#and now im already making another sketch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 3 months ago

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

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

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note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift.

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you.

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home.

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him.

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl.

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him.

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises.

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population.

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)

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crythartic · 2 months ago

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Every now and then I find an artwork that I just can't help but adore. I absolutely adore your Chara drawing. I'm also an artist myself, though I'm unsure how to draw the stuff that I actually like. Do you perhaps have any tips or advice, some resources I could take a look at...? I mean it's fine if you don't, I know not everyone is able to always explain their artistic process, but I still have to ask, heh.

thank you so much!!! im really glad you liked that drawing. and its no trouble at all, artists should try to help each other out ehehe. you're right that it might be difficult to explain my resources, but maybe since you specifically asked abt the chara one i can explain the process.

this piece i drew it like its most traditional to, the last pieces (the p5 ones and kris) were all sketched out and rendered heavily using lasso fill. this time i just started sketching some charas to take a break from another drawing.. as u can see i had two doodles originally but i felt like i wanted the viewers eye to travel through more focal points, so i started rearranging the composition. i wanted a mix of cuteness with underlying intensity/terror, so i already knew the geno chara would be a bit more "faded out". thats all i did for composition.

now in terms of the actual drawing and coloring process, i always do a mix of lineart and lineless (for this both the lineart and coloring layer are at some point merged so i can "sculpt" and shape the forms and colors easier). this is a lot of trial and error to see what parts really do require lines and make it more eyecatching, especially if you are strategic with the line weight. with lineart you run into the possibility of making a drawing more detailed than you had envisioned, lately ive been trying to go for "less is more", so i forewent a lot of the details and instead i REALLY focused on making these doodles as "shaped" as possible, for better examples of this id cite my previous two drawings because the lasso tool lets me explore that more (less constrictive than simply drawing the shapes yourself).

and the colors? with chara its easy, they have a very restrictive palette so after i lay down the colors i try and find a color for the lines which plays off of said colors (blue seemed interesting this time). thats also a thing with me, i like when the color contrast isnt subtle, i go a bit crazier sometimes (feel free to check my older art out on insta, those deltarune ones are the best example of this). to explore color in a piece, layer effects are your best friend, and tonal/color editing settings. i cited this example on an insta story some weeks ago for my last drawing with how i left it originally and what i modified once i came back after a bit:

the decisions you make in regards to what focal points and colors you use genuinely and solely depends on your artstyle and what you like to draw. but experimenting is always fun, and id say necessary :]

i think this is good for now, if you have more questions feel free to ask!

#asks #hopefully that made sense #im too much of a yapper....

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brittle-doughie · 1 year ago

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ive said this like twice before but ill say it again ... THANK YOU ,,, im glad you think he's cool 🥺 have a little happi benign butter cookie as a thanks 🫶

also i think i might have a problem . i recently got diagnosed with SMCD (Shadow Milk Cookie Disorder) and apprently it makes you think about him . 😢 he got me cooking up a whole sketch (i might refine it but im not sure if i have the time and patience to ^_^;;;;;;;;;;)

silly evil jester has got me HEHEHEHHEHEHE and all, unfortunately 😞

Your art, even as a sketch is looking pretty nice too! Keep up the good work with your skills! I’m still flabbergasted whenever someone draws my writings, wowie.

“A tough decision indeed! And only one chance to use the Guardian’s power right. What will it be? Let’s wait and see!”

You yelled at him to let them all go! Shadow Milk’s business was with you, not them!

“What’s the matter, my dear Butter~? Do you hold these cookies dear? Are they speeeecial~?”

You told him to not call you that…Y/N Cookie was your nam-

“WRONG! That’s the name these PESTS gave you! All that time with them…it makes me want to free their heads off their shoulders already!”

“Don’t!”

“As for you! What makes YOU believe that what you have with my beloved Butter is even comparable to what I have for them! What my comrades have for them!”

“For as long as I can remember, I have been the one to make them smile and laugh! Not you….ME! We were practicing stuck together like GLUE!”

“Then those CURSED WITCHES decided to lock me and the others away, by BRAINWASHING my Benign Butter Cookie into doing their bidding!”

“I had to watch as that LIAR Pure Vanilla Cookie become the best of pals with them, getting chummy and close. It made me want to escape that tree faster and destroy him! But my rage wouldn’t be comparable to another comrade of mine…she was just DYING to get out.”

“But now that I’m here, I can FINALLY reunite with them. They won’t need YOU or those other half cookies anymore…they’ll only need us…”

You stepped up…you told him that he’s lost it, he’s insane if he thinks you’ll ever go back to him or the others….

“Fine, I’ll confess…I may be a little obsessed and insane, but it’s all for you, my Butter wutter~ Don’t worry about your friend, she’ll be making her exit now~”

If he thought he’ll get away with this, then think again!

