#do NOT get used to all these updates happening

[32timeparadox23]

As per OP's prev tags asking for a guide to installing Revanced, I'm here to step up to the plate as someone who had an absolute bitch of a time getting it set up the first time (due to what I'll call Guide Confusion) and would like to make it easy for anyone looking to get it! So...

Welcome to Katie's Impromptu and Exhaustive Beginner's Guide to Getting Revanced (with pictures!)

(Not kidding about exhaustive btw, this got long. Brevity? Never met her)

Step 0: Preparations and Beginner Tips

So, there is a guide on Reddit, but I'm still going to write out my own version with some more explanations of the steps involved.

For example, the Reddit guide lists turning off Google Play Protect as a necessary step before doing anything else. On my phone that wasn't required, and I was able to bypass all the 'Warning! This Application May Contain Harmful Content' warnings the installs threw at me without trouble. Your phone might work like mine, or it might not let you download non-Store apps at all if Play Protect isn't disabled, and if that's the case then all you need to do to turn it off is:

1. Open the Play Store app

2. Go to your profile picture in the upper right corner

3. Find the option labeled Play Protect

4. Go to the gear icon in the upper right corner

5. There should be an option to turn off scanning apps with Play Protect

With that, Play Protect will be deactivated. With that, I'd also like to take a quick sidebar to issue a piece of beginner advice:

Downloading non-Play Store apps is generally going to give you a scary warning about how the contents could be harmful to your device. This is at least in part to discourage you from downloading anything not approved for the app store (i.e. anything they can't/won't monetize and take a cut from) but it's not an entirely empty threat. You don't ever want to be downloading and installing things onto your phone if you don't trust the source. All the links I'll be providing in this guide are ones I've personally used to get Revanced and have had no issues with, so you can do what I did and ignore the warnings on these.

As for Revanced specifically, you don't ever want to download something that isn't specifically from the official developers of Revanced or its predecessor Vanced (RIP). The links will be on the official Revanced github and apkmirror. If you find a Revanced download somewhere else, it's wise to be skeptical, especially since Revanced isn't just one download.

But before I get into that, there're two more preparation steps listed in the Reddit guide.

The second step listed is allowing unknown downloads in your browser. This I can't say anything about, since the option to allow/disallow this doesn't appear to exist on my phone. If you need to do this, my best guess would be to go to your browser settings and look around in the Downloads tab, but if you can't find it and can't download anything in this guide, I'd search something like 'allow unknown downloads for [your phone's make and model]' to see if anyone else has the same problem.

The third and final piece of preparation, however, IS entirely necessary and required: disable or uninstall your YouTube app. The reason for this is that modded apps like Revanced work on a slightly older version of the app than is up to date. You'll be downloading a YouTube APK for this — basically a copy of YouTube that can still connect to YouTube's servers. This is also the reason Revanced randomly breaks sometimes; as YouTube constantly updates, it stops supporting older versions, and eventually the version you have Revanced with will get cut from the list and it won't be able to access YouTube's servers anymore. This takes several months to happen though, so don't worry, you won't be needing to download and patch a new YT APK every other week or anything.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Deleting YouTube is the best play in my opinion, since it gets it out of the way and you can always redownload it through the Play Store if needed. If you'd rather disable it, though, you can do that by:

1. Go into your phone settings

2. Select Apps

3. Select All Apps

4. Zoom to the bottom to get to YouTube, open it

5. Disable it

Once you have YouTube uninstalled or disabled, it's time to move on to the non-prep steps.

Step 1: Download Vanced MicroG

You might be wondering why that says Vanced and not Revanced. This is because Revanced is the successor to the original YouTube Vanced project, which did all the same stuff but unfortunately flew too close to the sun and started selling NFTs, which allowed YouTube to slap them with a cease and desist since they were now technically making money off their ad-less YouTube mod that was barely legal to begin with. But programs to get rid of ads are like a hydra, and cutting off one head inevitably led to many others taking Vanced's source code and making their own. When the dust settled, Revanced became the best option.

However, we still need the Vanced MicroG to make it run.

MicroG on its own is basically a free, open-source software framework that mimics Google's libraries and services. Vanced MicroG is a modified version that's specifically designed to mimic GMS (Google Mobile Services). This is what allows you to log into and use your Google/YouTube account through Revanced and have everything still work as it's supposed to.

Vanced MicroG Download:

https://github.com/TeamVanced/VancedMicroG/releases/tag/v0.2.24.220220-220220001

Ignore the source code, all you need is the microg.apk file at the top of the list.

It should automatically try to install when you download it. It'll also warn you that the contents could be harmful. They aren't, so go ahead and authorize the install.

If it does not automatically install, go to your files app and navigate to downloads. If you have it sorted by most recent downloads, it'll be at the very top. Selecting it from here should give you the option to install.

And with that, you're through step one!

Step 2: Download Revanced Manager

This is what allows you to patch YouTube APKs with Revanced. It also automatically checks for updates, and tells you what the recommended version of YouTube APK is without having to go searching for individual websites or blogs for news. You can also patch YouTube Music to be ad-free with this, though you will need to download the YouTube Music APK separately.

Revanced Manager Download:

https://github.com/revanced/revanced-manager/releases/tag/v1.24.0

Once again, you want the .apk file at the very top. From here, it's the same as with the MicroG, download and let it install.

Once again, if it doesn't install automatically, you should be able to find it in your downloads and activate the installation manually.

Step 3: Getting the YouTube APK

Go into your shiny new Revanced Manager. If you can't find it, scroll through your apps. It should look something like this:

When you get into it, navigate to the Patcher tab and tap 'Select an app'. It should look something like this:

My app is actually a bit out of date, whoops. But you can see that it lists a version in there. As of the day I'm writing this, April 24th, 2025, the current recommended app version is v20.07.39. Thankfully, it is very very easy to Google 'youtube apk 20.07.39' and find exactly what we're looking for. The very first auto complete, even.

The top result there is what you want. APKMirror is a safe site that, in my experience, doesn't have any viruses in their files. Unfortunately, it does have a shit-ton of ads. Scroll past all of them until you get to a section that looks like this:

The answer to which you'll need is on the right. dpi means dots per inch; basically it measures screen intensity. Some APKs are made specifically for certain dpis and dpi ranges. nodpi means the download is for all devices — while the one above it, which lists 120-640dpi, is for devices that have a dpi in that range.

Unless you know what you have is specifically within that dpi range, select the nodpi version. Scroll down until you see this and select download.

Lol. Lmao, even.

Congratulations, you now have a YouTube APK! Don't install this one, though. Instead, go back to Revanced Manager and open the Patcher tab. Go ahead and select YouTube.

You might just be able to patch it immediately from there. If you get this, however:

Congrats, yours works like mine does. Go ahead and select the APK from storage. Make sure you're in your Downloads folder, not just your recents, as it may not show up there. It should look something like this:

Go ahead and select it. It should immediately bring up this screen:

There's a ton of quality of life stuff Revanced does aside from removing ads, like returning the dislike button. You can technically go in and select what you do and don't want in the patch, but unless you really know what you're doing, I'd advise sticking with the default settings. If it adds something you really hate, you can always repatch the APK and try again.

It can take anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes to finish patching the YouTube APK, so be patient. Once it's done, though, well... it's done! You're done! You've got Revanced! No more ads for you, and you can do background listening or picture-in-picture while you're in other apps! Enjoy!

P.S.

YouTube Music works the same way, so if you want that go ahead and grab the recommended version of that APK (through APKMirror). Patch that bad boy and enjoy your ad-free music.

Also, like I said before, Revanced breaks periodically. All you need to do is download the newest recommended APK version and repeat the process. Slightly annoying, but guaranteed 10000x less annoying than 2-3 unskippable ads before each video + midrolls.

Reminder that you can block most ads on Android. yes, including youtube ads.

Steps: Download Firefox -> Install uBlock Origin extension.

That's literally it. Enjoy ad free web browsing while we still (barely) have it!

[mandalhoerian]

(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

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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.”

[suuuupernovaaa]

been thinkin’ bout you

summary: you’ve been thinking about joel, not realizing he’s been thinking about you too

warnings/tags: 18+, smut, jackson joel, HEA

Even through the flannel shirt, I can see the muscles in his back and arms as Joel lifts the solid wood over his shoulder, hauling it up the steps and inside Paulette’s house to assist her with repairs to her kitchen.

God, what do those muscles look like unwrapped? If I could just undo the buttons, one by one, and peel that shirt off of him…

A sharp elbow in my side snaps me from my fantasy, and I turn, already glaring at the woman next to me.

“You’re doing it again,” Maryanne says, a teasing grin on her face. I roll my eyes at her, but there’s no real malice behind it. She’s been my closest friend for years.

I stand up from where the two of us were sitting in the town square. “I can’t help it,” I tell her with a shrug, and she sighs as she always does when I talk endlessly about Joel. She’s a saint, letting me do it, but I’m sure she’s tired of hearing about it. “Gotta get to work. Stop by later.”

She nods and lifts her coffee to her lips, and I jog down the snow dusted street to my modest two story home. The paint is peeling and the porch is sagging, and I’m proud to call her mine.

Inside the front door is a small waiting room next to the stairs, only a few chairs and what books I could spare, plus a small bin of donated toys, and to the right of that is the town clinic. One cushioned table for a patient, a supply cabinet, and a couple plain chairs.

When the town was established as a safe haven in 2016, my parents became the town physicians. My mother had been an OBGYN before the world fell, and my father a surgeon. Together, they knew enough to keep the people Jackson relatively healthy, with what supplies were available.

I’d been 26 at the time, and thought I’d received no formal education - because it was no longer truly something available to me - I’d been receiving training from my parents from the day the clinic was established, until their deaths a year earlier. Thanks to them, I too now know enough to keep the townsfolk (relatively) healthy, with very few supplies. They come to me with aches and pains, illnesses, injuries, and the occasional birth, and I do my best not to let them down.

A steady stream of patients is in and out today, much like any other. A crying toddler with an ear infection. A construction worker with a nasty cut and a bad attitude. A mother entering her third trimester with her first child.They pay however they can, or not at all, and I’m happy to serve them.

Early afternoon, the door bell dings. I’m sitting across from the clinic and my desk, updating my patient records, and don’t spare a glance up.

“Be right with you!” I call cheerfully, but get no response. Finishing my notes on my previous patient - a sprained ankle - I stand up and tuck the file away before exiting my office.

My breath is cut from my lungs when I see Joel Miller standing there, holding his bloody hand in a dirty cloth, looking at me with tired eyes.

xxx

Joel has done his best to avoid the little white house just off the main square since he settled in Jackson, and he’s done a good job, almost a year, until now.

The cut is too deep, bleeding too much, and even he knows he can’t avoid seeing her now.

