#i think I'll stop scrolling Tumblr for a while

[your-average-mess-on-all-fronts]

I fucking hate how some people here will be genuinely incapable of wrapping their brains around the cognitive dissonance of people who have believed in or done really bad things also being capable of making good art. If you think this post is a personal attack on you, please block me right now, I have no desire to interact with you.

[orangeocelotmartyn]

Impulse's adventures in Tumblr

Scar: You get too deep in Twitter it gets scary. Impulse: I got too deep in Tumblr, I had to back off. Scar: (surprised) Ooh. Impulse: I started going down a-a little—Gem saw! Gem saw it happen. Gem was helping me with Tumblr and—and I started going down and she's like, "nope, stop. you gotta do a filter for that one." (he laughs) Scar: Uh oh. Impulse: I got a little too deep— Gem: Yeah, but seriously. You guys, y-y-you want to be on the Tumblr, but you don't want to be on the Tumblr, because—you don't have the right…attitude about the Tumblr! If you're gonna be on the Tumblr, you're gonna see the fandom stuff. And if—then you gotta be okay with seeing the fandom stuff. If you're not okay with seeing the fandom stuff, then you gotta let me set up your Tumblr! (beat) I'm personally okay with it all, I don't really care. Scar: (sounding like he's far away) What's the fandom stuff? Impulse: Like the shipping, and…stuff. Scar: Do they get into like, the rates on shipping these days? It's crazy.

Impulse: A-U? What do they call it, A-U? What's A-U stand for? Gem: Just, Alternate Universe Impulse: Alternate Universe, okay. Some of the alternate universe, I read some of those things, they're actually pretty cool. Gem: You shouldn't say that out loud. (Impulse begins laughing) Impulse: Oh, my bad. I'm not supposed to be there, sorry, safe place for you guys, I'm back out—I'm out. I-I didn't— Scar: I never venture to Tumblr. Impulse: Reddit was-Reddit was slow! Okay? If—listen. If Reddit's gonna be slow, I need an outlet for—(laughs) for my—(getting quieter) reading. Stuff. About myself. Gem: I'd be-I think Tumblr's fine, you just have to have the correct mindset. And you also shouldn't be talking about it on stream— Impulse: Yeah, my bad— Gem: —because it freaks them out, and then they start being weird. Tumblr's much better when they're just-they're just normal. Impulse: There was-there was plenty of normal stuff. I just-you can't go down the rabbit holes, I learned. (pause) And then people-people take—they take screenshots of me when I'm standing weird. (He holds up a picture to the camera) Scar: (starts laughing) What, wait what? Wait, hold on— Gem: Oh, wait, we can-we can tell about this. There-there was a Tumblr post that was, that was-that was pointing out all of the times that Impulse stood (Scar exhales a laugh) and-and-and yeah. Yeah, they-they were pretty pretty princess Impulse? Impulse: (talking over her) I stand so macho, what are you talking about (he laughs) Scar: I'm so confused, I-can I get a— Impulse: I literally had to work on my—stance, before Sunday because I saw something Saturday night and I was like, oh— Gem: It's very cute, it's very cute. (Impulse laughs) Scar: Can I see a photo? Impulse: I was pretty princess. Here, I'll bring it up again. Do you have my stream open? Scar: I wanna see it. Impulse: I'll find it again. Scar: Can I just say, can I just say real quick while he's doing that? Impulse—really swoled out. He looks like he could pick-pick up an ox. (Impulse laughs, clearly pleased) I really noticed it, like, Impulse-I see those guns, I was like, "this man could pick up an ox. If I fell on the ground, Impulse, one hand, could pick me up." Impulse: Thanks. Scar: O-oh my god, I just pulled up your stream, except there's an ad, so I just see it up in the little tiny box at the top— Impulse: Oh shoot—c'mon ads! Scar: —so it's even funnier. Oh, there it is. (he laughs delightedly) Little princess. Gem: Tumblr's so good, though, cause you just get to see funny stuff like that, and don't have to scroll through all the politics and crap that's on, like, X. Impulse: Mm. Scar: It's so bad, Gem. Gem: And Reddit. And is dead. It's just nice, I like seeing the fandom at it's purest form, please don't ruin it by telling them that you're on there. Impulse: Okay. Nah, I-I was just on there 'cause I, y'know, I was excited about the event. There was so many things being posted and stuff, I wanted to see—everything that was being said, about w-how people thought about the weekend, and favorite clips, and all that kind of stuff, I wanted to see it all, so I dipped into Tumblr. Just a little bit, just-just to dip my toes in, just a lil bit. I'm back out, I'm fine. I'll be alright.

Scar: But was it nice? Impulse: It was alright. Scar: Because it feels like Reddit, they just nitpick the smallest things, like— Gem: I don't find the Tumblr to be nitpicky at all. Th-they're more like a celebration of the fandom. Whereas the Reddit is like…hates the fan—hates-hates us, a lil bit. Lowkey. Scar: A little, there's a little there, there's a little there, it's—there's an enjoyment of nitpicking. They find the nitpicking more fun, and then Twitter, they're just confused over there. They don't know what's going on. (Impulse laughs) Gem: Tumblr definitely doesn't nitpick half of the—every now and then I'll come across a person who's like. A bit…odd. But you could just block that one person and it normally goes away. Impulse: I didn't understand Tumblr about—cause you can't see when something was posted. At least not on just the scrolling through, it seemed like. I didn't see anything that was like, "this was posted x amount of hours ago." And I'm used to that. So that felt weird to me. And then I didn't quite understand how, like, replies and stuff work. There's something about notes? And then I click on that and it got weird, and, I dunno. Gem: Oh, I can teach you, I can teach you that. Impulse: I just didn't get it. Gem: I didn't think you were going to be getting into like, actually posting. Impulse: I'm a boomer when it comes to—Tumblr. So I think—I'm okay. N-next time we hang out you can help me with my—filters. Gem: I think you should just pretend that you don't use it. Cause— Impulse: Yeah, just, I'm not gonna get on there ever again. (Windows error noise) Say what you want. Uh oh.

[pseudowho]

okay here’s me getting all cocky and confident because you answered my ask once (ily for that seriously i think i screamed and fainted and sobbed and climbed up the walls a little) and once again asking you for….. for crumbs………. so my horny self was sitting and thinking…………… nanami sees you reading absolute filth and porn and you end up in biig trouble.. (i.e him doing that exact thing to you 😭) or perhaps you going up to nanami after reading absolute filth and being all needy with him bcs that straight porn made you a liittle…….. yk… 🌚🌚🌚

anyways i literally love you and ur my favorite writer ever and im gonna stop now before i burst

SMUT [smuht] (noun)

In which Nanami Kento catches you reading dirty literature...and punishes you with a performative reading.

Warnings: The anon who keeps targeting me like this needs a warning label...but otherwise: roleplay, erotic literature (*laughs and laughs in Tumblr*) being read to you while you're systematically destroyed, performative Bad!Nanami, Kento fucks you wearing a mask and leather gloves, Pleasure Dom!Kento who gets lost in the sauce, reader way out of her depth, bondage, the usual spicy goodness, couple of cheeky movie references

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The one she knew only as the Man in the Mask swept over to her, delighting in her capture, having evaded him for so long.

"Ahhh..." he sighed, his breath sweeping over the swell of her breasts, and sending shivers down her spine. "Finally...the little mouse who has wreaked havoc on my dreams for too many lonely nights. How does it feel? To be trapped here with me like this?"

Her heart stalled in her chest, and she gasped, his grazing touch to her belly leaving embers in its wake. The Man in the Mask saw her nipples pebble beneath her shirt, and felt something snap inside him as he loomed over her with a whisper; "I know. I feel it too."

With little warning, he lowered his barely covered mouth to her neck, hungry against her, and--

The door opened, and you leapt out of your skin, dropping your phone to the floor. You sat bolt upright in bed, your other hand coming up guiltily from beneath the covers as Kento leaned into the bedroom to greet you. You interrupted him.

"You're home early," you said, offering an unconvincing smile. Kento looked at you, flatly. He let the statement hang for a moment. His shrewd eyes flicked, taking in the glossy subtleties he saw from you only in foreplay.

"...well I thought you'd be pleased, but I'll just go back then shall I--"

You hesitated, words caught in your throat. Your eyes flickered to your phone. So did Kento's. His eyes narrowed.

"...what are you read--"

"Nothing! It's nothing." You lied, unconvincing. You both hesitated for a moment more, before Kento darted. You cursed at him for being faster than you, and Kento's fingers closed around your phone, sitting beside you on the bed in one swift movement. You smothered a pillow over your face, screaming silently, wanting the duvet to grow great maws and swallow you whole.

Kento read silently for a moment, scrolling, before reading aloud; "...she didn't want to fight anymore, as his fingers slid between her puffy lips...goodness me...his cock strained against the fabric of his clothes, begging for attention...I bet it did..."

You had begun to crawl away down the bed, just a maggot, unworthy of the sun and all its glories.

You felt a hand clasp around your ankle, and you squeaked as Kento dragged you back up the bed, without even taking his eyes off your phone.

