble x reader

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weirdgenetic-fuckup · 3 days ago

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haiii can u write smth where youthanasia dave takes readers virginity and makes a sextape about it? 😪 can you.... please....... i beg...

A/n: not the same but I have an axl req that this reminds me of

Warnings: smut, losing virginity, sextape, fingering (f receiving), masturbation, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

You sat on the edge of his big bed, mattress dipping under your weight, while you watched Dave, your much older boyfriend, set up a camera on some sort of tripod.

His comforter was soft, not fluffy but soft, and definitely new. You looked over it, all black, and squeezed it in your hand. "Can you smile for the camera, love?" Dave asked, looking through the lens as he adjusted the angle.

You smiled, more at the name than the command, cheeks dusted a light shade of pink. "Is it ready yet?" You asked, shifting slightly. Since you started dating Dave a few months ago you knew he'd be the one to take your virginity, all your friends had lost theirs and you were just waiting for the right guy, Dave was definitely the right guy, you just never thought it would be in front of a camera.

Dave tilted the camera again before hitting a button and nodding. He stood up straighter and walked around the camera to you. He cupped your face in his big hands, making you look up at him; his eyes were dark and gently, yours were nervous. You weren't innocent by any means, Dave had definitely made sure of that, but you weren't experienced by any means, having only an idea of what was to come, what it would be like, and that didn't include the camera at all.

"It's just the one, right?" You asked. "And it stays here? The tape."

Dave nodded, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "Don't worry about it, darling, I wouldn't let anyone else look at you like this, it's just for me." He assured, caressing your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "The album is almost done, which means we'll be going on tour, which means I'll be needing something to get off to while I'm away." You couldn't help but suck your lip between your teeth, thighs pressing together at the thought of him getting off to a video of you.

"You're wearing that outfit I got you, right?" He asked, brushing some of your hair out of your face. You nodded, eyes starting to trail down his body which was currently blocking you from the view of the camera. "Why don't you show the camera, huh?"

He moved out of the way, your gaze followed him but turned to the blinking red light staring at you, waiting for you to do something. You stood up, starting with your shirt, then you shoes and socks, finally your pants, until you were left in the dainty little white matching set Dave had gifted to you a week prior. This was important to you, he knew that, so when you finally felt ready he wanted to make it memorable to you.

Dave eyed you closely, no shame in his gaze and where it fell. "Grab your chest, push it together for the camera." He said, making vague hand gestures. Your gaze flickered to him but you did it, he went behind the thing to make sure it looked good in the dim lighting he'd set up in the bedroom. "Good... that's a good girl," he said, the term making you feel a pulse in a much deeper place than normal, "now turn around, bend over the bed, let me see you." He continued, setting up behind the camera a little to watch.

Again you did as he asked, moving slowly, hesitantly. You laid your top half over the mattress, showing the little fabric between your legs, over your cunt that was already getting wet at Dave's voice, his little names for you.

"Pull your panties to the side." Dave said, one hand on the camera while the other went to his jeans, palming himself through the thick layer. Your fingers tugged at your panties, giving him and the camera a good view of you. "Now push a finger in." You had to look back at him at that, over your shoulder with your brows knit together. "Come on, you know how to do it, gotta get yourself prepped for me, darling, it's not gonna be easy fit." He said with a chuckle, his eyes just warm enough to hide the terribly filthy thoughts of you, ideas of what he'd do to you later.

You swallowed thickly, fixing your panties to the side before getting your hand between your legs and sliding a finger in, drawing a heavier breath from you. He didn't have to tell you how to touch yourself, you knew that part, pumping a finger in and out before adding another, soft moans starting to leave you as your curled your fingers to hit that one spot.

Dave's groans slipped into the room, his hand now fully in his jeans after he unzipped his fly and stroking his hardened cock through his boxers. "Darling, do you want some help with that?" He asked, waiting for you to look at him again.

Your brows raised. "Help?" You asked, Dave had fingered you on a few occasions, his fingers were thick and calloused, skilled from years on guitar. Most importantly, he loved making you feel good, more than just making you cum he wanted you moaning his name the whole way through because of his work. "Yes... Yes, I want help, Davie." You said, hand slipping from your heat.

Dave smiled and pulled his hand off of himself, quickly coming over to help you. He lifted you onto his lap, hooking your legs over his so the camera could see exactly how perfect you were. He ran his fingers through your folds, using his free arm to wrap around your midsection and hold you tight to his chest, his head on your shoulder. "Look at my pretty girl, so needy for me." He mused, pushing two fingers into you, drawing a sharp gasp from you. "Tell the camera who's pussy this is." He ordered, lips frisking the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning over the side of your face.

"It-it's yours, Davie." You said, his fingers pumping slowly in and out of you making it harder to speak, breathing getting heavier.