Something about the young doctor unnerves him. Her brown eyed stare is intense. Her smile is practiced and polished. He finds her looking at him too often, though she looks away if their eyes meet.

“Joel, what happened?” she asks in that steady, smooth voice of hers, pouring from her lips like honey, as she ushers him into the room where she sees her patients.

He clears his throat. “Accident on the job, hand just slipped,” he tells her.

She nods, pursing her lips, which he notices, not for the first time, are full and soft. There’s a freckle dead center on her bottom lip, and he’s imagined running his finger over it once or twice.

“Sit, please,” she drawls, and he obeys.

She works in silence as she cleans the wound, and numbs the area around the cut, which is just on his palm near his thumb.

Every time she touches him, he tenses up, and he wonders why that is. Why she makes him feel this way.

Maybe it’s because he’s noticing the little flecks of gold in her brown eyes, or the way her curls seem to be doing their best to escape the braid she’s trapped them in, or the way the knitted grey sweatshirt she’s wearing can’t conceal the figure underneath.

She’s one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.

“I would tell you to be more careful,” she says, glancing up at him as she works to close the wound, “but I’m sure you don’t need to hear it.”

He grunts, and she smiles, her lips pulling back to reveal dimples in her cheeks. His pulse rises.

“How’d you, uh, learn all this? Weren’t you too young to be a doctor before?”

She reaches behind her for some bandages, and turns back to him with a smile. “I was 13 in 2003,” she tells him, and Joel does some quick mental math. She’s only 33. So young, but so confident, so self assured, and so fucking gorgeous.

“My parents were both doctors, and they did their best to teach me what they knew.” He can hear in her voice, how much she misses them. Everybody here misses someone.

“Well, they did a good job,” he says, and the look she gives him in response nearly stops his heart. She beams at him, smiling ear to ear, and holds his injured hand in hers.

“Thank you, Joel.”

xxx

It’s a marvel that my hands aren’t shaking as I bandage his newly sewn wound. Joel has never come into the clinic before, and while I don’t wish anyone to be sick, I’ve always hoped he’d find a reason to visit, just so we’d have an excuse to talk.

I don’t know if he can feel it too, or if it’s just in my head, but the tension in the room is making me feel dizzy. I’ve never been this close to him, and it’s intoxicating.

He’s a man of few words, but the fact that he used those few words to compliment me has my head spinning. And has me feeling unusually bold.

As he stands up and grabs his coat, he says, “I don’t have payment, but I noticed your porch is crooked. I can fix it, if you want.”

I wave my hand in the air, even though the image of Joel working with his hands, sweaty, maybe even shirtless (a total dream, since it’s cold outside), on my porch, is the most enticing thought I’ve ever had.

“No payment necessary.”

He shakes his head, a cold look of determination on his handsome features.

“Once I’m done at Paulette’s in a few days, I’ll be down to fix it for you.”

He doesn’t say another word before walking out the door.

xxx

True to his word, in four days, Joel is back at my house with a wagon of supplies. He arrives early in the morning before any patients are set to come, and I greet him at the door still in pajamas, holding coffee.

He wastes no time with chatting, and gets right to work after explaining that my patients will need to use the side door for a few days.

It’s unnerving, knowing he’s right out there. Between appointments I offer him food, drinks and company, and he humors me by accepting, and mostly listening to me talk while he eats whatever sandwich I’ve made him.

I find myself wondering if I can find other projects around the house, just to keep him there.

By the third day, I can tell he’s nearly finished. I escort my latest patient out the side door with instructions on how to take care of a minor burn, and then join Joel by the porch.

“It looks wonderful, Joel. You’re amazing,” I say with a smile, and he nearly returns it, his lips twitching upward for just a second. If he actually smiled at me, it might knock me off my already unsteady feet.

“Should have it finished today.”

My heart sinks all the way down to my feet, and I wrap my jacket tight around myself. “Let me take you to dinner. As a thanks.”

“Porch was already a thanks,” he replies, holding up his hand, still bandaged.

“Well… I can make you dinner. Tonight. How about that?”

He glances at the porch, and then at me, and his expression is impossible to read.

“Sure, dinner sounds good.”

xxx

I can’t fucking cook. Why the fuck did I invite Joel for dinner? He’s already had the best I can do - sandwiches. Plain ass sandwiches.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The dinner I’m throwing together looks like hell. It started off as soup but something happened to it, the texture is gritty and thick, and even though the flavor is pretty okay, it’s still an embarrassing meal to serve to anyone.

Especially an anyone that you’re obsessed with.

But Joel is knocking on the door and there’s no time to fix this horrifying mess, so I take off my stupid apron and hang it on the hook, then greet him with a practiced smile.

Damn, he looks handsome. Jeans just tight enough, and a blue and green flannel unbuttoned over a gray t-shirt.

He’s holding a bottle of wine, which he extends to me. It must be from Paulette - she brews it in her cellar.

“Oh wow, thank you!” I say, taking it and ushering him into the kitchen, where I find my wine opener. “Okay, so, this dinner is not going to be very good. Please don’t destroy the porch as retribution,” I say with a laugh as I pull the cork from the wine.

When I turn, I expect to find Joel across the kitchen, maybe sitting at the table, but he’s directly behind me.

I nearly bump into him, he’s so close, staring down at me with an unreadable expression that stops me in my tracks and leaves my jaw hanging open.

“I don’t really care about the food,” he says in his deep, crawling drawl, and it sends shivers up my spine. He plucks the wine bottle and opener from my hands, and sets them on the counter next to me, next to my pot of failed soup.

“Oh,” is all I can think of in reply, because I really cannot tell what is happening.

Until Joel reaches out, his fingers brushing so gently along my cheek for hands so rough, and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. His gaze lingers over my face, and then trails downward.

“Oh,” I say again in understanding, as a nervous coil begins to form low in my belly.

“Oh,” Joel echoes, staring at me with such intensity that I shiver. I step closer to him, closing the already small gap between us, and reach up to grab the collar of his shirt.

It takes no effort to pull him down, until his lips are a breath away from mine.

He smells like winter, like the outdoors that he spends so much of his time in, and I close my eyes and take a deep breath of him in, my shoulders shuddering when I let it out.

“Oh,” I say once more, before his mouth captures mine in a kiss that starts off tentative, unsure, and deepens into something startlingly passionate, and I can’t help but let out a small moan.

One of his strong hands wraps around the back of my neck, while his other arm circles my waist, pinning me flush to him.

I don’t even realize he’s backing me up until I bump into the counter, and I wrap my arms around his neck as his hands fall to my waist, and squeeze.

A moment later, our lips still locked, he lifts me up by my hips and sets me on the counter.

I squeal in surprise, and feel him smile against my lips. My hands find their way into his hair, and I moan into his mouth when his hips push forward into mine, eager and demanding. I spread my legs, wrapping them around him, desperate to pull him closer to me.

He breaks our kiss then, and trails his mouth, hot and wet, down my jaw and my neck, and I lean back, exposing as much of myself as possible to him.

His hands grip my hips tightly, grinding me against him, and I feel breathless and light headed.

“Maybe…” I say, mustering all of the strength I possess, “maybe we should go upstairs.”

“Mhm,” he says in return, and steps away slowly, as if it pains him to do it, and sets me on the ground. He stares at me like I’m a meal and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. “Lead the way.”

I take his hand in mine and pull him up what now feels like the longest set of stairs that’s ever existed, to the first room on the right.

It’s a little messy, as I truly had not imagined Joel returned my interest, and wouldn’t have imagined all this even if he had, but at least the bed is made.

For now. I yell in surprise when Joel picks me up like I weigh nothing and tosses me into my queen sized bed, and stares down at me again with that intense look.

As he crawls to me, parting my legs once more, he says, “I’ve seen you staring at me.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks. He hooks his knee behind mine, spreading my legs wider and settling between them, his firm body pressed to mine.

“I knew you wanted me,” he says quietly, his lips ghosting over mine. “I wanted to bend you over your desk when I came in with my bloody hand.”

A small gasp escapes my lips, and he dips his head to bite the soft flesh of my neck.

“I would have let you,” I reply.

He chuckles. The deep sound of it sends ripples up my spine. “I know.”

He kisses my neck and collar bone tenderly as his hand trails down my side, and begins slowly pulling the skirt I’m wearing up and up, until it’s bunched around my waist.

His fingers tease the waistband of my panties, and I squirm with need.

His mouth finds mine again as his fingers dip below my panty line, finding soaking wet core. He lets out a deep moan, and I buck my hips, desperate for more.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he drawls.

“Need you,” I breathe.

His fingers work at a punishing pace that has me gasping and wriggling beneath him as I beg and curse at him.

No one has touched me like this in so long, and even when they did, it was nothing like Joel. His rough hands, the way he looks at me, kissing me and whispering to me as he goes, it brings me to the edge quicker than I thought possible.

I moan his name as I tumble over, my orgasm taking me by surprise.

“Yes, say my name,” he replies, and doesn’t let up until I ask him to.

He kisses me again as I lay there, feeling boneless but still needing more - needing him.

“Take your clothes off,” I demand, suddenly away that we’re both still fully clothed, which feels childish and exciting at the same time.

He smirks down at me. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he stands to remove his jeans and flannel, I pull my white tshirt over my head, and remove my skirt and ruined underwear next.

He pauses, boxers still on, and stares at me, naked on the bed.

Fuck, he’s perfect. Strong and sturdy and so much a man that I feel I might die if he doesn’t get back on the bed soon.

“You’re perfect,” he says in that deep drawl of his, echoing my own thoughts, and I can’t help but blush. I crawl off the bed and walk to him, grabbing his hand.

With a hand on his chest, I push him to the bed, and he allows me to, falling backwards.

He gazes at me hungrily as I crawl over him, and pull his boxers off and toss them into the floor.

The intake of breath from him is sharp when I straddle him. He’s so fucking big, but I’m so fucking ready.

His calloused hands grip my hips as I tease him, rubbing my pussy over his hard length. I feel powerful when he moans and his hips stir. I want to drive him as crazy as he’s been driving me.

I lift up and position him at my entrance, and his eyes meet mine, practically begging me for it.

Slowly, I settle down into him, inch by inch, letting myself stretch to accommodate his size.

“Fuck,” I moan, the word drawn out as my head falls back and I seat myself on him fully. Nothing has ever felt this good, not in my entire life. “Joel…”

“Yes, baby. Move for me,” he says gently, but it’s a demand. I look down at him, see the determination in his eyes, and start to move.

He hisses as I do, still gripping my hips, guiding me.

He hits every spot I need him to, so fucking deep inside me, and another orgasm starts building immediately.

So quickly, Joel flips us over, so I’m face down on the bed, and I yelp in surprise.

“I need to really fuck you, baby. Hard.”

He pulls my hips up, spreading my legs, and slams into me. I scream when he does it, and the scream melts into a moan as he pulls out of me and slams back in again, the sound of flesh on flesh hitting my ears.