"I don't think so, where are you going--"

"--oh god Kento just give me something for the cringe and let me die--"

"--no no no I'm blessed to be a part of my wife's interests--"

"--I am less than human, we need a divorce, I can't look you in the eye ever again--"

Kento scoffed, dark and derisive. "As if I'd let you divorce me. As if you'd even want to...now, where did I put that..."

Kento stood, still holding your phone as he rummaged in his dresser. You laid flat to the bed, trying to wiggle away again, still embarrassingly wet, your mortification laced with undeniable arousal.

"Stay exactly where you are, or I'll damn well make you."

You stopped. You looked up at Kento, unusually meek, as he approached you. He stood by the bed, looming and powerful, a god made flesh. He unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, not bothering to remove his harness. He undid his belt with a clink-clink. He let his tie hang loose...and pulled a black balaclava down to beneath his collar. He finished off with a pair of soft, black leather gloves.

Something imploded inside you; a dial-up noise in your mind. Kento prowled over to you, looming over you and chasing you up the bed, caging you beneath him, and reading through the smut on your phone screen.

"Be honest," Kento read aloud, his honey-brown eyes swirling with something altogether darker and more dangerous, "if you'd wanted to escape me...you could have."

You panted, breathless, your pupils blown into inky black as you lay splayed beneath Kento. You couldn't help but be captivated, lost in his insidious pull. You felt your heartbeat between your legs.

"Did you stay because you dream of me, too?" Kento intoned. You bit the poisoned apple, trembling as you nodded up at him. "Did you stay...because you wondered if hatred was as erotic a passion as love?"

"--Kento, I-- let me go, I--"

"That's the spirit." Laughed Kento, his voice booming through you, the vibrations crackling across every nerve, and you whimpered. Kento grasped your hands together with his own, gloved and powerful, pinning them above your head with the whole weight of his body. He pulled his tie loose with the hand holding your phone.

"I can't let you leave...not now. Fuck...you have no idea what you do to me, do you?" Kento growled. Being the villain seemed so effortless to him. Your safe word had never been further from your mind, your attempts to leave so paltry and insincere. The way Kento looked down at you, waiting to see if you would make him stop, sent shivers down your spine. Kento released his tie, eyes skimming across your phone for confirmation.

"I'd apologise, for trapping you here like this..." Kento intoned, tying your bound wrists to the head of the bed as you squirmed, crying out in anguish, "...but I'll show you...how you've craved my touch, just as I have craved yours." You strained against the bonds, in just the silky chemise you wore for bed, and it didn't take much for your breasts to fall free of the fine little straps.

In truth, Kento had never been harder in his life. Seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted embarrassed squirms brushing your bare mound against his aching, thick cock...and your nipples, hard as diamonds and covered by a thin veneer of lace. His breaths were heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading.

"Just one taste, and we can return to how it was before." Kento groaned, his mouth suckling at your neck, licking, tasting, biting. You cringed against the assault on your senses, afraid to lose yourself to such diabolical pleasure. Kento pinned your bucking hips down with his own, the tip of his cock trapped beneath his waistband against his belly. "Just once...and we can rest easy at night, knowing how it feels for me to spend myself inside you."

You keened, mewling as Kento rested the phone on the pillow beside your head, and took your nipple into his mouth, ragging it around beneath his tongue with a fractured growl. Your head spun with the weight of him, totally captured, so wildly out of control. The suckling pleasure he gave to your nipples, connected in a fine thread to your clit, making it pulse with vicarious bliss.

"I can't...can't take it anymore...Ken--" You moaned, squeaking as his teeth closed in barely hinged warning around your breast.

"Unless it's to tell me to fuck you, I won't have you mewl like a kitten at me any longer." Kento rumbled against your breast, wet with his spit and the marks he left behind as he took what he was owed. "I hope you can take it. I'm...no small man. If you are ruined, after, I know you will bear the scars with grace, just as you have bore your hatred of me."

You were already so steeped in the hot rush of being pleasured, you did not notice how Kento's eyes glowered, lathering down your body and darting occasionally back to your phone. He continued his pilgrimage down your body. Kento growled in frustration at the chemise blocking him, and he rucked it up, spitting curses as you squeaked, wriggling against him.

"At least fight like you mean it." Kento laughed, and you blushed, eyes squeezed shut, mortified by how obviously faked your resistance was. Kento kissed his way down your belly, settling at your mound. He hovered, silent, giving your desperate clit nought but the breath from his lips.

"Do you want my fingers...or my mouth?" You whimpered again, babbling nonsense, such a rough and ruined heroine. Kento laughed again, dark and delicious, raising his mask just enough to free his mouth. "No words? No matter. You shall have both."

With little warning, Kento sunk his tongue between your folds, ragging his mouth and nose from side to side again to bury himself in the heat of you. You cried out as he growled into your heat, hitting a high note as he sunk two thick, gloved fingers into your fluttering pussy, slamming inside all the way to his knuckles.

Kento swore against your pussy, grunting and moaning as he lapped at your clit and entrance with animalistic rage. Quite canonically to his role, his cock wept against his belly, pre-cum leaking down onto his waistband until the fabric was cloying and sticky, the friction against his tip sending him spiralling. He couldn't help but fuck against the bed as you melted beneath him, writhing against his tongue.

Panting, letting his gloved fingers fuck into you and imagining it was his cock instead, Kento chuckled against your clit, at just how easily he had snapped. He pulled his fingers out of you for a moment, wickedly obsessed by the stark contrast of your creamy white arousal on the black leather.

He could smell you on the balaclava, the fabric over his nose soaking with your essence. Kento felt lightheaded with the blooming, heady scent of you. His cock twitched, aching and neglected, and so close to spilling thick spurts of seed all over its owner.

You risked looking down for just a moment. The eyes of a villain pierced through you, as Kento licked his gloves clean, not breaking eye contact once. You whimpered. He laughed, and curled his fingers back into you, continuing his relentless attack on your poor, aching cunt. Your moans reached a fever pitch, and Kento felt the creep of his own orgasm through his belly as he rutted against the bed with total abandon.

"Sing for me." He groaned, lifting your hips off the bed as he knelt, sucking your clit into his mouth in a devastating final move. You tipped violently over the edge, bucking against his tongue and crying his name, a stream of nonsensical babbles. Kento was quite sure you came harder than the girl in the story.

By the time you came back to earth, being licked in slow, languid movements through your peak, you saw Kento kneeling between your legs, stroking his cock in long, jerking pumps.

"You've reduced me to this." Kento forced, his teeth gritted and his mask back in place over his mouth. "To this...this boy, fucking his own fist just from the taste of you." Kento cursed, his gloved fist wet with pre-cum, cracking his neck from side to side and growling through his lurid tale. You lay, fucked out, bound, a fascinated by how Kento's whiskey-rich voice could fill you with fumes, warm and drunk one minute, but cold and piercing the next. You swung, manoeuvred across his harsh dichotomy.

Kento loomed over you, trapping you beneath him again, blocking the light from your eyes, a bad moon rising. "You did this to me." He hissed, accusatory in his possession of you. "You started this sordid fight. But I'll finish it. No more fisting my cock at night just to the thought of you. No more dreaming about bending you to my will."

You felt Kento's tip press through your entrance, thick and insistent enough that you squirmed up the bed, crying out as he yanked you back, his hands closing around your waist. Kento plaited his fingers in your tied hands, the ghost of affection, and readying himself to slam into your quivering heat. He was falling apart, he could barely contain himself, overcome by the raw power of making you pliable, shaping you to his desires--

Kento whispered in your ear, his voice shaking, gravelly; "And when you submit...know that it was entirely your fault."

You felt your delicate petals forced aside, crying out to be filled to the brim by Kento in one slick thrust. Kento could barely suppress a roar beneath his mask, throwing his head back in ecstasy. His enormous hands cuffed your waist, making it squidge down against your hips every time he dragged your hips, moving your pussy around him like a cock sleeve.

Kento's strength made manhandling you look easy. You lay ruined beneath him, your head lolling against the inside of your own bound arm. The image of him unbuttoned, masked, gloved and still almost fully dressed above you, grunting and groaning as he used your pussy for his own pleasure, burned onto your retinas.

Kento barely moved his own hips, his eyes fixed feverishly on where he dragged your swollen pussy around the length of his cock, twitching and burning inside you. He couldn't contain himself. The hook behind his navel, all scorched steel and selfishness, beseeched him to drag his pleasure from you.

"Fucking-- ruin you-- never be satisfied...by another man again-- keep running from me, and I'll hunt you down...and take you like this every-- fucking-- time--"

As Kento's pleasure roared over him, he punctuated his thrusts against your belly with the written word in action. Making nothing more than jolted, pitiful moans as he fucked repeatedly against your sensitive cervix and soft-spot, you clambered for purchase, sobbing your pleasure as his gloved fingers rolled your clit between them.

Kento came with a string of curses, his thighs cramping beneath him with the force of it. Feeling his seed begin to pump and spurt into you, he dragged you aggressively to another orgasm with his leathered fingers. He had to feel you clench around him, sucking his seed deep inside you. He had just enough forethought to recall his final, toxic line as he gasped, groaning and bucking with the force of his ejaculation.

You could barely hear him through the fog of pleasure, faint in the distance; "If you have the nerve...to crawl back to me...full and swollen-- know we can be enemies in matrimony, as well as battle."