He sucked his teeth and pulled his fingers from your pussy, giving it a harsh smack, right on your clit. Your eyes shot open at the sting, body jolting. "No, tell the camera who you're giving your virginity to." He repeated, rubbing small circles onto your sensitive nub. "I'll want to hear you say it over and over again when I'm on tour, love, so say it." His words got harsher, but he could see you clenching around nothing so he didn't bother dialing it back for you.

"Giving it to daddy..." You said softly. "Belongs to daddy." Dave smiled, pushing his fingers back into you and resuming his ministrations a little faster.

"That's a start, you can do better than that though, can't you?" He asked, kissing down your neck.

You gave a small nod but he wasn't looking for an answer, just proof. "My-my pussy belongs to daddy, my virginity is daddy's to take... only daddy gets to make me cum." Dave groaned at your words and you could feel him twitching against you.

"That's my girl." He praised, moving his fingers faster, scissoring them in and out of you before adding a third. "You know just what to say, don't you? You're sure it's me taking your innocence?" He teased, knowing you wouldn't lie to him about this.

"M'sure, daddy." You breathed, one hand clawing at his jeans, looking for something to ground you while he was curling his fingers just right. Your other hand went to his hair, tugging on it gently but the action still made him groan.

Your moans started getting higher, louder. Dave knew you were getting closer and he didn't stop you, making you cum while he was still fully clothed was candy to him, he could get you off looking so desperate and he could walk out of that room almost like nothing happened, so long as no one caught him fixing his fly. Luckily you were in his house and no one was walking in on you anytime soon, but the camera's red light blinked at you while your eyes fluttered, Dave's fingers not changing a thing as you neared your released.

Dave gave you a squeeze as you came, getting you back for sucking his fingers in so deep as your eyes rolled back into your head. His gaze flickered between you and the camera, smiling to himself and he knew he'd be smiling as he watched the video later.

Your body melted as you came, moans settling down as Dave slowed his movements, letting you ride out your high without wanting to overstimulate you just yet. "Now-now it's your turn." You said, moving off his lap but Dave stopped you, holding your hips down.

"I don't need a turn, darling, my focus is on you tonight." He assured, kissing your cheek. "Let me focus on you tonight, you need it more than I do." You nodded, knowing there was no room to argue with him. Not that this was a bad deal for you, all his attention, affection, him being completely devoted to you for a night. "Just get up for a second, would you?" He asked, pecking your shoulder as he let go of your hips.

You managed to get to your feet but your legs were wobbly so Dave sat you back down next to him, wrapping an arm around you. He lifted his hips and got his pants and boxers off, kicking them somewhere else in the room with the rest of your clothes, his shirt following shortly behind, now he was more naked than you but he didn't plan on taking anything more off of you, he liked you like this.

He got up from the bed, you watched his cock just dangling there. You'd seen it before, taken it in your mouth while drool dribbled past your lips, had your hand wrapped around it while he bucked his hips up, soft whines leaving him as he ached for release. Now though, it just hung there, precum already beading at the slit, his tip all red but it faded out before his ginger bush which you refused to let him shave because you loved shoving your face in it.

He pulled out the drawer from the nightstand on his side of the bed and pulled out a box of condoms, already opened from his last relationships which were just groupies. He ripped one from the strip and opened it, checking for any holes before he did. He tossed the wrapper away and slid the blue thing on. "Do you really need that?" You asked, still just staring at his cock.

He thought for a moment before crawling onto the bed. "Not really, as far as I know I'm clean, but I'd rather get tested before risking it on you." He said, kissing your shoulder first and then meeting your lips.

You returned the kiss with fever, leaning into his touch as his hand came to your cheek. Dave stayed behind you, moving you centered to the camera while his kisses moved down your neck. “It’s a hard choice, you know.” He said, his hands moving down your sides to your hips. “I could watch your face now, but I want to savor it forever.”

You looked back at him, lips parted with heavy breaths. Your breathing had mostly calmed down since his hands between your legs, but his lips on your skin made you hot. “Savor it? Why?” You asked, brow raised curiously.

Dave smiled at you, turning your head back so he could kiss you. “You’re only a virgin once, darling, wanna make the most of it.” He explained, lips never going more than an inch from yours. “It’s going to feel good and I’m going to see it all over your face.” You bit your lip, his fingers were a lot already, and he wasn’t small by any means. Dave gave your ass a gentle pat and gave you one last kiss. “Don’t worry about it for now, ok? Just look pretty.” He said, kissing your shoulder again.

There was a strange sound and you looked back to see him stroking his cock, lining himself up with you before you felt him on your hot cunt. He held you against his chest, the little fuzz rubbing on your back, in his later years he started shaving less as a whole, especially with your love for his body hair.

“Here,” he started, wrapping an arm around you again, “hold onto me, be more comfortable.” Your hands found his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze as he pushed his throbbing cock against you, the tip just adding pressure to your clenching hole.