“Oh fuck, Joel. Oh fuck!”

“Yes, that’s right,” he says in a strained voice as he begins to lose control, fucking me hard and fast, the pressure building and building. I grip the sheets below me and my eyes water.

“You belong to me,” he says, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

“I’m yours. Oh fuck, I’m yours.”

His pace is punishing, and perfect. It doesn’t take long before I’m cumming again, my walls gripping him tight, and pulling him over the edge with me.

xxx

He hadn’t planned to do any of that. He had planned to sit for dinner, ask her questions about herself, try to be - as Ellie had said - charming.

It flew out the fucking window the moment she opened the door. She was always covered up outside, wearing a jacket or sweater, and at the clinic, she’d dressed professionally. Still, he could see how beautiful she was.

It was nothing compared to the sight of her in that white tshirt, tight across her chest, and the floral skirt hanging from her hips with a slit so far up the side it made his heart stop for a minute.

Her hair, usually braided or pulled back, hung in wild curls around her shoulders, much longer than he’d known it was, and it made his mouth dry.

There could be no sitting through dinner, no talking - that could be after.

Joel had not needed anyone this way in a long time. Maybe ever. He had to have her, had to let her know she belonged to him, not just tonight but every night after.

The quiet doctor who stared at him, who was so gentle and kind and intelligent, who turned out to be absolutely filthy, just like he’d hoped.

She lay on his chest afterward, her coarse curls tickling his bare chest, and she squeezed him tightly, as if she was worried he was going to get up and bolt.

He struggled for the words now, to tell her that wasn’t going to happen. Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to let her go, this one bright thing he’d found for himself.

“I, uh, I’m sorry I didn’t eat your dinner. You know, first,” he said, and it’s not what he’d meant to say. It’s just what came out.

She laughed, the sound like church bells. “It’s really bad, Joel. I can’t cook. I just invited for your dinner because I was desperate for a date with you.”

His heart warmed, and he squeezed her shoulder.

She lifted her head, propping herself up on his chest, and smiled down at him.

“I’m just going to ask and if it’s awkward after, then so be it,” she said. “Was this a one time thing, for you?”

He could see it in her eyes, how desperately she wanted him to say no. Her lips darted from his eyes to his lips and back.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replied, and together, they both relaxed. The tension left their bodies, as that line was drawn.

Not a one time thing.

“I meant what I said,” Joel told the woman in his arms.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

“You’re mine now.”

A shy smile pulled at her lips, and despite all they’d just done, a blush painted her freckled cheeks. She kissed him gently once, twice, three times.

“Then you’re mine, too.”

She couldn’t imagine how fine that was with him.

[monzabee]

loooove nanny!reader so much!

if you're still open to requests, I have an idea for nanny!reader as Hotch's emergency contact, getting a call that he's been injured at work, expecting the worst but it's actually some minor thing not even unsub-related and Hotch is just stressed because he knows that she's going to use this to fuss over him and boss him around while he recovers (and trying to ignore an excitable Garcia who's just there for the nanny!reader gossip again)

totally do whatever you want with the prompt if you fancy it!! I'm in love with everything new you put out for them ❤️

emergency contact - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: the nanny gets called in as hotch’s emergency contact, he can’t remember having her number added as such. 

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: something is brewinggg, mentions of hospitals and hospitalization, penelope garcia is a guardian angel and also their biggest shipper (rossi’s got competition), they are in love your honor, FLUFF

Author's Note: okay thank you SO MUCH for this request because it fit in perfectly with my plans for this series and i hope you like it!! i think i might be obsessed with this series as much as you guys, and thank you so much for all the love you've shown to nanny!reader! just a little reminder that my requests are still open if you want to see a particular scenario!

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

The entire situation is ridiculous, is what Aaron decides as he lays on the hospital bed. He has been in this situation more times than he’d like, and this time is no exception.  

Except, maybe it is. 

Because when the door creaks open, and he expects a nurse or maybe Penelope—who insisted on getting him to the hospital as his ‘designated guardian angel’, her words, he gets you. You, with your oversized sweater and piano tiles on your skirt and that “I dropped everything and came running” look in your eyes. You, with your hair still a little windblown and your bag falling off your shoulder, clutching your phone like you’re prepared to swing it as a weapon if need be. 

And you look terrified. 

“Mister Hotchner,” you breathe out, rushing to the side of the bed before he can say anything. “Oh my God. What happened? Is it Jack? Is it you? Are you okay? You’re not bleeding, right? Is it internal bleeding? Did you lose consciousness? Why didn’t anyone call me sooner?” 

He blinks. “They called you because you’re listed as my emergency contact.” 

You freeze. “I am?” 

“Apparently.” 

There’s a beat. Your eyes narrow. 

He knows that look. That’s the nanny look, the one you give Jack when he tries to hide broccoli in his napkin. He’s about to say something reassuring, or at least divert your attention, but you beat him to it. 

“What do you mean, ‘apparently’?” you hiss, already examining the ID band around his wrist like you can cross-reference it with your own records. “You don’t just accidentally list someone as an emergency contact.” 

“I didn’t list anyone. The Bureau updates those files automatically if you don’t fill them out.” He exhales and looks at the ceiling. “And clearly, someone thinks you’re the best person to call if I pass out at work.” 

Your expression softens just slightly. “Wait. You passed out at work?” 

Penelope appears in the doorway like she’s been waiting for her cue. “Because he hasn’t been eating or sleeping or listening to anyone, and apparently twisting your ankle in the bullpen because you're dizzy is what gets you admitted to a hospital now,” she says brightly. “Hi, sunshine.” She waves at you and leans in for a quick hug. “You look very panicked and very pretty. Please tell me you yelled at someone on the way in. Or better yet—are you staying with him tonight? Do I need to ‘accidentally’ forward Jack’s bedtime routine to the team chat?” 

“Garcia,” Aaron groans. 

You ignore both of them and lean closer. “You twisted your ankle?”  

“It’s fine,” he grits out. “A minor sprain. The doctor was... insistent.” 

“Oh yeah, his ankle is totes fine.” Penelope assures you, then nods towards the monitors beside his bed. “They admitted him because they were scared he could have internal bleeding, again.” 

It’s a good thing you’re at the hospital, because you’re fifty percent sure you’re having a brain aneurysm to all the new information you’re getting about your boss. “Again?” You ask, then blink. “Internal bleeding, again?” 

He shifts on the bed, trying to sit up straighter without wincing. Fails on both accounts. “It wasn’t like that,” Aaron mutters, eyes flicking to Penelope like she’s the one who betrayed him. “They were being overly cautious.” 

“They always are when it comes to him,” Garcia says sweetly. “Big scary FBI man walks into the ER saying he got a little dizzy, and everyone suddenly wants to scan his organs like he’s an alien specimen.” 

You ignore her and press the back of your hand to Aaron’s forehead. “No fever,” you murmur, more to yourself. “How’s your vision? Any nausea? Headache?” 

“She’s doing the thing,” Penelope stage-whispers. “The ‘I read the entire WebMD archive just in case Jack ever gets sick’ thing.” 

You don’t look up, it’s not exactly a secret to Aaron that you’ve been reading the parenting blogs and all the medical journals you can get your hands on—just in case. “That’s because someone forgot to mention any of this when I dropped Jack off at school this morning.” 

Aaron sighs and closes his eyes like he’s summoning the patience of a saint. “Because it wasn’t a thing this morning.” 

“And yet,” you say, crossing your arms, “you still managed to faint in front of your coworkers and twist your ankle. Not exactly a clean record for the day.” 

“I didn’t faint.” He dissents in his Unit Chief voice, which does nothing to scare you, or Penelope for that matter. 

“Dizziness-induced collapse,” Penelope clarifies. “It was very dramatic. Like a Victorian woman overcome with emotion. We almost broke out the fainting couch.” 

“I tripped.” Aaron offers. 

Penelope sheepishly adds, “While dizzy.” 

You huff, your worry solidifying into full-blown exasperation. “You tripped because you haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, right?” 

Aaron says nothing. You raise your eyebrows.  

Still nothing.  

Garcia makes a game show buzzer noise from the doorway. “Survey says: guilty!” 

He closes his eyes. “Exactly what I was afraid of.” 

“What?” You turn your attention back to him.  

“This. The fussing.” He sounds almost fond through his exasperation. “You're going to make me soup, aren’t you?” 

“Of course I’m going to make you soup!” You gasp. “What kind of monster do you think I am?” 

“Honestly?” Garcia pipes up, biting into a vending machine granola bar. “The kind of adorable, overprotective, secretly-in-love nanny monster that fanfiction is built on.” 

“Penelope.” “Garcia.” The of you complain at the same time. 

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving. But only because I want to check if the hospital’s security cameras got a good angle of the ‘nanny crashes into waiting room’ moment. I’ll pick up Jack and he can stay with me—and don’t you try to suggest he stay with JJ, she got him last time! Okay, bye!” She wiggles her fingers in a wave and disappears. 

The moment Garcia’s heels click down the hallway, you finally allow yourself to breathe. You hear Aaron let out a similar exhale, and then he asks, “Do you think she added you as my emergency contact on her own?” 

“Oh, Mister Hotchner,” you scoff, laughing lightly as you nod, “she ‘totes’ did that on her own.” You sit back in your chair and cross your arms. “I’m making you soup,” you announce with conviction. 

Aaron shoots you a tired look as he lets out a soft chuckle. “I’m sure you are.” He then takes you in—really takes you in. He takes in the scared look in your eyes, as if seeing him didn’t calm you down enough. He takes in the way you’re breathing—how you’re still breathing erratically. He takes in the way your hands are gripping the armrest of the chair, the way your jaw clenches as if you’re holding back. “I thought you were still mad at me.”  

“God forbid my worry for you overpowers my distaste for your short fuse, Aaron.” You mumble, not quite looking at him as you shift in your chair, trying to appear more composed than you feel. The fact that you’re still holding onto the armrest like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded feels a little ridiculous, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. You glance at him, catching the quiet way he’s watching you. There’s something in his eyes—a mixture of vulnerability and exhaustion—and it makes your heart tighten in your chest. “I’m not mad at you.”  

“Hm,” he mumbles sleepily, his voice low, like he’s not sure whether he believes you or not. “You have piano tiles on your skirt.”  

You glance down at your skirt, noticing the piano tile print for the first time since you rushed to the hospital. The tiny pattern almost feels like a personal joke between the two of you now. Of course, this would be the thing he picks up on, not the fact that you just ran here, practically on the edge of a panic attack, because your boss was in the hospital.  

You snort, letting the tension in your chest shift into a light chuckle. “I’m aware. Thanks for the fashion critique, Mister Hotchner.” You catch the way his eyes drop drowsily, “Go to sleep, Aaron.” 