The room was hushed and dark, the gloom broken only by your mingled, heavy breaths, and the earthy smell of sex. You reached up pulling Kento's balaclava up and pressing a breathless little kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"...but...we still have to get a divorce. I just-- couldn't live with you knowing what I read--"

Kento laughed, his shoulders aching from the weight of the villain, slipping away with his gloves and mask.

[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.”

[cassianig]

-When we're older-

Manjiro Mikey Sano - words: 558 warnings: none

“(Y/N).”

“...”

“(Y/N)..”

“..”

“(Y/N)!”

“Huh?”

“Pay attention to me.” Mikey whines and throws his body onto the bed, his bottom lip jutted out.

Your boyfriend was impatient. You knew this. Why had you even tried to scroll through Instagram while he was in your presence? Simply because he was on his phone, his nose so deep in the thing you didn’t want to bother him.

“I thought you were on your phone.” You state and your eyes flick from his black ones to the device that sat in your hand, which obviously annoyed him.

He lets out a whine, his body scooting closer to yours. He throws his head into your lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. He glances up at you, his bottom lip still jutted out, his dark eyes are on your face, and when you finally look at him he catches your gaze. “I was, but now I want you to pay attention to me.”

You click off your phone and set it off to the side, raising an eyebrow as you reach one of your hands out and push his blonde hair out of his face. He lets out a hum and throws his legs out his arms tightening on your waist, one of his hands reaching down to slide into your shirt— his shirt, his nimble fingers running along your side.

“Play with it more.” He demands quietly, his head turning to lay on your thigh. So you do, running your fingers into the mess it had become through the day. Your fingers work through his hair, twirling the strands before your fingers crawl their way up to his scalp and start to massage it. He lets out a satisfied soft sigh and closes his eyes.

“Good?” You question, not once pausing your movements.

“Yeah.”

“...”

“...”

It’s quiet for a while. The only sounds are his and your breathing, his had become shallow and you figured he had started to fall asleep where he lay. His eyes were closed and his movement on your side had also stopped. Still your fingers continued to lightly massage his scalp.

Not too long later your fingers crawl to his cheek, your other stopping its movement as you glance down at him. 

His eyes flick open and his eyes find yours quickly, his pout returns and he whines, “Why’d you stop?”

“Thought you fell asleep.” You whisper leaning down to place a kiss on his nose before you pull back.

He tilts his head to the side, “Don’t stop.”

Your fingers return to his scalp and you start your actions again. You sigh lightly and he closes his eyes again, his pout disappearing.

It’s silent for a while again, but he breaks it, speaking up as his eyes open again looking at you. “When we’re older…” He pauses and his eyes search yours before he continues, “Do you think we’ll get married?”

You tilt your head. “Probably.”

He smiles, “Good, I want to marry you.”

You smile back at him leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead.

“I'll ask you.” He admits, “When we’re older, I’ll ask you to marry me.”

You lean back and stare into his dark eyes, “I’ll  be waiting.”

He hums out and closes his eyes again. “You’ll never get rid of me..”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.” 

--------

I learned things kinda ill master tumblr one day.

[littlest-bugz]

The Collective You

[one system's brief advice about accepting the idea of the collective you]

One of the best pieces of system advice started from a tumblr post and was elaborated by my DID specialist. I can't find the original tumblr post that started it, so I'm making a little post of my own <3 Share the knowledge. and also hope that someone can link the original post lol.

When I was REALLY going through it™ with my first diagnosis w/ DID, and a lack of integration, all of my alters felt like separate individuals, some of us feeling as distanced as a coworker or a stranger altogether. We were just getting a grasp on internal communication between all of our subsystems, and it was rough. We felt so entirely differentiated that we were our own people trapped in one body. While I don't really care about what language you use, all alters in CDDs are a part of one person [there's only one body and brain]- the collective you.

So obvs, I'm scrolling tumblr like the chronically online doomscroller that I am, and I see this post that goes along the line of not knowing who you are, but knowing you are 'you', regardless of who you are [referring to alters]. And it said something like "we're all me enough to pick up our meds"- something like that. iirc it was a half light hearted, half advice post, but that was really good advice for me. I kind of internalized it after I processed it in therapy. It's actually why I have started to love parts language lately tbh.

After further processing this idea in therapy, Identity Confusion stopped mattering in the grand scheme of things. I focused less on worrying about who I was, and just focused on the fact that I'm me. Just like the post I saw- We are all me. The example of all being me enough to pick up my medications just applied, like, everywhere. Even when it came down to the smallest things- with coping with other symptoms too.

Oh? I don't like coffee right now? I guess I should switch to something else. [differentiated alters]

Oh? I have barely any drawing skills right now? Okay, really sucks but I can work on something else and come back to it later. [skill variance between alters]

Oh? I have to go to a doctor's appointment? I know I'll forget that- Gotta write a list, and put it up on the board so I remember. [day to day amnesia]

You know what happened? My dissociation got better! Not immediately or entirely, obviously, and my memory [re amnesia] still sucks, but that's part of the disorder- plus other disorders that I have. This idea of the collective you is something that I think is really beneficial to all CDD systems, especially during the mid to later stages of recovery.

I, admittedly, credit most of my healing to conversations I have had with my DID specialist. Especially since, without her, I wouldn't have been able to process this idea of the collective me further, but the conversation wouldn't have been started if I hadn't seen that post on tumblr. This was a budding concept with us due to the separation we had. It helped with integration. GRANTED... Not every alter got the memo, obviously, but It's something that I'm still working on. Of course, being me comes with the prerequisite that I am a person with DID, and that I am made up of multiple parts.

Now for the piece of advice I got from my therapist- Though it requires a certain level of knowledge of your own system, such as a list of alters and some identifying info [fav drinks, fav colors, those type of things]. Look at the list of your alters wherever it may be. Just whatever you use for logging your system members. Look for the commonalities between alters. There will be at least some commonalities.

For example; A good 45% of us like bunnies, 45% like cats, and 10% have a liking for other kinds of animals. Using this information, I can pretty much deduce that 1. the collective me loves animals and 2. the collective me likes cats and bunnies especially.

Another example; I looked through our simplyplural, which has a favorite color thing [in ours at least]. By looking through the list, I figured out 1. wow I like literally all colors- my fav color is rainbows and 2. I especially like pink and light blue.

More examples; the list.. THE LIST... I looked through it and saw that a good 90% of us like MONSTER ENERGY DRINKS- of varying flavors, but the common denominator was Ultra Strawberry Dreams, but all of us like [or tolerate] water as a preferred drink. From there I can come to the conclusion that I prefer water over anything else and that I have a problem with monster [being light hearted but I genuinely do].

I hope you get the idea I'm going for. I used this process for nearly every aspect of our collective identity, though some had to genuinely be voted on, such as our LGBTQIA+ labels [offline, we just call ourself queer, but that's.. aside the point LMAO].

Obviously, there are going to be outliers- Having DID comes with the fun [/s] aspect of alters being differentiated from each other in some capacity. Example for the monster energy one- We have a handful of alters that HATE energy drinks- even just fizzy drinks in general. There's one guy who will only drink Black Coffee and water- nothing else. He's the guy who is always hiding away our monsters in the way back of the fridge, but guess what!! He's me!! The part of me that doesn't want me to ruin my health over energy drinks. The part of me that knows I deserve better than my unhealthy habits.

Getting to know the collective you is just like learning about your system! It is not inherently different than figuring out what an alters dislikes or likes are. The idea of The Collective You shouldn't feel scary or anxiety inducing- if it is, you may want to confront those feelings with a therapist if you have access to one. Every CDD system is the collective [or, well, system] of one fragmented individual- That is a studied and objective fact. I wanted to give advice from one recovering system to another.

No, this will not work for everyone, every system is different, but I'm hoping this post finds the right audience in knowing that it's worth a shot to try this!

[stars-for-circe]

Circe's Most Frequented 🤍🤍🤍

My favourite authors over many different fandoms, for your indulgence.

@astralnymphh - TLOU, sapphic, shakespeare reborn

𖣂 There is no one else who could begin this list except for you tbh. One of the first authors I ever followed on this app and your work has never failed to blow me away; from your beautifully paced works that never run out of new prompts and tropes that you always nail, to your crazy big words you scavenged from wordhippo and managed to intergrate perfectly into your fics. To the Ellie Williams enthusiasts, give her fics a read and I promise it will change the trajectory of your lives forever. And don't be afraid to send her an ask, because she will quite literally craft a masterpiece.

𖣂 My recommendation: 'The Salvo Project'

@vifilms - TLOU, sapphic, she makes tumblr formatting her bitch

𖣂 At first it was your witty drabbles, then you graduated to 10k fics that take everyone's breath away. The way you can turn a single tiny idea into such a detailed work while also integrating the essence of each character you write into every single paragraph never fails to amaze me every time you appear on my feed. With your constantly changing layouts, and your beautifully crafted fic headers that show just how much of your heart goes into everything you put onto this app, you keep raising the bar again and again.