“Y/N Cookie….”

“I’ll be right there with you…”

“HANDS OFF MY BENIGN BUTTER COOKIE, PEST!”

#brittle answers #cookie run x you #cookie run x reader #cr x reader #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cr kingdom #shadow milk cookie #yandere shadow milk cookie #white lily cookie x reader

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tiiraameesu · 7 months ago

Text

The One That Got Away Pt. 1

Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

Synopsisજ⁀➴ Gojo is a charismatic college student, known for his carefree approach to relationships, never letting things get too serious. You are his longtime best friend and have quietly harbored feelings for him but never acted on them, knowing Gojo’s aversion to commitment. But when Gojo shares an unexpected connection with another girl, the dynamics between them start to shift. As the lines blur between friendship and something more, you are left grappling with your emotions—unsure of whether you'll be able to stay by Gojo’s side, or if it’s time to move on.

tagsજ⁀➴ college au, hockey player!gojo, band member!reader, angst, slow burn, eventual friends to lovers (maybe), gojo is dumb af

NOTESજ⁀➴ hi im new here so pls be kind! do feel free to dm me if any of my content offends you! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

wcજ⁀➴ 7.0k

The ice rink was alive with excitement as the final seconds of the game ticked away. The roar of the crowd echoed throughout the stadium, a sea of faces clad in school colors, jumping to their feet in anticipation. On the rink, the Arctic Aces were poised for a victory, the puck at the feet of their captain, Gojo Satoru.

With a deft flick of his stick, Gojo sent the puck careening toward the goal. The opposing goalie was caught off guard, a split second too slow, and the sound of the puck hitting the back of the net sent the crowd into an explosion of cheers.

“GOAL!” the announcer bellowed, but the noise from the stands already drowned out everything else. Gojo’s teammates rushed towards him, lifting him into the air as the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. The victory was theirs.

You sat in a quieter corner, slightly detached from the chaos of the bleachers, the game still playing out in the background. Your notebook was open in front of you, its pages filled with half-finished lyrics, the melody lingering in your mind, yet elusive. At the bottom of the page was a small doodle—just a simple, almost careless sketch of Satoru’s jersey number. You hadn’t meant to draw it, not really, but there it was, a subtle tribute to the guy whose presence always seemed to fill a room without trying.

With a soft sigh, you closed the notebook, the sound nearly lost amidst the cheers echoing around you. You slipped it into your bag and rose to your feet, your gaze briefly lingering on the jubilant team celebrating in the center of the rink.

You clapped along with the rest of the crowd, your smile wide and genuine as the team gathered at the center of the rink, already celebrating. It was hard not to feel a surge of pride yourself, even if you weren't directly involved. You’d been there for the highs and lows, through every game, every practice. And now, here he was, surrounded by his teammates, basking in the glow of victory.

From across the rink, you spotted him.

Gojo’s eyes were immediately drawn to you in the crowd, his expression lighting up with that familiar, cocky grin. The chaos around him seemed to blur, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of you. He nodded in your direction, his gaze lingering on you as the celebration continued around him. His eyes said it all—pride, admiration, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

Your heart gave a soft jolt, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips in response. You clapped harder, cheering for him as your eyes met his, silently acknowledging the bond that had existed between you for as long as you could remember.

The celebration around you continued, the sound of clapping and cheers echoing in your ears as you remained at the edge of the stands, watching Gojo and his teammates bask in their hard-earned victory. The pride in his eyes when he’d glanced over at you made your heart skip a beat, but you quickly pushed the fluttering feeling aside. This was his moment, and you were happy for him—just like always.

As the team began to make their way off the rink, you slowly made your way toward the back hallway where they would head to change. You’d been in this routine for years: waiting outside the locker room for Gojo to finish, stealing a quiet moment together before he went off to celebrate with his teammates.

You turned the corner and found yourself face to face with a small group of girls—other members of the team’s girlfriends, their laughter and chatter filling the hallway as they stood near the entrance to the locker room. They were all dressed up, their excitement just as evident as the boys’ on the rink. The sight of them made your heart thump a little faster, the realization creeping up on you that you, too, were here waiting for Gojo.

It wasn’t that you didn’t belong here. You’d been doing this for years—being there for him after every game, every victory, even after every loss. It was just that... well, in this moment, it hit you all at once: the way you were standing there, waiting like everyone else, but your connection to Gojo wasn’t like theirs. You weren’t his girlfriend, not in the way they were to their boyfriends. You were his best friend.