Aaron lets out a low hum, his eyelids fluttering as if he’s trying to keep them open, though the exhaustion is clearly winning. “I’m not... I’m not that tired,” he mutters, the words slurring just a little. His eyes meet yours, but there’s a distant look in them, like he’s trying to fight the sleep pulling him under. 

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just slightly. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been running on fumes for days.” You sigh, feeling that familiar mixture of concern and frustration. “Stop pretending like you’re invincible. Please.” 

He gives you the smallest of smiles, the kind that says he's aware of how ridiculous he's being but doesn't have the energy to argue. “I never claimed to be invincible,” he murmurs, his voice nearly a whisper. “Just... don't let me sleep too long, okay?” 

You nod, your heart doing that soft ache in your chest again. “I promise. But right now, I think you deserve a few hours of rest.” You stand, your hands still lingering on the armrest of the chair as if to make sure you're still anchored to the world, to him. The idea of him lying there, vulnerable and fading into sleep, makes something shift inside you, like maybe it’s not just about the soup anymore. It’s about him. 

With a soft exhale, you reach over, adjusting the blankets over his legs. “I’m making soup,” you repeat in a whisper, but this time, it’s not so much a declaration as a quiet promise. 

Aaron’s eyes flutter close, the last flicker of awareness leaving him as his breathing deepens. “I’ll... I'll hold you to that,” he murmurs, already halfway to sleep. 

You watch him gradually fall asleep, your heart tight in your chest. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the softness of his features as he finally lets go, all seem to slow down time. It’s such a simple thing, watching him sleep, but it feels like a privilege, something you never expected to witness. You move in an attempt to go back to the chair, but his hand reaches out to still you. Then, you hear his voice again, barely above a whisper. “You’re still here?” 

And this time, you can’t hold back. You reach over, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your hand lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary. “Rest, Aaron,” you whisper. “I’m here.” 

[mutantrenegade]

And this also doesn't mean everyone online asking for money is a scammer! No one here is saying every gofundme link for Palestine is a scam link. There are tons of real ones out there! You can support them! Just pay attention to what's being said and what you can verify. A real person in need asking for money is going to act like a real person in need, not a never-ending fountain of human misery and desperation. Using palestine as an example, even if someone there isn't also like, posting memes and jokes and is only talking about supporting people, they'll do so like a human. The emotions will be varied, they will probably sometimes post updates and good news, if they've been around long enough you can check the blog archive and see before this all started if they were posting like regular users, you can (POLITELY) ask them questions about their lives and situations and they will give normal answers. A long running blog with a lot of interactions is gonna be a very different story than a random anon ask telling me they are a mother of 4 children who are all seconds away from death and need money right now.

And also something to remember, why do they need to send you an anonymous ask about donations? I've seen plenty of normal dashboard posts of people spreading both individual and compilations of Palestinian fundraisers and very little push back against them (not none obviously but like, the people here generally are trusting and want to help.) And those posts usually have a couple thousand or tens of thousands of notes. Why would you need to send random anonymous asks when you can just post normally and it's way more verifiable and has reach to it? Even if accounts get banned, there are plenty of even big name users here who are contactable and want to signal boost support.

Scammers are going to specifically try and guilt trip you into helping them and won't care about the ethics of doing so. You need to be able to spot when this is happening.

I miss when I would get Tumblr asks that actually said things and weren't just digital panhandling scams.

[cherrynpink]

just "friends"

pairing: situationship!dokyeom x f!reader

genre: situationship to lovers, slight angst, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: cursing, oc is a bit mean to him in the start but it's ok, soft dom!dk, jealous oc, fingering, oral (f. receiving), mentions of giving head, multiple orgasms, a bit of overstimulation, down bad dk, needy oc, praise, ass smacking, protected sex but oc doesn't want to use a condom initially, hair pulling, mentions of creampie (wrap it before u tap it), doggy style, mention of hair pulling, big dick!dk, he is literally too big, slight strength kink, he is an idiot, dirty talk, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 4.2k

playlist: just "friends"

Note: aaah this is the first fic i'm writing on here so pls bear with me. if u find any mistakes, pls lmk! this was loosely inspired from the situationship i was in last year, except mine didn't end well unlike oc's. hope u like it n pls give me wtv feedback u feel so that i get better at this! hehe anyways go on

dokyeomie:3 : are u mad at me???

Your phone buzzes. It's 2 a.m. and your phone buzzes. You know there is only one person whose texts you would receive this time at night. You didn’t want to ignore dokyeom, you really do like him after all. You’ve been in, what you would call- a situationship? You’re not very sure. You met him through you mutual friends during a trip you all went to together. It’s funny how during your first year you never noticed him in campus despite him being in the same year as you, but as soon as you returned from the trip, he was everywhere. It was like a dokyeom plague all around.

Initially, you weren’t interested in him beyond being friends but fuck- how can a guy be this sweet? And this nice? And this hot. You can’t blame a girl for wanting more. When he texted you first right after returning from the trip asking for the pictures you had taken, you knew this was your chance to lock it DOWN. Only a fool would miss a chance to let a guy like him pass by. After that it was nonstop texting. All day. 24/7. Point of no return.

You’d give him random updates of your day, he would call you when he went to Sephora with his sister and ask which lip gloss you wanted to feed your manic lip gloss obsession, he would send you pictures of cats he saw on campus and say “us”, coffee dates, study dates (even though you had different majors), teaching him to play DTI at 3 a.m. while you laughed at him dates, but not an official “date” yet. Not a label beyond “friends” yet.

You wondered how can two people do all this and still be called friends. This is not what friends do, right? Or is it? Fuck- this is ruining you. It didn’t help seeing him get coffee with some other girl from his class while she laughed like he was the funniest guy ever. And like he probably was. But she’s not allowed to laugh. Only you. He does NOT need to be this funny with some other girl when he hasn’t even labelled what you are yet.

Leading you to ghosting him for the past 2 days. And trust, it was truly torture. How do you suddenly stop talking to the person you’ve shared everything about you to for the past 3 months? Everything reminded you of him no matter where you went. This is the most down bad you’ve ever been for a MAN. Your prime man hater era would be ashamed.

dokyeomie:3 : im really worried, im coming over, okay? I’m almost there >.< bringing some ice cream too!!! i know ur not asleep yet so pls let’s just talk okay :)

You hear your bell ring and thank god for the fact your roommate was at her parents’ place this weekend- well, not like anything’s going to happen anyway, what would it matter. He didn’t even give you time to change as you open the door in your short pyjama set, and what do you see but crinkly eyed dokyeom with his heart smile which almost makes you want to forget the hell he’s put you through the past 3 months and just kiss him.

“Hi” he says, coming in and setting the ice cream on the table, “let’s eat now before it melts.”

“I don’t feel like eating right now.” You take the plastic bag from his hands and put it in the freezer.

He steps closer to you, and closer, and closer, until there doesn’t seem to be any distance between you and you feel your surroundings closing in, as he towers over you, his sandalwood musk encapsulating you making your heart race, your breath turning erratic and your cheeks a crimson shade like a blushing bride. It truly is so easy for him.

He tucks your hair behind your ear- “y/n what happened, are you mad at me? Whatever it is you can tell me. Just please, talk to me.”

“I was just busy, it’s really nothing. Anyway, you had that girl from your class to keep you from getting bored.”

“Is that what this is about? I got assigned a project with her so we grabbed coffee to discuss how to go about it, it wasn’t anything more I swear.”

“That’s not it.” You turn your face away and head to the couch. Talking about what you feel has always been harder for you, which is why you’ve never had any proper relationships- only casual no strings attached arrangements or situationships.

“What is it then? Please y/n, you can’t just go radio silent for two days. I was so worried about you, talk to me, okay?” he says as he sits beside you on the couch.

“You never asked me out.” You blurt it out so fast its barely comprehensible to him.

“What?”

“You never asked me out. You flirt with me all the time, we text literally all day, and when we don’t its because we’re together at the coffee shop or the library or whatever. My friends call me an idiot, that you’re just toying with me, until you’re bored with me. You’ve never even defined what we are yet, because we sure as hell aren’t friends. Friends don’t act like this- right dokyeomie?”

You looked up to him, doe eyed on the brink of tears as you felt a lump in your throat, a heaviness on your shoulders. He felt horrible.

How was he supposed to know you liked him? He just thought you were being really friendly with him- just like you would be with anyone else, right? Here he was thinking he was the idiot being so hopelessly obsessed with you. He was literally so down bad for you it was kind of pathetic. Once when you had just started talking to him you mentioned you liked glasses, low and behold, he wore glasses every time you saw him. You can’t find the lip gloss you want anywhere? He’s dragging his poor sister with him to every makeup store in the city, trying to find that goddamn lip gloss that seems to be sold out everywhere. And now he feels like shit for making you think that he would just lead you on and leave you when he’s tired of you or something. Fuck. He’s messed up BIG time. And he does the only thing he can think of to make it up to you, FAST.

He leans into you, one hand gripping your jaw while the other brushes against your waist, his face so close you can feel his breathe as your eyes flicker down to his lips as he wets them. Your breath hitches and he can practically hear his heart racing the speed of a bullet train. And just like that, the next thing you know, his lips are against yours engulfing you in a whirlwind of a kiss. Your hand reaches for his chest as he holds you. He kisses you softly yet so messy and passionate it sweeps you off your feet. As you deepen your kiss, he slips his tongue in and a soft whimper leaves your throat. Impatient to gain control he pushes against you in an attempt for dominance and his quick shift in demeanor has you flooding in your pajama shorts. Good thing you sleep without your panties on. 

As your make out session continues to grow more aggressive, you feel him manhandle you over his lap onto his hardening length. Fuck. He feels big, you think as your hips give an experimental grind. He seems impatient as you make out, like he’s trying to make up for the lost time as he tightens his grip on your waist to get you closer to him, and you’re no different- tugging at the collar of his shirt so desperate to be with him.

“I really like you” he whispers between soft open-mouthed kisses. “I really like you I just wasn’t sure you felt the same about me, I’m sorry for making you wait so long baby, let me make it up to you?”

Oh. Your pussy likes the sound of that. It comes out of his mouth in a whisper, as he tries to catch his breath because you might not see it, but he is doing gymnastics to keep up with you and you’re driving him absolutely crazy. Its actually a little unbelievable for him to be making out with the girl he’s been in love with for the past year. He can feel a wet spot forming on his jeans as you leak onto him through your shorts.

“So needy baby, can feel you getting wet just from kissing a bit. You want it that bad?” he chuckles. God, you must look desperate to him but you need him right now because his hands gripping your thighs and yours in his hair drive you insane.

“You made me wait so so long kyeomie, need you, please. Need you to fuck me.” It leaves your throat like a whine making him twitch under you. You don’t care how desperate your pleas sound, because truth be told its all you’ve been picturing for the past 3 months. His hand makes its way to your tits as he cups them from over your thin top. From where he's sitting, you look pathetic and so pliant under his gaze, even though you’re sitting on him. If he knew you were this into him, he would’ve done this much sooner.