𖣂 My recommendation: 'Long Night, Long Ride'

@sweetercalypso - TLOU, multi

𖣂 Also one of my first follows, I remember quite clearly scrolling through the Abby Anderson tag on ao3 and being so blown away that I basically did a cartwheel when I saw you on tumblr. Your fics are the perfect late-night fix that are to-the-point, and your drabbles are filled with every trope anyone could even think up. And I'll shamelessly admit that reading your fics definitely moved Joel up quite a few slots in who I liked most within tlou.

𖣂 My recommendations: 'Texas Hold 'Em' + 'Uncharted Territory'

@the-kr8tor - Spiderverse, f/m, sfw

𖣂 I gotta say, this third movie needs to speed up so more people can come here and see how well you write for the spiderverse. Finding you in the tags was like a breath of fresh air, and your series works have kept me up at night on more than one occasion because of their binge-worthy goodness! From the adorable drabbles of Billie and Ramona, to the ups and downs that come with being a pirate, your works keep me invested even in the first, second....twenty-something times I've reread them.

𖣂 My recommendation: 'Our Place In The Middle Of Nowhere'

@s-4pphics - TLOU, Arcane, sapphic

𖣂 I hope you know that when you released 'The Call', it kept me up at night. Seriously, you're a genius. Maybe this style has been written before but it's the first time I've seen it. And amidst all the Sevika and Vi works that were being pumped out after the release of season 2, that fucking gem was put on my feed and it genuinely blew my mind. It was the perfect combination of crack-style fic and dark humour, coming together to make this smutty, hilarious, jaw dropping fic that had me pacing around my room a couple times - one of my favourites of all time.

𖣂 My recommendation, obviously: 'The Call'

@taintandviolent - Ahs, f/m, multi-fandom extraordinaire

𖣂 First of all, your username is fucking genius. Like actually, it had me saying it out loud and having such an OHHH moment and now I can't stop thinking about how cool it is. Secondly, if anyone has a taste for dark, gritty, horror infused tropes, or loves anything Evan Peters just like I do, her blog is the way to go. Her page is unapologetically for the monster-loving girlies who 'can fix him', and there's a little bit in there for every fandom that finds her. You're one of my favourite authors to send requests to, and you have definitely made me see Bill Skarsgard in a different light as of recent. 𖣂 My recommendation: 'Ouija Board’

[somniseeker]

“ding!” [ undertale x reader ]

series masterlist : [here] | chapter one

summary: you can’t sleep, and at 3:49 AM, a notification pulls you into a mysterious group chat called UnderChat. the members—quirky and chaotic sans au’s like ink, fresh, and error—welcome you as their newest recruit, insisting you’re from an alternate universe. confused but curious, you hesitate to believe them, wondering if you’ve stumbled into the strangest roleplay or something more.

3:49 AM

That was the time, obviously. You were not catching a wink of sleep tonight, even though those eyes of yours were pratically burning at this point. Blinking at the bright light which popped up when you clicked a notifaction. "DING!" echoed the phone on full volume: You were just about to scroll through tumblr aud—

Oh.

Oh. . 

You've been added to a groupchat.

Immediately sitting up you rubbed your eyes, curiousity gleaming in them.

UnderChat 

You don't remember downloading that app. . Perhaps you accidentally clicked on one of those explicit advertisements on accident while reading on pirated websites, that seems like a plausible explanation. Still doesn't explain why you're recieving notifactions saying your in a groupchat. A groan escaped your lips as you clicked the notifaction, although accepting the fact this was some sort of call-out cancel groupchat, an accidental add, or it's fake and it's a virus. Probably the latter.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[ SLEEPRLUVR has joined the group ]

FunkN'Fresh: wellllp ill be diddly darn darned we gots a new funky fresh membah?

GlitchBitch: Stop typing like that.

FunkN'Fresh: noo can do funny magic maannnnnnnnn

[ GLITCHBITCH has muted the groupchat ]

FunkN'Fresh: you maaaaaaad.

Ink: Oh! New member yay, Okay so I can explain this as your probably confused sans!

Ink: Eheh, "how do you know my name" you might ask! wellllp, yknooow the multiverse and all that stuffs? We made a groupchat!

SLEEPRLUVR: what? 

Ink: Okay so a basic run down of how the app works, the three icon's at the side shows you every AU that has joined so far and what their username is - You need to create a profile with yours!

SLEEPRLUVR: what

Ink: Oh— You must still be confused, I'll just do it for you! What AU are you from?

SLEEPRLUVR: what.

Ink: ...

Fell2cool4school: prolly from "what"!tale lmfao

SLEEPRLUVR: no, just wasn't expecting roleplayers in my schedule today. i can do this - what aus are open?

.

.

.

The chat suddenly went dead silent, leaving you staring groggily at your phone, squinting at the screen. You couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Does it really take this long to grab a character masterdoc? It's been a while since you last roleplayed, but this felt off. When the next message finally popped up, you couldn't help but roll your eyes. 

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Ink: Oh, uh... this isn't exactly roleplay, but I get why you'd think that! Anyway, we’ve got a lot of AUs here, so take your pick! Let’s see… there’s Underswap, Underfell, Dancetale, and even some wacky ones like Dusttale and Underlust, but let’s not go there unless you’re into, well, *that* kind of stuff. 

SLEEPRLUVR: ...i’m just going to ignore that last part.

Fell2cool4school: aww c’mon, why skip out on the fun? 😈

SLEEPRLUVR: This is ridiculous. Okay, so let's say I believe this whole “multiverse” thing. Why am I here?

Ink: Well, every AU needs a representative! Think of it like... a council! Each universe gets one member to join the chat, share ideas, keep peace, y’know? And... well, you’re the lucky one picked from your AU!

SLEEPRLUVR: but i don’t even know what AU i’m from. how am i supposed to “represent” it?

FunkN’Fresh: uhhh doesn’t seem too funkay to me, guess they jus got dropped here like a beeboppin’ newbie!

GlitchBitch: Figures. Another clueless one. Just what we needed.

Ink: Don’t mind them! We’ll figure out your AU together! It’s kinda exciting, right?

SLEEPRLUVR: mmm, more like nerve-wracking. can i leave?

Ink: Nope! Once you’re in, you’re in. But don’t worry, we’re all friends here! ...Sort of.

Fell2cool4school: speak for yourself, inkhead. i ain't here to make friends. only enemies. and sometimes frenemies. but mostly enemies.

SLEEPRLUVR: yyyeah, i’m definitely going to regret this. okay, so if I’m stuck here… how do I create this profile thing?

Ink: Just tell me a bit about yourself, and I’ll set it up for you! Favorite color? Likes? Dislikes? Any cool abilities? C’mon, spill!

SLEEPRLUVR: umm… favorite color? any, I guess. Likes? Sleeping. Dislikes? Waking up. Abilities? being normal???

GlitchBitch: Abilities: None. Fitting.

Ink: rainbow, sleeping, normal. Got it! I’ll just make your profile super quick…

FunkN’Fresh: "likez sleeping" heh. typical standard sans bruh.

[INK is typing…]

Ink: Done! Welcome to the UnderChat, SLEEPRLUVR!

SLEEPRLUVR: …i’m going to need a lot of coffee for this, aren’t I?

FunkN’Fresh: forget coffee, maaaaan. get some soda in yer veins, get the funky fresh groove goin’!

GlitchBitch: Or you could just log off and get back to your irrelevant existence. Just saying.

SLEEPRLUVR: …i’m starting to think leaving this group would be the sanest option.

Fell2cool4school: too late for that, buddy. you're one of us now. welcome to the madness.

     You sat on your bed, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the screen with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity. That was... ermmm, certainly an experience. These people seemed like some serious kinnies or something. You hadn't seen roleplayers this deep in character since the wild days of Danganronpa Kokichi Tumblr drama. You gnawed at the inside of your cheek, debating your next move. You had things to do in the morning, so maybe it would be smart to just get some sleep. But then again—shouldn’t you figure out which AU to be? They didn’t even give you a proper list of what was available!

     You could at least deduce a few things. Obviously, GlitchBitch was the Error Sans of the group, with his snarky, broken-text vibes. Ink was, well, Ink, and FunkN’Fresh was soo stereotypically hippie, it was a dead giveaway who he was supposed to be. But who else was in this group—this "UnderChat" as Ink called it? And how were you supposed to see these profiles they mentioned? The whole thing was making your head spin, trying to figure it out.

     Still, as you finally set your phone down and pulled your covers over you, you couldn't help but feel a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Yeah, it was weird—being added to some mysterious group chat by what seemed like over-enthusiastic roleplayers—but there was something almost... nostalgic about it. It had been a while since you just sat back and played pretend, no matter how weird the scenario... or old the fandom was.

     Maybe tomorrow you’d hit up the Undertale Wiki and find a cool AU to rp as. After all, if you were going to be stuck here, you might as well have some fun with it.

* A/N: uhm, this was written for ao3 and crossposted on quotev and now we're here. it looks best, imo, on quotev because it comes with extra media!! but im here because ppl can send asks n stuff for extra content of the skellies. please reblog or comment , it helps my motivation

[pamicakery]

˚₊‧꒰ა preparing winter arc ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It's been a while uh? Since... September I guess. I manifested stuff like food... Basically food and 1k subscribers. Which is nice and

Thank you so much!!! 🩵🩷🩵🩷

Here is a little story. Before I made this page, I've already made many many many tumblr accounts about Loa. Nothing happened. I posted and waited for people to come. I wanted to be popular. But.. No.. I had 5 followers.. Counting myself with.