You flushed at the thought, suddenly acutely aware of the blush creeping up your neck. Was it silly to feel this way? To feel just a little out of place, even though you knew—deep down—that your relationship with Gojo was different. Special, in its own way. But still, it didn’t stop that feeling of awkwardness from bubbling up. You knew you had no claim over him in the way they did. You were just... well, his best friend.

Still, the thought made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain, and as you stood there, trying to seem casual, your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the strap of your bag.

The door to the locker room swung open, and soon, Satoru emerged, his white jersey drenched in sweat, a cocky grin plastered across his face. He jogged toward you, his energy undiminished by the physical toll of the game.

The moment your eyes landed on him, all your thoughts seemed to vanish. Everything—the other girls, the lingering self-doubt—faded away. There was only Gojo, glowing with the thrill of victory, and the familiar rush that came with being near him. It was like slipping into something comfortable, and just like that, your nervousness was gone, replaced by the ease of a banter that had become second nature.

"Well, well, well," he teased, stopping in front of you, out of breath but practically glowing with energy. "Were you actually watching this time, or were you scribbling in that nerd journal of yours again?"

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms across your chest. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" you replied, a teasing glint in your eye. "Maybe I was writing an exposé about how predictable your moves are on the ice."

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if offended. "Predictable? You wound me!" He leaned in a bit closer, eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "Did you see that shot? I’m the best, and you know it."

You smirked, reaching into your bag and pulling out a towel, handing it to him. "You're okay, I guess," you said, shrugging like you were just barely impressed.

Satoru took the towel with a grin, pretending to be hurt by your indifference. "Oh, come on, I expected more from my number one fan!" He draped the towel over his shoulders, exaggerating his disappointment. "Here I am, out there scoring game-winning goals, and all you’ve got is ‘you’re okay’?"

You smiled, amused by his theatrics. "Well, you know, someone has to keep your ego in check."

Gojo grinned, clearly not ready to let the playful banter end. He tilted his head slightly, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He wiped his face with the towel, still looking at you with that teasing smirk.

"You’re no fun," he remarked, a hint of disappointment in his tone as he playfully shook his head. Then, his expression shifted, his voice turning a bit lighter but with an eager undertone. "But hey, speaking of fun... you’re coming to the party, right?"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference as you folded your arms. "I don’t know… I’ve got a lot of important nerd journaling to catch up on."

Gojo’s expression immediately shifted, pouting dramatically as if you had just crushed his dreams. "What? No way! You can’t just leave me hanging after I win the semi-finals for us!" His hand came up to his chest in mock offense. "I’ve got a whole celebration planned, and it’s not the same without my favorite person there."

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upwards despite your best efforts to resist. "You’re unbelievable."

Gojo stepped closer, his tone turning slightly more pleading, though still playful. "Come on, please? I’ll even save you a spot by the snacks, I promise." He added with a wink, "You know I’m much more fun when I’m not around all these crazy fans. I need someone who can keep me grounded."

You glanced at him, considering it for a moment. It wasn’t like you had any other plans, and honestly, it had been a while since you’d just hung out with him. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to join the chaos for once.

"Alright, fine," you relented with a sigh, though you couldn’t help but smile at the victory in his eyes. "I’ll come. But if you make me regret this, I’m leaving early."

Gojo’s grin returned in full force, and he playfully pumped his fist in the air. "Yes! Victory! You’re the best, you know that? Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior," he said, though it was clear from the sparkle in his eyes that he was definitely not going to keep his promises.

The party was in full swing when you arrived. Gojo had given you and a few of his teammates a lift, and as soon as you stepped inside, the vibrant atmosphere hit you. The music was loud, the lights dimmed just enough to set the perfect party mood, and people were already dancing, laughing, and enjoying the night.

Gojo, as always, was in the center of it all, surrounded by teammates and friends, a bright grin on his face. He turned to you with that familiar gleam in his eye, his excitement contagious.

As soon as you stepped inside, Gojo grinned at you, his excitement clearly building. "Told you this would be worth it," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "See? Not so bad, right?"

You shook your head, laughing lightly. "Alright, alright. You were right. But I’m still not convinced this is my scene."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, leaning closer with that characteristic smirk. "You’ll warm up to it. Just give it time."

Before you could respond, a couple of teammates called out to him from across the room, pulling his attention away. With a quick, almost apologetic smile, he waved at you before being swept into their conversation, his laugh carrying over the noise. You watched him for a moment, his energy like a magnet for those around him, before turning toward the snack table.

The music pulsed around you as you picked through the snack table, finally grabbing a drink. You popped it open with a satisfying crack and took a sip, letting the coolness settle in your hand as you surveyed the party. It was a lot—too much for you to dive into right away, but you were managing. The hum of conversation, the laughter, the occasional burst of songs—it all blended into the background.