“Fuck, don’t worry baby I’ll take good care of you. Lift your arms for me.” He says as he takes off your top and god, he can’t take his eyes off your tits sitting right in front of him. He kisses down your neck and you just smell so fucking good he doesn't want to stop. He recognizes the scent, that vanilla bakery cupcake scent that always lingers on him after you hang out with him, the one he's just so obsessed with. He takes your hardened nipple into his mouth as his hand plays with the other. You moan softly as dokyeom focuses all his attention on your chest. Nibbling and biting and licking, as you keep grinding your hips on him, feeling him getting harder.

“So pretty baby, so pretty just for me.”

“I- I need- need you dokyeom, please? Please I’ll do whatever- whatever you want. Wanna suck you off. Make you feel good. Can I?” you say as you get down on your knees. And oh, it is a sight for him. Something in your eyes changes, he sees them full of lust and desperation, so drunk. This was new for him. Before this, you would always be so shy around him, or anyone for that matter. Never laughing fully at the suggestive jokes your friends made when you all hung out together, just giving a coy smile. Even when you and dokyeom talked, you never reacted to his advances, innocent or suggestive, never reacted to the innuendoes he made, just avoiding eye contact with him. But this new you, he liked her for sure. He would’ve teased you more, but fuck, some other time.

You unbutton his jeans as your hands flutter impatiently and fumble with his zipper, because you quite literally cannot wait a second more.

“Slow down y/n, wait.”

He groans as he lifts his hips to let you lower his jeans. He’s already half hard in his boxers and oh. You have no idea how he’s ever going to fit inside you. You mouth at his boxers and lick at him through them. But he knows, if he lets you do this, he'll come in your mouth in an instant, and he is but a gentleman, and would rather die than to not make you cum first.

“Y/n as much as I would love that, I’ll cum in my pants if you do that, and I’m not gonna let that happen.” He says as he tugs you by your hair to get you up. You pout at him, disappointed he won’t let his dick in your mouth.

“Don’t make that face princess, you can do it next time.” he says as he lifts you in his arms. You gasp as he begins to carry you to your room and throws you on your bed as you rebound on it.

“You like that? Like it when I pick you up and throw you around. I see you staring at my arms all the time baby, don’t think you’re subtle.”

He kisses you again as he pins your hands over your head as makes his way down your body, marking you as he goes along. He reaches you thighs and begins to kiss them softly as he drags his tongue to your tiny shorts and begins to pull them down. And imagine his surprise as he comes face to face with your glistening pretty pussy. He sucks his breath in as he seems to be stuck in a trance.

You’re obsessed with the way his eyes follow your cunt. He looks like a child seeing candy for the first time, and you’re totally here for it. His big hands hold your thighs apart as he lays down between them and looks at your pussy like it has the moon and stars hung in it for him.

“No panties y/n? Fuck didn’t know you were a slut baby, you always act so shy and naïve in front of me, no?” he says as his fingers run against your slit experimentally, circling your entrance teasingly, taking you by surprise causing you to let out a desperate moan.

“I’m- I’m not!” you whine but you sound like even you don’t believe your own words. He’s right after all, isn’t he? You are a slut for him. Why would you be ashamed of it.

“You’re not? Then why are you dripping over all your sheets y/n. Haven’t even done anything yet and you’re trying to hump the air. If you needed me that bad could’ve just asked. Would’ve given you everything. But you wanted to give me the silent treatment. So, I’ll have to punish you baby.”

He smirks as one hand tweaks your nipple while the other dips inside you barely before he pulls it out in an instant. He traces soft patterns on your inner thighs, but every time you buck your hips up, he just moves his hand further away from your center.

“Please kyeomie, touch me.”

“I’m already touching you y/n. You need to be more specific.”

This is torture. You’re literally about to cry.

“In- in me. Your hand- your finger, need it in me.” you say with your face in your hand red with embarrassment.

“No please this time? Where are your manners?”

“Please dokyeom, need your fingers in me!"

Finally, he puts you out of your misery. The finger that was teasing you enters you in one instant. And oh. You are so tight. You feel so full, and its just one finger yet. You don’t know how you’re going to take him in.

“Gripping me like crazy y/n fuck, so fucking tight.”

He slowly moves his hand in and out, curling it and watching it squeeze him, barely fitting him in you. You grip the sheets tightly as he curls his finger and hits your g-spot right where you need it.

“You can barely fit one baby, how are you going to take my cock? Maybe I should just eat you out and make you cum on your fingers and leave it at that.” he says mocking you.

He knows he’s being really cruel, but only because you can take it. Also, you did make him wait so long too, so he deserves to have fun with it.

“No! No, I can take it I- I- promise!”

He chuckles and inserts another finger in, increasing the pace until you’re left gasping for air, a moaning mess. He feels your body tensing up, and leans down to kiss your thighs and whilst driving his fingers in you, making you moan his name over and over again like a prayer. Finally, he presses his thumb against your clit, and makes 8 figures over and over again, agonizing you as the pit in your stomach grows bigger every time you feel his fingers hit your spot.

Suddenly he takes his finger out, making you whine at the loss of contact and your eyes fill with tears because you were just so, so close.

He dives in between your legs licking a long strip up your entrance, the moan you let out is music to his ears, and the way you taste is better than anything he’s ever had. His tongue enters you as he pushes it in and out, and oh the way his nose keeps hitting your clit repeatedly with each motion has you seeing stars. You entangle your hand into his hair pushing yourself into his mouth as he moans.

He makes out with your cunt like a man starved as you feel yourself getting closer and closer. And at this point you have no idea about the words coming out of your mouth, a combination of broken moans and desperate pleas. Your legs are trembling as his big hands hold them apart, tightening his grip on them like he’s chasing his own high because you keep trying to close them with every brush of his nose against your clit.

“Please dokyeom, please I- I’m gonna- oh my god, I need to cum!”

“Yeah? Can feel you clenching baby. It’s okay, you’ve been so good, you can cum.”

And that’s all it takes. You feel the pressure in your stomach building up and the knot finally snaps as he hums against you and you break with a loud cry, your back arching and your hands pulling his hair. A euphoric feeling takes over your body as your legs going numb, and your mind in a hazy state with your eyes going dark, your back covered in sweat and your face so hot. There is only pleasure running throughout you but dokyeom doesn’t stop even as your cum covers his mouth dragging his tongue against your core as you come down from your high, until you’re gasping his name like it’s the only thing you remember.

When he looks up, it’s a sight to see; hair all messy, lips glossy, chin dripping with you and a hunger in his eyes like you’ve never seen before. He comes up and captures you in a kiss so deep you taste yourself on him. You never thought a someone eating you out would be this hot, but dokyeom has a way to keep you guessing.

“You’ve made such a mess baby, and you say you’re not a slut. What will I do with you hmm?”

There is something so demeaning about you being completely bare and vulnerable, withering under him, while he stays clothed. It’s like a fucking power trip for him, makes him feel fully in control of you, and oh does that make him so hard. Now that he’s gotten a taste, he doesn’t think he can stop.

“Take off- take- take it off” you say tugging on the collar of his shirt. Even you have no idea what incomprehensible nonsense is coming out of your mouth at this point, you’re just so drunk on him. He sits up taking off shirt and pants and you keep yourself from moaning out loud when you look at him. He looks so big. Not just beneath his boxers but him entirely, he looks so big. He notices your eyes travelling from his chest to his arms, trying to take it all in at once as if you would never have this chance again.

He finally takes off his boxers and you think you’re in love. His dick looks so pretty, his tip a slightly dark shade of pink curved a bit and veiny, you just don’t know how to explain it. He spits on his hand and pumps it in his hand and now that he’s fully hard, you have no idea how he’s going to fit in you.

“Like what you see baby? But your pussy is so tiny, how’s is going to fit?” he says as he brings his hands to your sides, running his hands all over your body. He pouts but you know he’s talking shit to tease you.

You reach up desperate for a kiss but he just kisses your cheek instead, “please, I need you to fuck me so bad kyeom, I can take it! I promise, just give it to me.”

He chuckles darkly, and this is so embarrassing for you but fuck it, who cares. “You beg so well baby, makes me wanna give you everything you ask for.”

He grabs your waist and turns you on your stomach in an instant, raising your hips to meet his, and smacks your ass hard, making you almost jump in surprise. Him manoeuvring you into being on your arms and knees was honestly such a turn on, but you know if you let him know that, you’ll let go of the tiny piece of dignity that you hopefully have left, so you settle for pushing your ass back into him making him groan.

“Condom baby?”

“In my drawer but no! no condom just, want to feel you.” you beg.

Fuck. You’re going to be the death of him. You were going to let him hit raw? Now he truly regrets not doing this earlier, but you’re not thinking clearly and he can’t take the risk no matter how much you make him want to.

“Sorry princess, but we can’t take the risk, some other time, okay?”

You groan, you hate him actually. Who gives us the opportunity to get in raw, you think to yourself as you hand him the condom.

You hear him slide it on and pump himself, “you’re so wet y/n, I might just slide in.” he says as he taps his dick on your clit making you moan. He runs his tip up and down your slit collecting your wetness, and pushes it in just so he's barely stretching you.

“I’ll take it slow okay, I promise.” He says as he grabs you by your hair and pulls you near him to kiss you on your cheek. His hands find home on your hips as he grabs them tightly, pushing himself in one inch at a time, easing you on, making you almost scream. As he bottoms out, he lets out a moan and so do you, feeling so full of him, because oh my god the stretch is like you've never felt before.

“So warm baby, so soft, cunt gripping me so good it doesn’t want me to leave I think.”

“Fuck dokyeom feel so full, I love it, please move.” You say as you beg him for the hundredth time for the night. And apparently that was all he needed to hear as he begins to drill into you sliding in and out mercilessly, slapping your ass every now and then. He fills you so good because its such a tight fit, and god does he love it. You are now left a mess under him, no thoughts in your head, just a chant leaving your mouth as you scream his name over and over.

“It’s that good baby? Or are you just too cockdrunk to think? Fuck, pussy so good it’s gonna milk the fuck outta me.” He moans as he tries to keep up with the unbelievable pace he’s set. His hand moves down your stomach as he toys with your clit from behind, making you see stars.

“You look so good like this y/n, all spread out for me. Makes me want to remember this forever, you’re gonna let me record this ass next time baby?”

All you can do is nod since you have no energy left in you to respond to him.

“Such a pillow princess, can’t even answer a simple question, need me to do all the work for you, hmm? It’s okay though, you don’t have to do anything, just sit pretty for me and I’ll take care of you.”