With Pamicakery, when I created that page.. I felt like my post will be viral if I can put it like this. For me, it was a great idea. No doubts it's gonna flop. I decided. Today I am here sitting with 1k people with me. 1k. I never had so much in my life but I knew. I decided, I told myself that this page is gonna grow. People will come and appreciate what I have to say.

Before the Pamicakery account, I had an Instagram page. I used to post my drawing and nothing happened. For 3 years. Even if I posted, the best I could have got was 5 likes.

I put it as a goal. I want my 100 followers. I want them and I will have them. I affirmed, for days. 3 days I affirmed. Even thought I saw that. For me that 84 will change into a 100.

And here we are 3 days later.

Your life can change In a snap of the fingers.

It's not a lie. This is what a change of mindset do to your 3d. I wasn't destined to keep my 72 followers for the rest of my life. It was a circumstance but I decided that I was above it.

And I was thinking about my appearance and I was like.. How many

2020

2021

2022

2023

2024

Are we gonna be like this? Crying over our desires, seeing summer and winter pass. How many time? Because one day, if you do nothing your Sp will be taken, your job offer will go away. How many time will your scroll on tumblr for the best advice? Are you gonna have epiphany at 60's?

Why do you keep asking '' Can I manifest this or that? ''.

You decide. It's like going in a restaurant and asking another customer if you can order this or that.

Stop seeing your life Scrolling in front of eyes. Years and years are going. We have to be strong, we have to decide and persist.

It's not that bad if you don't believe it but keep persisting in having the thought that you can do it.

Keep thinking it. It will become an assomption.

You are the General and your army follows you. If you think you will fail, you army will think that too.

You don't want to be a loser anymore, you don't want to whine about your circumstances. So do i.

We have only one 2024 in all the history of humanity and you are wasting this. So get up, and train your mind to success, Saturate it with your achievement, be happy because you will succeed, Program your brain to success. Affirm, visualise. The success must be running 24/24 in your mind.

Get up early, if it's hard? Go harder! But never stop, decide. Don't let the 3d making fun of you anymore. If you think it's to hard, you are weak, the 3d will not sugar coat you.

Be stronger, be unstoppable. Shout in your 4d, Roar in your mind, and keep going! Keep going and keep going and keep going. Take 5 minutes and repeat that you will succeed, go to your mind to seek for evidence, persist and never give up.

One day there will be no more 3 days, or a week, or tomorrow. Decide to change today, right now.

-choose.

-see it as a goal.

-The image of your success should be your 4d wallpaper.

-Affirm and Condition Your Brain for Success

-Persist and know that it will change.

-make internal conversation.

-Repeat the thought of you being good at manifesting

LET'S DO THIS WINTER ARC AS MASTERS MANIFESTER.

(I just came here to say that, but then.. I'll put myself in the state of a conqueror, a warrior and a master Manifester. 🐎)

[apollabarnes]

that was us part three

quick author's note: originally i wrote this series to coincide only with abby's appearances, so i didn't try and cover the time between abby leaving los angeles and coming back during the train derailment — however, since i've continued writing this series i've realized that what i orginally wrote had a lot of backstory that only existed in my head, but that was very much flavouring the rest of the story. i didn't write the tommy and abby interactions at the hospital as the first time they'd talked since he moved to harbor but all of that backstory stayed off the page. this is part of me trying to correct that, and i'm editing parts one and two to cover more of it. also, i know the hospital is originally part three, but this is sneaking in between chapter two and three (i'll update it on ao3 when i'm at my actual computer and not sneaking onto tumblr during work hours)

a tag for @leashybebes who asked to be tagged if i wrote any more of this!

abby's mom dies and she falls apart. she barely makes it through the funeral, buck holds her together while she's sorting through all of her mom's things and it's just. suffocating. her mom's passport is the last straw — how many things did she put off, thinking there would be more time before she got her diagnosis? how many things has abby put off? she loves being a dispatcher. she loves la. buck is the best thing that's happened to her in close to a decade. there were so many things she was planning to do before she tore her rotator cuff. then it was rehab, trying swimming again, quitting again — pushing off all things she'd thought about doing since she was a kid. tommy had helped with that, given her somewhere safe to recover while she licked her wounds, and still she'd put things off. put them aside and shoved them down and promised herself later, later, later. it's later and she still hasn't done even one of the things she wanted to do when she was younger.

she's going to start with her mom's old travel itinerary. abby packs a bag, buys an airline ticket, tells buck she's leaving. the thought of trying to sublet her apartment or sell it is just too much to deal with right now, so she offers him the apartment because he hates living with his roommates and she's certainly not going to be using it. she tries to be as gentle as she can. abby was stuck for a really long time and buck's the one that got her unstuck. it's a gift she's a hundred percent certain he has no idea he gave her, and she doesn't have the words to thank him for it, so she's gentle instead. buck deserves gentle. he deserves better than her, but she doesn't say that either. he wouldn't take it as the compliment she means it as.

it's a cliché to say that she can feel her heart break when he drops her off at the airport, but clichés become clichés because they're things that are true and universal.

abby sits in the airport lounge and waits for her flight to be called. she very quickly gets bored and pulls out her phone, staring at it. if she texts buck now she'll just turn around, let herself get stuck again. she'd like it, too. she wants to try. she can't stay. she scrolls through her phone contacts, stops on tommy's name. snaps a photo of her drink and the departures screen behind her.

guess who's going to europe?

since when do you text?

apparently phone calls are for fossils.

he didn't actually call you a fossil, did he?

no, of course not, but he's a texter. so. i am too now, i guess.

europe, huh? and a guinness to get you started. so you're headed to ireland.

how'd you guess?

your mom mentioned it a few times. really loved a good brogue and pierce brosnan.

she did, didn't she?

yeah. i'm really sorry, abby. about your mom and the fact i couldn't make it.

thanks. any recommendations for when i'm over there?

i'm more of a desert guy, hang on. i've got an idea.

what is this, a group chat? wait, abby texts?

why is everyone surprised that i text?

sal, abby's looking for places to visit in europe.

hey, sal.

head to italy. stop. eat. come home.

sal, jesus. i was hoping you'd be a little more useful.

well, no, he's got a point tommy, i do love pasta.

jesus, fine, stop — gina says hi, by the way. abby, i've been informed by your ex you're going to ireland first.

someone's got to keep you on track, sal.

you've already got the gift of gab since you're on the phone all day, so you can probably skip the blarney stone. there's the giant's causeway. and all the travel magazines try to rank the castles, but they're all neat.

didn't realise you'd spent so much time in europe, sal.

well, gina's the expert (and dictating some of this to me) but hey. she took me over for our honeymoon and we hit the highlights.

we're both very impressed, sal. how long are you going to be in europe, abby?

i don't know. until i get… inspired.

is the baby hotshot coming with?

i hate it when you two call him that.

we could have used his name if you'd ever given it to us.

and have you track him down at work and crack jokes? i don't think so. abby stares at her phone for a long moment before texting again. no, he's not coming. we broke up.

he broke up with you after your mom died?

forget cracking jokes, we'll track him down at work and break his leg.

thank you for the offer, i think? but i was the one that broke up with him.

why?

was the sex that bad?

because i'm going to europe and i don't know when i'm coming back?

gross, sal. abby, if this kid was really into you, he would have waited.

don't listen to tommy, abby, he's still half-hung up on this girl that dumped him ten years ago.

sal!

sal!

abby gets a solo text almost immediately from tommy, promising to dunk sal's head in the nearest toilet the next time they're in the same place. she laughs to herself, startling when the announcement for her flight comes crackling out of the overhead speakers.

that's my cue, gents. sal, just because you and gina wish tommy would move in doesn't mean you have to project that feeling onto us.

he's just so much better at folding laundry than sal ever is - gina

i'm not running away, we got a call. but i'm really embarrassed to know all three of you.

[quietstormxr]

Ok, I need to get this out before we have Onyx Storm out on Tuesday.

If you are in the camp that Violet does no wrong, you may not enjoy. But, if not, I need someone to hear me out, so you're it beautiful people of Tumblr.

I need to know why in IF Violet cannot let go of the 'I don't know him' bull. Like girl, you asked I believe 3 personal questions the entire time of FW. How pray tell did you think you would get to know him after 3 questions?!?

You have a mind link. You can chat as if a cellphone is attached to your brain all damn day and night.

It's been a while since I've been in the dating scene, but when you were/are falling for someone, don't you want to know everything about them personally? More than just sibling count, favorite food, and where you were on one particular night.

I could honestly think of about 10 questions that would have been open-ended enough that could have gotten that man to talk. What about his favorite color? Favorite childhood memory? His dad is a sore spot, ask about favorite place he visited? What did he want to be when he grew up?

Did you never talk while training on the mat? While flying? You just spent every hour with the man in an instructional way or lusting after him???

In IF, it was a big deal that the cadre was keeping them apart, however, besides when her squad was drugged for RSC, why couldn't they talk mind to mind in Samara? You mean to tell me he blocked you out and didn't get any breaks for food to chit chat when he was on 24hr duty?

The first time he came back to Basgiath, he sharpened weapons and it seemed like there was a several hour time lapse. What did you do just stare at each other?