His cock slid into you, the lube of the condom mixing with your slick. He moved slowly, letting you adjust to him as he went but you were already halfway to stupid as he stretched you out, effortlessly hitting every spot. Dave bit back groans at how tight you were, it didn’t help that your gummy walls were sucking him in deeper. His hips bucked, the last inch or two snapping into you.

Dave waited a moment for you to adjust to him, he waited for a sign but you were silent. When he finally turned y0ur head to make him look at you he saw the tears pricking your eyes and was quick to bring a hand to your face, swiping his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, my sweet girl, can’t take it?” He asked, voice not nearly as teasing as it could be.

You inhaled shakily, grip on his arm tightening. “Please, daddy… feels so good.” You mumbled, much to Dave’s amusement.

“Really?” He asked, pecking your cheek. “Come one, tell me what you want.” You whined, he just laughed deep in his chest.

“Move… I-I want you to fuck me.” Dave didn’t need to be told twice, immediately pulling his hips back and rocking them forward. He went slow at first, listening to your moans as they filtered past your lips with a needy desperation to cum even when he’d just started.

Gradually his pace increased, finding a good rhythm that had the room filling with your loud moans and skin on skin. “Look at yourself.” He said through grunts. “See that little bump?” He asked, letting your gaze fall to your stomach you saw the bulge formed from his cock. “Look at how deep you’re taking me, how much you love this.” He moved a hand to your stomach, pressing lightly on it so you could really feel it. “You love this.” He repeated.

You nodded and looked to the camera, feeling its beating red gaze on you again. It didn’t feel judgemental or harsh, it was different now. Your legs slid further apart, Dave hit impossibly deeper in your cunt and it made you gasp, eyes widening. He made a point to hit that same spot over and over while your moans got louder. “Oh! Fuck, daddy, please! I-I can’t- I can’t take it, please!”

Dave groaned, the sound falling right into your ear as his head rested on your shoulder, body pressed completely against you. “Yes, you can, you’re doing so good, taking all of me, everything I give you.” He praised, kissing that sensitive spot on your neck. “You can take it, my love.” You whined but his names for you always made your knees weak, and he knew it.

Your whines got more desperate, your nails digging into his arm and pulling on his hair. He pulled out of you, only making you whine louder, cunt clenching around nothing, the sudden loss finally snapping the dam that held back your tears. Dave let you crumble onto the bed, laying on your stomach in front of him.

He hovered above you, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. “Roll over for me, dear.” You sniffled, looking at him over your shoulder before doing as he requested and rolling onto your back, his arms keeping you caged under him.

He smiled down at you, a hand cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away the few tears that escaped. “You’re so beautiful.” He mused, kissing away the tears on your other cheek. “This’ll be better, alright?” His hard on was heavy on your stomach, a visual for just how deep he truly had been in you. He sat back, taking his hand from your cheek to take your hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, the other hand went to fix himself with you, allowing him to push in again.

Again he went slow but didn’t bother waiting this time. He moved much slowly this time, not at an agonizing pace, more sweet and tender, a little snap to his thrusts. His gaze stayed glued to your face, looking for any sign of discomfort but all he saw was lust, the flutter of your eyes as that knot got built right back up much faster than it had before. “This is better, isn’t it?” He asked, bringing your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

You nodded, moans flowing with your breathing. “Better.” You said.

“Just wanted to see my face, didn’t you?” He asked, moving a little faster now but still not what he was doing before. “What a sweet girl, loves her daddy so much.” He still held your hand but with his free one he held your hip, thumb stretching to rub your clit, tilting your head back with louder, airy moans.

Your own free hand reached for his, holding his wrist but not stopping him from touching you. “Daddy, I-I’m gonna- hah~” You could barely get the words out before being cut off with more moans.

Dave shushed you. “I know, love, I know, just feel good, don’t worry about talking, alright?” He said, pulling you up to sit in his lap, rocking his hips up. His arms wrapped around you, holding you while he fucked you nice and slow, passionate and deep, your moans filtering right into his ears as they got louder and higher, your gummy walls squeezing him tighter until you finally came around him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding yourself tight to him as pleasure wracked your body. Dave kissed between your neck and shoulder, his movements becoming jerkier while he tried his hardest to muffle his grunts. “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry.” He said, letting you fall back onto the mattress again. “Just look at the camera.” He said, lifting your hips a bit as his thrusts became harsher, your eyes widening as he pounded into you. “Just look at the camera.” He didn’t hold back his groans anymore, how good he felt while splitting you in two.

#megadeth x you #megadeth angst #megadeth rp #megadeth x reader #megadeth smut #megadeth imagines #megadeth fanfiction #megadeath #megadeth #dave mustaine x you #dave mustaine x reader #dave mustaine smut #dave mustaine imagines #dave mustaine rp #dave mustaine fanfiction #dave titstaine #dave mustaine #dave mustaine fluff

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