His grip on your ass tightens and his hand’s movement at your clit fastens as you feel him approaching his high, his strokes getting deeper yet sloppier and you wish he wasn’t wearing a condom so that he could fill you to the brim. At this point he too, like you- was an incoherent mess, because your pussy just feels like heaven to him, and he doesn’t think he can hold out any longer.

“Fuck! I’m so close dokyeom! I- i- fuck right there! Right there! Wanna cum so bad, can I- can I cum? Please, oh!” you scream with all the strength you have left.

“Ah, me too baby, fuck good girl, always such a good girl, asking for permission. You can cum princess, cum for me.”

And that’s all it takes for you to crash into the bed with a loud moan as your arms give out, your pussy clenching around him as he fills the condom. Your chest heaving and a buzzing sound in your ear, you have no idea of your surroundings as dokyeom continues to twitch inside you, finally taking his dick out after what feels like eternity. You whine at the feeling of emptiness, feeling yourself gape due to the lack of him as he crashes besides you out of breath. You turn your face to him as he softly kisses your forehead and wraps his arms around you.

After you both clean up, you lay on your new clean sheets wrapped around him as he caresses your hair.

“I’m sorry I was an idiot for not making it clear I like you sooner, I’ll take you out on a proper date later this week, okay?”

“mhm okay, but just so you know kyeomie, I don’t put out on first dates.”

[devosin]

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! episode five : white lies & understanding . . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Dual pov . .

Your face drained of colour, sitting frozen in place as his words repeat in your head like a broken record, "I just don't believe you can act", the words said so casually with a drunken slur, as if he didn't just put down your entire skillset and career all together. Your hands grip the glass tighter, as some form of bitter resentment washes over you—momentarily, but enough to burn—your throat hurts as you let the words of complaint and the slur of insults that you really, really—wanted to hurl die there. 

The discomfort settled into a deafening form of silence among the table—and to think the two of you were getting along moments prior, sharing and recommending drinks . . ‘Way to kill the vibe, Schoenheit.’ 

The two of you didn't speak, seemingly waiting for the other to speak first, weighing down whether talking after that was . . the good idea? . .  There was still some time to cancel the contract right? (There wasn't) . . . the fine wouldn't be that high! (1 million give or take, out of your pocket).

The silence draws on, until Vil takes the hint, letting out a soft—well softer response, "I don't mean to offend you, I'm a little bias that's all", he said, his words no longer having a slight slur to them, the tension must've sobered him up. 

You paused, . . and let out a sigh, then smiled, "You're not good at apologizing, I hope you know that", you pointed out after a while, bringing the glass back to your lips, letting the alcohol burn your throat, melting the anxious bob down back to your stomach, your liver can deal with the problems later. 

Vil blinked, and let out a breath of relief, which he quickly tried covering up with a fake cough, . .  and you're supposedly the bad actor?, "It's not one of my biggest talents", he replied after a while, the words came out slower than expected as he stared down at the table, not quite meeting your eyes, "but I do apologize, it won't happen again." 

"It better not", you said casually, then laughed at his wide-eyed expression, "It's fine, I didn't like you in the camping series either, so I guess we're even?", you say, trying to cheer him up a bit . .  okay maybe you wanted him to feel a little offended as well . . 

“I was a child!”, he retorted back, and you bit back a smile, “Not an excuse Mr. Schoenheit, the ‘great’ actor”, his lips curled upwards just a bit, this time he didn’t really make an attempt to hide it, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe you both were a little petty in your own right. 

After a while, the two of you were getting back into the rhythm of conversation, talking about some things here and there, and some casual word of the mouth gossip, because you both have an NDA and that shit isn’t getting out anytime soon . .  All the while consuming a little too much alcohol for a small brunch meeting, and you knew you were going to regret it when you got home. 

“Did you know I’m camera shy?”, you said randomly, and Vil looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, holy shit don’t make eye contact, you focus on the wall behind him, and he doesn’t really notice, “Really?” 

You nod, “Yea, terrible, I used to get nauseous every time I was behind a Camera, even for just photos”, he tilts his head slightly in confusion, because yeah, that doesn’t make sense, an A-list actor, whose income is from acting, being camera shy, “Did you get over it? . . because . . “, he gestures to the air, referring to your career, you chuckle and nod, “mhm.”  

“Yea, someone special to me said to start recording little videos for Magiciam, to get over it, so I did . .  just to step out of my comfortzone.” 

“Did it help?” 

“Not even in the slightest.” 

He blinks, and then the two of you chuckle, a drunken slightly slurred laugh. 

“I personally loved being behind the Camera, I felt . . alive every time”, Vil says in response after a while, “Yeah I can tell” . . . “What is that supposed to mean?” 

You avoid the subject, and he eyes you curiously, almost waiting for an answer. 

The evening sun lighting was hitting you in a little too perfect position, you both were seated by a large window, but it hit you at a perfect angle, it’s like those shitty films about the ex dead wife, and the wife is always depicted in that yellow lighting which made her look ethereal? Like nostalgic . .  That being said, you do look pretty . . ethereal . .  and fuck look away. 

Vil faces the other side, as casually as he could muster. 

Which wasn’t casual at all, because he was too tipsy to play it off cool and collected, “You okay?”, you ask, and he grips his fork . . and yea you guys ordered food sometime ago, “Yep”, he says, with a grin, “totally fine.” 

You nod, then a comfortable silence falls over the two of you . . . and suddenly things felt so peaceful, calming almost. 

And maybe this partnership wouldn’t gut him out and make him go mental in the next few months. 

Maybe. 

Okay so now he’s just doubting his own words.

Making eye contact with a drunk Vil sounds like torture im ngl, his eyes are very hot, violet baddies for the win.

This is actually a soft launch into my new smau (Cater diamond x Reader), the first few pictures hint at it, so check out "For the record" if you like this series <3 , they're interconnected.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

♡. Want spoilers ?! . . Join my server . . !! (or to be namedropped <3)

— taglist ♡ ; @well-look-at-this , @honkai-freak , @merviolet-asks, @katzline , @pebble-bb , @meigalaxy , @lordbugs , @crowbird , @yuus3n , @reivelmin , @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 , @eliza-be-t-h , @feverish-dove , @cece-cherries , @frootloopscos , @abell2029cluster , @ephemii , @alienlatteinspace , @frangiipanii , @vamprel , @kittycat246 , @leifsclubroom , @everettelz , @the-dumber-scaramouche , @gl00muraaii , @mysterypotatoink , @illiviestrations , @ddurandals , @savanaclaw1996 , @ariachaos

♡ . Ask to be tagged... (If you don't see yourself up here, I cant tag you)

© devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation.

Do consider buying my emergency commissions, if you can <3

[slyfire]

Leander & Pomegranate Wine

I think this small change in the Touchstarved demo update has a lot of symbolism behind it. Spoilers ahead!

In both the original demo and the updated demo, after MC had been taken back to the Wet Wick, Leander offers MC an alcoholic beverage. If MC accepts, they receive a drink that is supposedly the 'local' specialty.

In the original demo, this drink was 'plum gin'.

In the updated demo, this drink is 'pomegranate wine'.

The pomegranate has a lot of assosiated symbolism: life & death, fertility, and the feminine. If you've been in the TS fandom for a while, then these may sound familiar: Leander has very similar symbolism all over him.

But if you're unaware, here's the rundown:

Leander's belt is in the shape of the 'Triple Moon' pagan symbol, which represents fertility, death, and birth & rebirth. It's also assosiated with Hecate; a Greek Goddess of magic and witchcraft.

His earring contains an ouroboros: a serpant eating it's own tail. This represents the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

His assosiated flower is the lily, which represents femininity, fertility, and rebirth.

On the lapel on his coat, he has the chain with the alchemical symbol for earth. This represents mother earth and the colour green.

Shout out to @/luckhound & @/astranautic for compiling Leander's symbolism! And of course Wikipedia.

So in general, the pomegranate wine can be see as a continuation of Leander's themes of life, death, and rebirth & the feminine. However, the pomegranate has a very famous Greek myth that really fits this updated demo version of Leander: The Abduction of Persephone.

The gist of this myth is:

Zeus (King of the Cosmos) kidnapped Persephone to be the wife of Hades (God of the dead & King of the Underworld). Persephone's mother, Demeter (Goddess of agriculture), grows angry and forces a constant winter in grief. Beacause of this, Zeus forces Persephone to be sent back to her mother. However, before she departed, Hades gave Persephone a pomegranate seed to eat. Because she has eaten food from the underworld, she is forced to stay there for some time of the year.

(Main sources were Apollodorus & the Homeric Hymn 'To Demeter')

This myth is meant to serve as an aetiology of the seasons in Greek myth, but for us Touchstarved fans, the focus is on how the pomagrante is used as a means of entrapment.

Throughout the demo, not-so-subtly Leander places control and 'entrapment' over the MC.

MC is only able to talk to Leander when they bring up Kuras. Otherwise they wouldn't get past the Adderstone.

When it comes to touching him for the first time, if MC holds back, leander will grab their hand anyways. If MC does touch him, MC's shock makes them pulls back a bit, but Leander 'catches' their wrist before they can pull back.

Insists info on MC's curse remains between the two of them. Also calls it 'our little secret' in Leander's path later on.

Gives MC a room: a room Leander knows more about than MC. I'll note that Leander didn't choose the specific room, but he's likely familar with all of the Wick.

Insists he be the one to buy you a drink (instead of Ais).

Leander to MC: "Then how would you feel about being on a leash?"

MC about Leander: "I feel trapped in the softness of his expression, and the lightness of his touch".

Leander to MC: "I'm a little jealous. Part of me wants to keep you all to myself".

Leander tends to choose where conversations happen (such as suggesting going outside or going upstairs).

Leander locks the door with MC and him inside the bedroom during his path.

Leander to MC: "I won't leave you, and you won't leave me."

Leander to MC (in response to 'what do you want'): "Too many things. But I'll start with you."

I believe this allusion to be intentional; Leander is offering MC something of a pomegranate, MC trusts Leander to consume it, and he will later 'entrap' the MC. This dynamic seems to be the core of his full route.

There's also the matter of Hades being the one to have Persephone eat the pomegranate seed without her understand what it will do to her. I can father two possibe meanings with this.

The first, is that it places Leander in the position of Hades, God of the dead.

The second, is that MC might not know what they're getting into with Leander.

And...that's all I have! Happy demo update y'all.

Shout out to @lord-shitbox for proofreading 🙏

[dailyadventureprompts]

DM Tip: My Time, Threat, Tension Method

Artsource

Inspired by playing the new updates to Blades in the Dark and a recent discussion on the best way to use information gathering skills like perception and investigation, I wanted to share a technique that's quickly become a fundamental part of my DM toolbox when it comes to designing scenarios in D&D and other TTRPGS.

This technique is useful for building individual encounters, but can scaled up to provide structures for entire sessions or adventures. It's the closest I've come to formalizing the supposed "exploration" pillar of gameplay that WotC is so fond of mentioning but never provided any rules for.