And I'm aware Xaden could've asked things too. But he wasn't the one making a big deal out of 'I need information to center myself'.

The man starts writing you letters and you have no damn questions for him, even after the letters.

Bodhi mentions Cat, but how long does it take for her to bring it up. If it were me, that would have been the first thing out of my mouth when I saw him next.

Sometimes it just frustrates me how it's always about Violet's attraction to Xaden physically, but I feel a lack in the actual pull just for the man he is because she never asks about him - even before the end of FW.

Don't get me wrong, I know Violet's going through it and she's got a lot to make sense of. If anything, getting to know him better would take your mind off of everything else going on.

On top of that, her mom is a General, she should be more than aware that she can't know every single detail. Brennan even told her the Assembly kept things from Xaden, so he didn't know everything. She isn't new to the military life, and between the scroll that drops and the missives in her mom's office they never hear of, it should be clear they are getting a very watered down version of everything going on.

Just ugh....I'll stop there. If you've read this far, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk, just needed to get that out. Also, another snippet will be coming out tomorrow!

[mossy-rock-in-a-field]

My Elderly Mother Plays Baldur's Gate: Part 4

If you're not up to date on the saga, my mom is having me play Baldur's Gate 3 on her behalf because she has trouble using controllers/keyboards but still wants to "smooch the wizard boy." She is playing a neutral good wood elf druid; this is a detailed account of her crimes. Part 1 & 2 Part 3

Hey, everybody! Thanks to everyone who followed my blog to keep up with my mom's adventures. Also, shout-out to whoever called my mom "Crime Mom" last time I posted about this; she really got a kick out of that. We played for a full day yesterday so we could really get into Act III and make some progress.

Here are the atrocities she committed during yesterday's play session:

My mom is very pissed that she cannot keep Myshka the white cat. When she found Myshka, she told him that she was his mother because of course she did. Naturally, Myshka started following her around the city after that, and she was SO thrilled about it. However, when we went back to camp to trade out a companion and immediately came back to the city, the cat wasn't following her anymore, and my mom was so fucking upset. ("That boy thinks I'm his mother and I LEFT HIM! Why can't I take my son back to my camp with us?") My mom told me to tell my "tumblr friends" that Myshka should be able to join our camp like Scratch and the owlbear cub. So, if any of you guys are from Larian—take notes, I guess. My mother demands a cat son.

Upon seeing Mystra for the first time in the Stormshore Tabernacle cutscene, my mom immediately said in the bitterest voice imaginable, "I'm prettier than her." She is, of course, right. Fuck Mystra, all my homies hate Mystra.

When we found the Hag Survivors Group, my mom asked me if she could try combat for the first time, and she actually started to get the hang of it. ("Left bumper, mom. No, that's the trigger. BUMPER. Other left. There you go.") However, she didn't fully understand what "area of effect" meant and decided to cast Fireball ("Ooh, I've always wanted to use that one!") in an enclosed space before I could stop her. She instantly incinerated Mayrina, the floorboards, and the paladin, Adrielle. I was so fucking proud of her but also laughing so hard I was nearly in tears. She had me reload the save for her.

My mom returned the stolen money to the Counting House's head banker, then asked me to rob the rest of the building on our way out. When I asked her about the logic of this particular decision, she said, "We're saving the city from mind flayers, so these funds are really going back into the local economy when you think about it. We're a great cause!" I have no idea why she didn't just keep the stolen pouch of money in the first place. We wasted so many scrolls and Arrows of Transposition to get everything out of those vaults.

She was FURIOUS when she found out Auntie Ethel wasn't actually dead. My dad called in the middle of the day to check in on dinner plans and mom kept him on the phone for at least ten minutes while she ranted about hags who "should stay dead when they're told to."

My mom adores Jaheira. The two of them are very similar to each other, so I think she gets a kick out of seeing Camp Mom do Camp Mom things that she would do if she were actually in the game. My mom also loves Minsc and Boo. TASTE.

Don't know how soon my mother will come back for another play session, but I'll keep you guys updated whenever I can! She has already asked me if I would DM a D&D session for her retired friends, so I'm trying to find time to do that. Maybe I'll do some updates on that if we get it going.

Thank for everyone's support! Crime Mom and I appreciate it.

[baseonezero]

Maybe This Was All A Mistake - HKS

synopsis: things aren't looking so good in your relationship after 3 years of being with your bf

characters: bf!shota x fem!reader

a/n: i've never published anything on tumblr so pls bear w me as i try to figure things out 😞 also dont know when to add warnings and stuff (non-idol au btw)

everything was totally fine for the past 3 years. perfect even. so why was there so much tension between you and shota?

well you knew why; the constant arguing over stupid shit which would then snowball into bigger things. usually you guys were so good at dealing with arguments and would end with a mutual understanding.

it's gotten to the point where you're tired of shota's mixed signals. he'd distance himself from you, get angry whenever you wanted attention so when you returned the favor, suddenly he'd turn into a clingy bf.

after 5 months of ranting about the issue to your friends, they were completely over it. reasonably so. they'd always give advice and voice their opinions but you never listened.

"break up with him"

"i dont think i can give up 3 years this easily. he's been better recently."

"yeah and then hes gonna go back to being an asshole"

"we don't know that. maybe its just those situations where we have a few struggles in the relationship and everything will be better again."

"girl— oh my gosh."

maybe you were actually stupid to believe that. nothing changed. it was the same never-ending cycle. did you actually waste 3 entire years on him? 1,239 days if you want to get specific. was the time actually wasted if you were happy with him for the first two years? did the love just wear off?

you both had gone out to downtown, walking around and stopping at a cafe where you two had your first date together. you guys came here pretty often, usually happy, but today was just rather sad. shota only scrolled on his phone as you both were sat right by the large window, waiting for your drinks.

you sighed, biting the inside of your cheek as your chest began to feel heavy. you watched soul mindlessly scroll on his phone, occasionally texting. he still had the polaroid picture of you behind his phone case but you wondered why he even bothered keeping it there. or maybe he simply didn't care enough to take it out.

"order for an iced matcha latte and an iced americano!" the worker placed the two drinks over the counter to which shota looked over and then glanced at you.

"i'll get it." you pushed your chair back and went over to grab the drinks. "thank you," you forced a smile at the worker and received a nod.

you don't really know why you ordered the most basic, kind of disgusting, drink ever. you weren't in the mood to drink or eat anything. as you sat back down, you slid the green latte over to shota and he finally placed his phone down, taking the drink into his hands. "thanks."

"its been a while since we've last been here," your voice was soft but had little to no emotion to it.

"yeah, it has been." shota took a sip of his drink before moving the cup in his hand in a circular motion, probably to mix everything.

it was depressing to see him this way. he was normally very silly, making random noises or rambling on and on about things he's into. it'd be an understatement to say you missed it. maybe it's too late to get that version of haku shota back. maybe you're just not the person who can bring it out of him anymore.

you didn't realize tears had brimmed your eyes until you felt the huge lump in your throat. you shouldn't cry. not in front of him at least and definitely not in public.

shota looked up at you from his drink. he stayed quiet for a moment before finally speaking. "you okay?" he reached for your hand and interlaced your fingers together. part of you wanted to snatch your hand away but the other part wanted to feel the warmth of his hand for as long as you could — before you commit to your decision of breaking away from him.

"shota," you choked on your voice, biting your bottom lip afterwards as tears begin to finally slip down your cheeks. you looked at his face before looking down at your hands, "lets.. break up."

although you didn't see it, shota's face dropped, his mouth slightly gaped. "you.. want to break up...?" his grip on your hand loosened but he didn't let go completely.

you only nodded to his response, biting your lip to prevent any sobs from becoming audible, simultaneously trying to stop the tears to no avail.

"baby, what? why? please, let's just talk about this." shota pleaded quietly but loud enough for you to hear.

you looked back up, your eye makeup slightly ruined by the tears. you sniffled as you took your hand away from his, "shota, you know why." you fought to not let your voice crack, carefully dabbing the tears off your cheeks and from underneath your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt.

"no, i don't know why. sure we have these small moments where we're upset but that's normal. we always go back to how it used to be, do we not?" he leans over the table and cups your cheek with his hand, his sad eyes looking into your teary ones.

you think about it. maybe he is right. you might've been thinking a little irrationally.

no. this can't happen again.

you shake your head, pushing his hand away from your face and you get up from your chair. "no shota. i'm tired of feeling this way. you give me attention when you feel like you're losing me but after a while, you go back to being a dickhead." you frown, taking your drink into your hand.

he gets up as well but leaves his drink on the table. at this point a few people are staring but it doesn't matter. "please y/n. don't leave me. we can fix this."

"there's no 'we' anymore, shota. i'm sorry." you drop your head.

shota only stays quiet. he grabs his drink and tosses it into the nearby trashcan and does the same to the cup in your hand. he knows you don't even like americanos.

when you guys came in not too long ago and ordered the drinks, he was confused as to why you had bought it. it doesn't matter anyway.

he swallows the lump that had now formed in his throat, taking a deep breath before talking.

"can i at least hug you for one last time?"

your heart shatters. you look into his eyes with blurry vision due to the tears and you wrap your arms around his body.

his face meets the top of your head as his arms hug your waist, rocking both of your bodies side to side as you silently sob into his chest.

"i'm sorry i couldn't be a better boyfriend to you."

after the hug you couldn't get yourself to say goodbye to him. you simply let go and walked outside and got yourself an uber.

this is going to be a bitch to get over.

a/n: definitely not my best work but i somewhat tried whidkwkd if this is total shit lmk 😭😭 wattpad-esque ahh story omg

[sweetmariihs2]

Someone in the STF fandom is spreading lies and harassing me ‼️this will be a long post

TW: harassment, c*dfia/cedfia, self harm and suicide. I think the self harm and suicide mentions are fake, but it still can trigger someone so let me put this here.

I'm sorry for writing mistakes, my mind is faster than my typing

I'm going to divide this by titles and topics because this situation is huge.

Some time ago i had a discussion about cedric's age with a blog that didn't had anything in it, not a pfp or other posts, which makes me think that it's a backup blog for someone who wants to send free hate and don't be held responsible for this

The person was very rude and got really upset because I used good arguments about the topic, and they kept reblogging and fighting every single time, I was already tired of it. Then in the last reblog I said "please stop, i'm going to block you" with hopes that this person would understand how rude they were being, but then they accused me of harassment????

This is the person and that's the post i'm talking about:

At first it was a light discussion about Cedric the sorcerer's age, but then the person started to get really rude out of nowhere. I think they didn't liked me because I used good arguments and that made them stressed, I don't know. I went with it because internet fights are common and didn't liked the way I was being treated by them. Everyone in the STF fandom here on tumblr is very nice and polite

I recorded it because there's no way I'm taking so many screenshots. You can pause to read if you want. This situation is so stupid

And that's it, after they said that I blocked them.

They started saying something about harassment, no one said anything about that. The ending really pisses me off because I spent all the dozens of reblogs showing canon arguments, but ok, this is irrelevant right now. I just know that I told them to stop interacting with me and literally let me be (they were doing this for almost like 2 hours? And never gave up on fighting, everytime I said something they kept on fighting)

I don't know, I think I had hopes that they would magically understand what they were doing. But yeah, of course they didn't, and I blocked them. A friend of mine said I should have blocked them from the beggining without even saying anything, she was right 😐

This person have other posts raging about Cedric's age, they can never forget about this discussion, oh my god. The arguments they used will be later mentioned in this post.

TRIXIESTUFFS/CLOVEREARS

Remember that theory I had about this being a backup blog? While they were blocked, I found some blogs in the fandom that had the same arguments as them and were discussing about this again with different people. One day I was scrolling through Cedric posts as always and then in the comments of other blog, I don't really remember which, there was this person in the comments discussing about cedric's age and using the same arguments, specially the "when they were children cedric looked a lot younger than roland, he still had baby cheeks". This person also has the same arguments, typing patterns, never gives up on arguing, just like @agentswibble and I really believe that we're talking about the same person here. That's the blog: @cloverears

The name is cloverears but they also can be called TrixieStuffs. Remember that name

There is also another blog who interacted with me saying that posts about sofia being cedric's daughter figure were weird, and in their profile they had a post saying that they should marry eachother as companions in life in a "non c*dfia way". I actually thought at that time that this was the same person again, but I can't proof that, so I'll leave that out. That post about them marrying eachother and then saying that they don't support c*dfia was weird.

Last minuted edit: I decided to add them later to the post because they also had weird behaviors and spoke about the video in a post I'll talk about later

CEDRIC BEING IN HIS 20'S VIDEO AND CEDFIAENTHUSIAST

I also have a theory about other blog that might or might not be real, and I feel like it would be immoral if I brought that up... but I really need to tell you guys everything I have related to this person or this situation, and I can't cut this off from the post. Months after arguing with @agentswibble I decided to organize all my thoughts and make a proper, calmer post about Cedric's age. I DIDN'T WANT TO DIG UP ANYTHING, I SWEAR, I just wanted to make a more organized post about a topic that I know is recurrent in the fandom. You can find it by searching for "age" or other keywords in my blog, it's not relevant so I won't put it here. But for making that blog, I remember that there was a video on YouTube talking about Cedric's age and saying that he's a rookie in the role of royal sorcerer, and that he's in his 20's. I watched it when I entered the fandom at january 2024. I searched for that video and added the link to my post, so that anyone who's reading can see the arguments about his age being 20something, and later on in the post I would give arguments about him being 40. Normal usual discussion post, respectful, no fights, just me and myself talking about a character age.

But I noticed that every time I saw someone denying Cedric's age being 40 they were C*dfia fans, and I saw that happening 3 times. Went to that famous video on youtube again out of curiosity and... the person who made it is called CedfiaEnthusiast. When I made the post, I remembered the video but I haven't actually rewatched it until the moment I ended writing my arguments and finally, to answer any arguments they used in the video, watched it again. Found out thay they used the same arguments as those people from before "Cedric still had baby cheeks when Roland looked like a whole teenager", these words, always. Started to wonder if they are the same person and searched a bit more to be sure.

I thought I had done a huge discovery, but then I remembered seeing something about this Nick name on tumblr, and I found a blog. Their actual name was changed from CedfiaEnthusiast to @sorcerers-secrets . That is the blog. They write c*dfia fanfiction, honestly I'm not even talking about the shipp here, won't talk about it for long, focus on the blogs. CedfiaEnthusiast is their name on Ao3.

Edit: they only write c*dfia, and I found an oneshot that includes 🍇. Yeah not very nice find

Right now I went to their youtube channel and found this:

And that's another discovery: these short videos are ALL videos made by an account here on tumblr that ONLY posts this. CedfiaEnthusiast on youtube might be just reposting? Yes, but posting each one of these memes (and they're not even funny) makes me believe that they made them. Because CedfiaEnthusiast uses tumblr, they are used with this website and it wouldn't be hard to constantly be here finding/making new posts etc. Their connection to tumblr is very real at this point. And by using the same personal opinion/kinda nonsense argument of "cedric having baby cheeks and roland looking like a whole teenager" (he didn't, in fact his head is so big that he looks like baby fr) makes me believe that it's the same person because there's no way more than one person actually believe that.

Edit: I searched for them. The person who makes them is @cedfiaenthusiast1 . How funny

In the youtube "cedric being 20" video, they also used the same arguments as @agentswibble !! About saying that "just because Craig Gerber said something it doesn't mean that it's canon, and if he said Cedric is something something Dragon ball z and something you would believe him" . Saying that we believe everything he says because he's the writer even when he says stuff that doesn't make sense. But I would like to point out this here. This argument.

Clear as daylight. I firmly believe that they are related. (And just like I said... cedric being 20 is still/once again a c*dfia argument as always, the person who made the video is a c*dfia shipper and looks like the person who's been arguing with me for ages about this stupid age thing is the same person again)

CEDRICTHEWISE ALSO BEING BOTHERED BY THIS PERSON +CEDDY3000

You know, some time ago Disney Jr posted a meme saying that Cedric is 41, and I took a screenshot and posted it because I got genuinely happy that those c*dfia shippers got debunked (but I didn't said anything about that part) and because I was right the whole time. Who never, alright?

@cedricthewise reblogged my post like this. Please don't involve them in this situation, I just wanted to show that there are other people saying the same thing.

In that same post, remember I said that I thought that a blog who posted "cedric and sofia should marry in a non c*dfia way"? So, they also showed up in that post talking about "a great video that talks about Cedric's age on youtube" and denying and denying cedric's age. Very, very weird.

@cedricthewise also posted some of Craig Gerber telling canon stuff to the fans just because it's nice to know about that stuff, and this wasn't related to this situation at all. But then @cloverears appeared out of nowhere and started....

I remember very vividly of them using the "cedric baby cheeks roland teenager" argument but I couldn't find it. I DO REMEMBER IT. I remember that they appeared in one of my posts arguing, but then I deleted those fighting comments after believing that this was the same person as agentswibble. Maybe that's where they used the "cedric baby cheeks" argument. I can't find it and I believe it's deleted, and I don't have any screenshots either :/

I have a looooong chat with a friend that had been lasting months now, and I sent her stuff about this case some time ago. Today I spoke about it again and asked if she had any screenshots, and she said she would search for me. We will have to wait :/

RECENTLY UNBLOCKED PEOPLE, TRIXIE AND ANTICEDFIAWEEK

Some days ago, I don't know if it was yesterday or before, I was cleaning and organizing my blog. I found the "blocked blogs" part and after reading all the names and not even recognizing most of them I unblocked everyone. Maybe not the smartest decision? Probably... but my line of thought was "well I don't even remember these people anymore, none of the reasons I blocked them are relevant then. Guess I'll take them from here. Idk what they did but I'm sure I won't even see them/interact with them anymore and honestly? What if those people changed they opinion about whatever reason I blocked them? I was blocked by an artist I really like for a long time and I never had even interacted with them, now they just unblocked me for no reason and I feel so much better. Maybe someone there feels like that too?" (I swear i'm just so dumb, i don't know if that's innocence or stupidity)

Well, turns out that this person already started doing it's things again. There is a blog that most of you probably know, @anticedfiaweek . I know this blog since it appeared in the fandom but apart from talking sometimes, usually saying just hi or have a good day, we don't know eachother much. Today they sent me tons of screenshots, and that's the reason I'm making this whole post. I'm sorry for the huge amount of images. These were taken by @anticedfiaweek , that's the whole conversation they had

They're talking about a 9 year old called trixie who aparently hurts herself and tried to "delete" herself because of anti c*dfia posts. Trixie is @cloverears actual name and I believed them to be the same person as @agentswibble since months ago. I have no idea of what is happening, I don't know why they are mad at me, I don't harass anyone and barely even fight on tumblr, I don't like fights, specially about cartoon stuff, who wastes time on this??? Cartoons and Internet discussions are made to have fun.