Here's the rundown:

Figure out what your party is trying to accomplish (gather information, rescue a hostage, get through a door to the next area of the dungeon)

Establish at least one or more threats that would impede the party trying to accomplish their goal (raising an alarm, getting attacked by a deadly monster, letting their rival gain the upper hand)

By and large the thing that's going to separate your party from suffering the consequences of these threats is going to be time: a resource they have a limited amount of because you're going to arrange circumstances to maximize the drama. You don't need to keep track of individual minutes, more of an abstract sense of "everyone in the party gets to do two things before I mention they hear footsteps approaching the door."

Players are allowed any amount of surface information they'd like and a bit of faffing about on the side, but if they want to get closer to their goal they're going to need to spend time. Some actions are going to cost a flat amount of time, while others (especially those that are up to luck when time is of the essence) are going to require the party to roll. As an example: finding a secret door in a room by noticing the lack of dust on a hidden lever vs. spending ten minutes tossing the room and bruteforcing the solution.

Place a few diversions in their way, whether they be outright red herrings or time sinks that get them something but not the progress they want. (emptying the villain's safe doesn't uncover the secret diary the party is looking for, but it's rewarding in a way other than progress).

You can also be a bastard and put some traps in, not just the type that spring up and deal daamge, but the kind that make threats happen sooner (alarms, surprise guardians) but the kind that introduce new threats (curses, lurking poisonous animals, evidence left behind that alerts their foes)

It's also a good idea to scatter some hints amid the initial setup/diversions to generate those delicious "AHA!" moments and reward players who are paying attention. When someone acts off a hint or guesses the right course of action there's no time cost or roll required. They solved the puzzle, let them move on.

Depending on the scenario you might swap out time with safety, influence, or limited materials as the "resource" being consumed for the sake of the goal.

You can use this method to plan individual escape room style challenges, entire wings of dungeons, or mysteries across towns. All that's required is for your party to know what their goal is and know where to look and you can build out the whole session from there.

[splinterclan]

man all of this happening in a little over 2 in game years ..... get these guys some therapy good lird

They really do fkjldshf

For most of the time I've played Splinterclan that wasn't a feature yet, so I've still never used it jsjsj I might eventually but for now it's had no effect!

Yes they are currently broken up and not on speaking terms! Mostly just because of awkwardness atp tho

Oakclan only exists as one update on this blog and other mentions I've made throughout splinterclan sadly - they're the clan Splinterclan broke from when they first formed so basically backstory clan. Here's the tag that has most-ish of the pertinent info about them

This info is available on the pinned post/ allegiances! (as long as I remember to update it loolll)

She hasn't really bc she's still a bit nervous of Whorlstar and a lot nervous of Moorsnow and he's with one of them 24/7 atp!

[fanfictionlibrary01]

AO3 Data Scraped for AI Training Dataset

What is happening, and what you can do. Check for potential edits with additions at the end of the post!

What is happening? What do we know?

A user going by "nyuuzyou" on the HuggingFace platform uploaded a dataset a few days ago - containing scraped content from AO3. HuggingFace is a very popular platform and widely used for sharing machine learning and AI models/datasets. The scraped dataset includes fics, fanart, and other fanworks - all taken without permission and intended for use in training gen AI models. You can find more information in this Reddit post.

This dataset is one of several compiled from various websites—at least seven in total. While two datasets have been removed, the AO3 one was only disabled on HuggingFace. This means that it’s not downloadable at the moment but still visible. It may also return if takedown efforts end up being challenged/reversed by that user.

Key Details

Scope: On AO3, all content with work IDs between 1 and 63,200,000 has been targeted. The work ID is the number at the end of a work's URL — for example, in https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345678, 12345678 is the work ID. You can find it by simply opening the work and checking the URL in your browser’s address bar. So, if your work falls in that range and is publicly accessible (i.e., not locked and open to everyone, including guests), it’s mostly likely included in the dataset. This dataset is currently disabled on HuggingFace, but that doesn't mean it's gone. It's only a temporary takedown as of now.

Takedown notices have been issued, but this user has also uploaded the dataset to other sites after backlash and partial removal.

There are talks in the discussion forums of potentially moving this dataset to Telegram, torrents, and/or other private channels.

HuggingFace AO3 dataset page

Other distributed sites listed here (as per a Reddit comment)

Currently deleted from ModelScope

What can you do?

Should the dataset return again and you see that your work was affected: file your own DMCA or copyright takedown notice. The uploader, in their own words, "has not agreed to take down the entire repo. At this time, the scraper has agreed with taking down art from the person who owns the copyright. That means each of you will need to request a takedown."

Instructions and a sample CSV template to list your work IDs for removal are provided in this guide. You can find more details in this announcement by PaperDemon.

Lock your works! It would limit visibility to registered users only, and is a very good step to prevent scraping or unauthorized use. To lock all your works on AO3, go to “My Works,” click “Edit Works,” and select all. Then click “Edit” and check the box labeled “Only show to registered users.” Scroll down and click “Update All Works” to apply the change.

⚠️ | Final Notes:

This user has so far shown no signs of stopping and is continuing to redistribute the data across multiple sites, even after numerous takedown requests (read more here). So, we can only recommend to be cautious and beware, lock your works, feel free to make use of takedown notices if you're unfortunately affected, and spread the word to fellow creators.

Follow up on this and get the latest updated in the Fanfic Communities Network (FCN) Discord Server!

If you have more information regarding this - e.g. if works from other sites are affected too - please reach out to us in the FCN!!

Edit (2025-04-26):

The user who has scraped the works has, upon request by another person, posted a way to convert ao3 json to markdown:

https://huggingface.co/datasets/nyuuzyou/archiveofourown/discussions/170

https://gist.github.com/nyuuzyou/b2f83669ad80a22e435728245ebcdf9f

This shows us that nyuuzyou continues to show no signs of taking down the scraped works.

[doubledeadstudio]

Are any of the RO'S sensitive to touch? Do they have any specific spots that are extra sensitive, like their spine, neck, abs, or something like that? I'm especially curious about Black—both before he became a zombie and now that he is one. And about Vicenzo, does the sensation in his right hand feel different compared to his normal one?

Second question: do any of them actually like having their hair pulled? Because I get the feeling our golden curls boy would probably rip our head off first.

Third question! Sorry for all the silly questions lol. What would they think of an MC who has the habit of biting—either out of anxiety or affection? Like, imagine MC suddenly reaches out and grabs Crux’s hand and BAM! full-on bite action. BUT not to the point of drawing blood… well, almost—but not really. Just leaving a nice little imprint of their teeth on his skin, and that’s it.

Btw, I love RH! I've already done all three routes and I still have so many options left to explore, which is awesome. I can’t wait to see Chapter Two, but for now, I’ll be busy drawing these pixels that have become my new hyperfixation.

Thank you so much!! And this ask is so fun, let's see...

I can imagine Crux having sensitive ears, Vin having a sensitive neck, and Black with a sensitive spine. Vin's eldritch arm feels brittle, like sandpaper or rocks/crystals that have rough surfaces. He can't process sensation on that hand, so he uses his human arm as his vehicle to connect with the world. (I think there's an interesting bit about how his dominant hand is used for cruelty, while his inexperienced hand is for touch, tenderness.)

They all like getting their hair pulled. Vin prefers it only in a sexual context.

HAHAHA... Black would be like -_- okay, this is happening out, just let it out. Crux would yelp if it's unprovoked, but egg MC on. Vin would be weird about it... he'd be like "yess, break my skin."

And thank you, anon! I'm currently 70-80% done with the next update ngl.

[whenshewrites]

Okay.

I mean I can’t do a flashback scene but I can do this.

Buck headed to work early the next day, Maddie’s advice - learn to be alone - ringing in his ears.

He tossed his bag in his locker, wandered upstairs, poked around the kitchen. Maybe there was still enough there to cobble together some cookies. He dug into the pantry, hunting for baking soda. Why could he always find the baking powder and never the baking soda?

He turned to check in the drawers and noticed Bobby at the top of the stairs. Thank God.

“Thinking about something? Or someone?” Bobby asked him, calmly smiling.

“Cap, something happened.”

Bobby nodded, taking in the apron Buck had put on without thinking and the look of consternation on his face. For as long as they’d known each other, Buck was still mystified by Bobby’s eternally even-keeled attitude.

“I think you killed the baking soda last week,” Bobby offered.

“Damnit.”

Bobby didn’t pry. He just stood at the opposite end of the counter, quietly content, knowing that Buck’s mind was working faster than his mouth right now.

“Tommy,” Buck managed to say, before faltering.

“Ahhh.”

“I - I - uhh, I ran into him. We reconnected, we had a good time, everything was going great, until I…” Buck stopped. What had he done, exactly? “I lashed out, I guess.”

“Why?”

“He said something that made me…made me feel like…” Buck fiddled with the flap of the flour bag. “It felt like he was accusing me. Of something I didn’t do - or, or didn’t feel. Don’t feel!”

Bobby furrowed his brow, trying to follow. “He accused you of feeling something you don’t actually feel?”

“Yes.”

“And that made you mad.”

“Yes.”

“Buck, I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear.”

Buck sighed, hung his head for a minute before looking up. “I know, I need to learn to be okay on my own.”

“No, you need to learn how to respond without letting your emotions get in the way. Look, if there’s one thing Athena and I both know, it’s that every time we walk out our front door to go to work, we don’t know what will happen to us. So we get mad at each other, sure. But if it’s just emotions running high, I’d rather get invested in resolving the problem, not in the emotion.”

Buck let this sink in for a moment as he pressed his knuckles against the countertop, then read out a refrain the 118 was all to familiar with. “So you think I should call Tommy?”

Bobby laughed. “Well, I think you need to figure out first if you want to invest yourself in fixing the problem.”

Buck nodded.

“You know, your solution for most things these seems to be calling Tommy,” Bobby added softly. “Something to consider.”

“Yeah.”

Bobby tipped his head to Buck, motioned for the office, headed off to finish up paperwork before the shift started, leaving Buck to put away the flour and sugar.

It wasn’t until much later that Buck would find out from Athena that Bobby went home that night, poured her a glass of wine, and they updated their bets with each other as to when Buck would call Tommy, give up on the high emotions, focus on the problem. Athena bet it would be another three months. It would turn out Bobby was right; Buck called within a month.

https://x.com/benbetwnworlds/status/1913825461689253953?s=46

Except that it WAS importantly for Buck to say “ex-boyfriend,” because it further clarifies for the general audience that Buck and Tommy never patched things up after the last time Buck mentioned him, when he said he would call Tommy. Now the audience knows that they are still not back together and it’s still a will they/won’t they.

Exactly, Annie...

But something that everyone seems to also be overlooking is the fact that Athena called Tommy Buck's boyfriend.