And you know what's funny? Agentswibble saying that they don't shipp c*dfia. Ha. Okay.

At the same time @agentswibble messaged me the same stuff.

ENDING THE POST

Since the beggining I saw agentswibble blog and found it weird that it was empty, I always thought they had more than one account. Seems like I was right :/

I made this post to tell the fandom about what's happening. I haven't done anything to anyone and someone is spreading lies out there saying that I harass people. After I started understanding everything I felt like I needed to organize my thoughts and show them. All these profiles are related and I believe that they're owned by the same person, I will block all of them again and never unblock them - ever. I won't say that you should do the same, you can do whatever you think it's better, just... keep everything I said in mind :/

[dangerpronebuddie]

Ooh!! I love your wip, please do 😭📋📋📋🥵🥵🥵💙💙😎😎😎 thanks 🥰🥰

Hi darling thank you!!! 🥰🥰 So sorry I'm answering this like three weeks late, the words have not been wording. Scrolled through my asks last night and saw this one and wrote a lot more than I was expecting to. Thank you!

Verbal Abuse fic:

“Christopher said you're seeing a therapist again,” Helena says, her mouth a thin line. Eddie never bothered telling her about therapy. She doesn't believe it helps. “Yeah,” Eddie nods. “Have been for months.” “Pity you didn't start before you traumatized your son into running away,” she says, casual as anything.

Clipboard Buck fic (oh look, Maggie's projecting):

Eddie works his jaw in thought. He wracks his brain, trying to think of his first serious crush. That friend from highschool comes to mind, but he immediately skips over him to Shannon. Before her, there really wasn't anyone. He remembers his friends fawning over Leticia Montes in third grade. He didn't understand the draw. They didn't know her very well; she was in fourth grade. Eddie didn't know a thing about her. He supposes her dark curls and blue eyes were pretty, but there wasn't anything beyond that. There was a boy in sixth grade his friend Mary was practically in love with that, objectively speaking, was attractive. Eddie still didn't get it. Whenever his friends asked him who he liked, he'd think up the most well known heartthrob as his answer. Unfortunately, he had more than a few friends who would proceed to try and set them up. The refusals became degrading after a while. Eventually, he just stopped answering them. He lost those friends, but he didn't feel all that bad about it.

Sub Eddie fic (it's less than 3 lines but it's all my brain would allow me):

“Relax,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh. He doesn't say it out loud, but Eddie hears it all the same. The promise they've kept to each other for years: I'll take care of you, and I trust you to take care of me.

Tanis' fic:

“Fuck, you're beautiful,” Buck says in an awed whisper. For a moment, Eddie thinks he should shy away from the attention. But he doesn't want to. This is Buck. Buck hovers over him, bracketing his head with his forearms. Eddie tips his chin up for a kiss and Buck grins as he leans down. Heat engulfs whatever softness remained from moments before. Buck nips at his lips and licks deep into his mouth, rocking down hard against him as Eddie pulls him closer, closer, closer.

Big Damn Hero (I couldn't not include this moment):

“Yeah, or you know you could… you could have mine,” Buck stammers like an idiot. Eddie does that adorable snort and shakes his hand. “Deal.” Oh, Buck was in trouble. So. Much. Trouble.

Also using this as my WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @tizniz and @daffi-990 who both shared AMAZING stuff y'all should show some love!! 💚🩵 (p.s. I'm sorry if I haven't interacted with some tags I've gotten recently. Life's been... life, and some days even tumblr is overwhelming. Love y'all and thank you for continuing to tag me 🩷)

Tagging:

@lover-of-mine @loveyouanyway @kitteneddiediaz

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @exhuastedpigeon @hippolotamus @diazsdimples

@thekristen999 @monsterrae1 @actuallyitsellie @diazheartsbuckley @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley

@rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @lunarspark-cos @idealuk @shipperqueen6 @slowlyfoggydestiny

@misshiss727 @lin27 @jshadow01 @orangeboxfox92

@thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22

@lady-elaine @buckley-diaz-rules @buddiedaydreamer911 @monroemary @pirate-hunter

@nonspeakingkiku @eddiedisasterdiaz @drunkandsupportiveeddie @traumabuddies @epicbuddieficrecs @elvensorceress @disasterbuck

@tofanasmuse @gnoeltop @keynb @cassi-brooks @-syrup-sue @punkrock00 @shannonhutchins @lasagnatheory

[imomisoplays]

Long story short

...I survived. Or at least, that's how the lyrics go. Hi again, tombler -- I guess?

Long story:

It's really long, so scroll down for the short version!

Earlier in the month, Tumblr wrongly terminated my previous blog at misoplays. It could come out as a funny accident if only it's (a) the first time this kind of termination happened to misoplays, and (b) Tumblr gracefully reinstate the blog again. I've waited for almost a month and sent two e-mails (they did say spamming e-mail would just push my request back on the queue) while keep trying to refresh the page every day, yet the result is the same "There's nothing here" page. That's that me depresso.

To elaborate further on point (a), the first time I decided to start a sims cooking blog, I created it under my OG e-mail address; the e-mail I used to apply for job etc. which also happened to be linked to my OG tumblr account. It's an old account that now acts like a Wayback Machine of memories for me, but as you know, if a blog is already linked to your e-mail, it will be your main blog, and any additional blog you create under that e-mail would act as side blogs. So, the OG misoplays started as a side blog. However, three posts in, the blog got wrongly terminated. I was sure I didn't break any rules, but maybe Tumblr thought my sudden activity in that ancient account was suspicious, which I could understand. So I sent a request to Tumblr, and the blog was reinstated in under two weeks. The blog first looked like this:

Understandably no one liked or reblogged me, and it was totally okay -- because once again, I just started and posted my first three posts.

When the OG misoplays blog was under, I created a new Tumblr account under my other e-mail address, this time the blog becomes my main blog. The username was misomain, because misoplays was unavailable (apparently, you can't use a username from a suspended/terminated blog) at that time. Misomain was a puny name, because 'main' means "a principal of others in the same kind" in English, but it also translates to "to play" in Indonesian. I quite like misomain, but I went back to misoplays the moment Tumblr reinstated that blog.

The blog you might be familiar with looked more or less like this, of course without the silly Squidward booty profile picture 🤣

Everything went smoothly for a couple of months until early November. To be honest it kinda gets blurry what I was trying to do, I think I was trying to change the password or something. Tumblr sent a verification e-mail, and when I clicked on the link, that fateful "There is nothing here" page appeared. It was at that moment I knew something is wrong. My blog got wrongly terminated for the second time.

I sent a request to get my blog reinstated, and as patient as I can be, I get more anxious as the days went. Another fact is that my blog got yeeted away right when I was about to post my Halloween party posts -- which you'll see later, is quite time-consuming to take pictures of. I stopped playing The Sims 4 because I was sad, mad and somehow bitter at the situation. I mean, tell me why it keeps happening to me, @staff? The only possible explanation (and I don't want to keep making excuses for Tumblr because duh) is because sometimes I use VPN and some other times I turned it off. And if that's so, I already sent e-mails explaining the situation -- so far receiving no reply. None; nada!

I didn't think I would recreate another blog; I was done with it. That's when I absent-mindedly tried to google "misoplays" and the search brought me to this post.

I'm not gonna lie, I choked up and almost shed a tear 🥹

To think that someone out there -- someone who I look up to! -- knows that misoplays is gone and is wondering where it is... Bro, the tears are right there. Thank you, @charlypancakes, your post really bring my spirit up. I decided that I will create another blog, and I will start posting again. From now on I'll diligently back everything up, so if Tumblr yeeted this blog, I'm gonna create another one. I'm gonna live up to that one popular Indonesian proverb: Mati satu tumbuh seribu -- for every thing that was lost, a replacement will appear.

This current blog's name imomisoplays is another play on word: In English, 'emo' would refer to the sad, emotional side of me after experiencing this termination (as I would tell my friends, I'm "currently on my emo phase" once again). But in Korean, the word 이모 (read as ee-mo) means "aunt". I'm an aunt myself, and maybe, with my sims cooking content, I can be that cool auntie on the internet, conquering one recipe at a time 💃

Short story:

Phew, you just saved yourself a whole sob story!

My old blog at misoplays got wrongly terminated earlier this month. Tumblr hasn't returned it yet, and I have long lost hope. I saw a hopeful post and realized that I still got that spirit to keep on posting, so I created this blog. I lost my following, my followers (all 20 of you, please know I appreciate each one of you!), and the drafts to my old posts (only managed to save some), but I would love to continue simblr-ing again as imomisoplays 🙇‍♀️