It's interesting because there's no way she wouldn't know that they broke up. Which means there's a reason she thought they were back together... *cough* Bobby *cough*

God, give me a flashback Buck and Bobby heart to heart talk ❤️❤️

[cccakessslicemeee]

I genuinely wanna see Riz not do save the world shit. Like it's great he does that. Love that about him. But I also wanna see him chill the fuck out and enjoy the breeze. I know it's not in his nature to chill the fuck out but like maybe he gets some work that's less intense?

Shenanigans. Maybe senior year and just the whole rouge bullshit class in general give him a bunch of time. The clubs don't happen until after school hours anyway so he's got time.

Maybe he gets into photography? He was already kinda doing that with evidence anyway at least to some degree. Or like someone comes up to him and is like... Hey my grandma's recipes have been lost in a fire and I know you are not the guy for cooking but you solve mysteries so please? I'll pay you?

Riz is like okay... Sure why not let's figure this out.

And spends a lot of time researching food and ingredients. This is a really long and time consuming "mission" because maybe it was a whole ass cook book that was a family heir look for a halfing family that owned a lil bed and breakfast or cafe in Bastion city and they caught fire bc [literally anything could fucking happen in magical fantasy blah blah blah land but I specifically DO NOT WANT IT TO BE INSURANCE FRAUD bc that's already been done and I want Riz to focus on the food bullshit because it's significantly less stressful...although he'd stress about it]

His clue board is revamped and it looks like one of those Pinterest boards with the cute as hell foods all over it and missing ingredients. Riz has to figure out the differences between onions and butters and different types of salt and brown sugar vs. white. Just like the prettiest clue board ever. Food is bizarrely complex.

Sklonda and probably Gorthalax coming back from work and the house smells a bakery. There's cookies and cakes and eggs and just a shit ton of food that Riz is trying to find the right flavor and spices for. The bad kids are hanging around eating his "mistakes"

Fabian is like "The Ball, you can cook???"

Riz shouts from the kitchen "ITS A BASIC LIFE SKILL FABIAN. EVERYONE CAN COOK."

Fabian would disagree after his mother's debacle with the cantaloupe.

Adine and Fig assuring Riz is very well done and happily eating everything he cooks. He's gotten so much better and Riz is like "yeah it's good but it's too spicy and this is a halfing recipe from like... Before the court of stars existed they wouldn't have-" and bla bla blah. He is looking for specifics.

I feel like Riz would bar everyone from the kitchen while he's working. Because God forbid Kristen come in there and poke her fingers in the dough. She so would. I'm pretty sure everyone would be tempted. Plus he can't have his walkway to the oven crowded.

I like to imagine that he has a kitchen area set up in the cooking club that people leave the fuck alone and also his home. Like it's hard work sure and his shoulders get fucked up from mixing batter all the time but like nobody is dying or fighting so it's kinda nice that way.

I can't say he'd love this or this would be enough to make him love cooking/baking. It's a toss up between hating it all entirely or finding that repetition and the making a plan/ the recipe. He'd pour his heart and soul into every dish he makes.

Also like personal preference and the distinctions between dishes that make them so different. I think it's funny if he makes a dish and Fabian tries it and he's all like "Mm. The last one you made was significantly better this is bland."

And riz is all like "oh? Really? Perfect."

"You were going for bland??"

"it's not bland Fabian it's just not seasoned with pepper and I used a shallot-"

"Oh? The weakest of the onions?"

Shit like that

He makes a whole binder. Maybe because Fabian always has something to say he slips in a couple of suggestion recipes or updates for a modern tongue.

The half ling who requested help is over the moon. Maybe the Pinterest clue board becomes a part of the menu. It would absolutely have the "stats" of all the food and where it came from, shit like calories and allergies. Just a wildly detailed thing

Also maybe he can take his mom out for dinner at the restaurant he kinda helped save. That would be cute.

[kingdoms-and-empires]

Hello there! I want to say, I LOVE your story! Fantastic world, fantastic characters, and plot. I can't wait for more (please, give us plebs some food! I mean more chapters and updates.) And by the way, I am happy to hear you are back on your feet. I noticed something in the RO options: Why does the M!MC have 1 Gay romance and the F!MC 1 Lesbian and 1 Bi? Don't you think that is a bit limiting? Is there a narrative reason? Thank you, and I wish you the best. :D Good Day!

It's supposed to be a surprise, but since im close to releasing the public update... in the Great Rewrite, all the ROs are playersexual now. They're open to be romanced no matter what!

Im telling you since your words made me smile <3 and cause i cant hold it in anymore!

I'm aiming for a more grounded romantasy feeling for KaE since romance will be very important to the story. Especially the whole potential-

-problems that'll happen once a certain point is reached.

(I recently rewatched the Revenge of the Sith in the recent rerun lmao)

I've always thought of my work as being inspired by

Homeric Epics (i was always a fan of Greek and Roman myths and stuff since i was young.)

Nordic Sagas but mostly Beowulf (only got into them cause of Vikings the show lololol, but I found myself increasingly engrossed by the Sagas)

Romance of the Three Kingdoms (Dynasty Warriors 4: Empires on the Xbox 360 introduced me to the series and ive been in love since lol)

And because of the above, the game series Nobunaga's Ambition.

Plus isekai and reincarnation manga/anime in general!

I feel like what makes worlds and stories interesting isn't the worldbuilding (though that helps alot, and is without a doubt my crutch atm) but the human emotions that can cause characters to act out, crash out, and do the things they do that can throw a wrench in any well-laid plan.

The new version is far more character driven than before as a result, and I love it. And what's more emotional than love?

The geopolitics, intrigue, war, kingdom building, and the rest of what makes KaE KaE is remaining, of course! Hell, I'd say there's even MORE now, as some of my Patreons would most likely agree with.

It's just that romance is being elevated to be more important to me.

I made this decision a while back because I felt the narrative and restrictive reasons of before no longer hold up with the rewrite changes I made to the world and story.

Cause I changed ALOT.

And we never really even met a majority of the ROs in previous versions so... it's not like im doing something like changing characters yall know and romanced lol, which btw, is ironically a bonus with all the rewrites and time ive taken to find my bearings with this story ;-;

Who helped me reach this decision a while back?

Why...

@when-life-gives-you-lemons-if thank you for putting up with me!!!!!

@leiatalon also helped me reach this decision (also thanks for putting up with me)!!!!!

Both are published authors with multiple titles below their belt that focus on romance, so they definitely had my rapt attention. They were especially kind enough to share their experiences and some advice when it comes to that area with me, and its thanks to their encouragement that I felt this was the right decision.

Please, check out their Tumblr blogs and look at the games they've released! They might interest you!!

What may also interest you?

You can actually see all the progress reports ive given on Patreon! They're free, and you can start from oldest to newest. Plus other articles that detail what im adding to the new version that's soon to release to the public. After all, this upcoming update is the last one that ends our childhood! And it'll be the one that finally makes it so everyone of you can read what I've worked on.

Once my Patreons test out the epilogue for the arc and give me the all clear, the public will get it!

That's all from me for now. Im still busy at work with the epilogue!

[thistlerock]

The Bad Kids Are all multilingual because hey dnd characters always are. Fun to think about. Update from later Fabian kinda hijacked this post at the end my bad. All I can think about is the character ™️

Fabian and Adaine speak a different dialect of Elvish than Fig but like it's still the same language. I'm not sure what Kristen and Riz would have learned — maybe Kristen the wood-elven dialect and Riz the high one? Cause people who would have maybe influenced church camp vs what Riz might have gotten in some elective at school or learned by himself via dictionary like the nerd he is. But maybe not that relevant, I don't think it makes too much of difference.

Gorgug writes most of his notes in Gnomish. And while all of the Bad Kids kind of do it because, well, multilingual moment, I think Gorgug does the thing the most where you're talking and you're like what the fuck is this word in English. Uhm. Uhm. Scheibenwischer. And he speaks the one language that none of his friends speak so they're all just idk man you're on your own. Also personal hc Gorgug starts learning Orc (Orcish?? Dnd languages so straight forward and yet so confusing to me.) after meeting his bio parents. Riz also knows Orc and I'm gonna assume Ragh would so um green bonding time. Also also personal hc Goblin and Orc are similar in the way German and Dutch are (I can only go off of languages I know so this is gonna be my only example. Lmao.) because yeah.

Anyway Fabian is I think the one who mixes them up the most on purpose. You know how teenagers in non English speaking countries will inject random English into every sentence because internet. And it's just a thing now. Fabian does this over in Kei Lumenera with the other elves and common (common being English just for clarification). He's fluent in elvish it just doesn't feel right man. BUT. SPEAKING OF HIM BEING FLUENT IN ELVISH. His accent in it is very distinctively Solesian and you can only hear a little bit of Fallinel in certain words. Which isn't that big of a deal but it's notable. Because Hallariel doesn't sound like that and she's the one who taught him. Let me word. Eugh.

She was obviously very. Negligent. But I think that up until Fabian was like, idk, three or four? He did spend a lot of time with her. Like she wasn't taking care of him or doing anything with him but he'd be in the room with her as long as he wasn't being "bothersome" (normal kid "annoying". crying, loud, needs help with everything. etc.) because then Cathilda had to come and get him. But she would talk to herself a lot and/or rant about things little baby Fabian really had no chance at understanding lol, and it's not like she wanted him to respond. But this would be in elvish because it's her native tongue, and because kids are sponges he learned elvish. They didn't raise him multilingual on purpose it just happens. Side note i think she talked to him in the womb a lot I do. There is something to me about her focusing a lot on this child until he was born / until he started becoming a proper person. (It was so easy to love him when he was just a part of her and wasn't a separate entity that she needs to actively try to pay attention to what who said that that's. Crazy.)

So yeah Fabian is fluent as a kid, but then as he gets older he really doesn't have an opportunity to converse in Elvish for years, so he. Forgets a little bit? And he'll still read stuff in the language but he doesn't speak it with anyone until the Bad Kids start to use it for secrecy reasons (which I actually think is really funny and inefficient because I'd assume this is one of the more common second languages in solace. But I digress.) And at that point he's conversational but gods he's rusty, but between Gorgug not understanding it all, Kristen's being super broken, and Riz clearly only knowing it through reading/writing and having trouble with pronunciation because this isn't a language he's used to speaking it's not that noticeable? Idk. Adaine probably clocked it but didn't think much of it.

It comes back to him pretty quickly, (and by Sophmore year he has no trouble in Fallinel + probably started speaking more elvish at home again now that his mother is kind of talking to him and Gilear is there) it's just that now his accent shifted. (And it's still the language he feels the least "at home in" or comfortable speaking. It's common -> halfling -> elvish for him. I think.) (Yes I know that his wiki says he also knows tornado. I think he understands it but can't speak it. I don't think he can make the required sounds I'll be real.)