"You look like you're in your element," a voice said from beside you, breaking your moment of observation.

You turned to find Geto Suguru, another member of the Arctic Aces, leaning casually against the snack table, a grin playing on his lips. He wasn’t as flashy as Gojo, but there was something laid-back and steady about him that made his presence comforting. His dark hair framed his face as he looked at you, his usual calm demeanor offering a contrast to the louder energy around you.

"Yeah, I’m just trying to keep up," you said with a smirk, raising your drink in a mock toast.

Geto chuckled, glancing around the room before his eyes landed back on you. "I get it," he said, that easy grin of his showing. "It’s a lot to take in if you’re not used to it. But hey, sometimes it’s fun just watching the chaos unfold without jumping in headfirst."

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink. "Yeah, I’m more of an observer. Not sure I get the hype about all this, but I guess it’s not the worst way to spend a night."

"Fair enough," Geto said with a shrug. "It’s not for everyone. But, you know, there’s something about a party like this—it brings people together. Everyone’s just here to have fun and let loose, no pressure." He looked back toward the group near the center of the room, grinning as a few of his friends got into a debate about something, probably over a game. "But hey, not everything has to be high-energy. You can always hang back and enjoy the quieter moments too."

You nodded, spotting a few people hanging out on the couches, chatting quietly. "True. A little peace in the middle of all this madness wouldn't hurt."

Geto’s grin widened. "Exactly. No need to dive into the madness if you don’t want to."

You both stood there for a moment, casually observing the party, and for the first time that evening, you felt a little more at ease.

"So," Geto broke the silence, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. "There’s a beer pong game going on over there. You in? It’s chill, nothing too serious."

You looked over at the table where some of his friends were already setting up. A couple of cups lined up, a few people tossing ping pong balls with varying degrees of success.

"Beer pong?" you asked, a playful glint in your eye. "I’m not sure I’m ready to show off my amazing skills yet."

Geto smirked, clearly enjoying the teasing. "Oh, I’m sure you’ll blow everyone away. Or, you know, at least keep us entertained." He nudged you with his elbow. "Come on, it’ll be fun. Plus, I promise no one's going to make you do anything too crazy."

You rolled your eyes but smiled, the idea sounding better than the noise of the dance floor. "Alright, alright. But if I end up losing, you’re taking the blame."

Geto laughed. "Deal. Let’s go—just try not to throw off my perfect winning streak, yeah?"

With that, he led the way over to the beer pong table, the two of you joining the group already gathered around. You felt a little more relaxed now, ready to see how this party game would unfold.

The beer pong game was in full swing, and you found yourself leaning into the rhythm of it, despite your initial hesitation. Geto was on your team, and with his laid-back demeanor, he made the whole thing feel a lot less intense than you’d expected. On the other side of the table was Shoko, laughing softly as she lined up her shot, her usual cool demeanor only slightly cracked by the casual fun of the game. Her relaxed approach made her a surprisingly good opponent, and she had a knack for landing her shots effortlessly.

"Alright, you’re up," Geto said, giving you a playful nudge as he grabbed another cup from the table and set it back in place. "Don’t mess this up, we’ve got a streak to keep."

You chuckled, grabbing the ping pong ball and eyeing the cups across the table. "No pressure, right?" you teased, though you could feel a slight tension in your fingers as you focused. With a flick of your wrist, the ball bounced off the edge of the table and landed neatly into a cup.

"Nice!" Geto grinned, his usual calm facade replaced by a proud smirk. "Guess you did have it in you."

"Yeah, yeah," you said with a smile, taking a step back as Shoko raised an eyebrow at you, clearly impressed.

The game continued, with a few more players hopping in and out of the action, each one bringing their own unique flair to the table. As the game wore on, the noise and chaos of the party became more distant, like a buzz in the background of your focus. The cups kept getting fewer, and despite the light-hearted teasing and competition, you were starting to enjoy yourself.

Finally, after a round where you successfully sunk another ball, you stepped back, leaning against the edge of the table and catching your breath. The game was getting intense, and you felt the adrenaline picking up, but you decided to take a small break. Your eyes wandered, searching the crowd for a moment of calm.

And then you spotted him.

Gojo.

He was dancing with a cheerleader, a girl you’d seen around campus but never paid much attention to. But this time, the way he moved with her was different—charged. He was still his usual animated self, effortlessly spinning and swaying, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way they fit together. They laughed, their bodies gliding and shifting in sync, a fluid rhythm that felt more intimate than anything you’d seen before. His hands brushed against her lower back with a confidence that made your chest tighten. There was a certain spark between them, the kind that you couldn’t ignore—like they were feeding off each other’s energy in a way Gojo had never done with anyone else.

The playful, carefree smile he wore was still there, but there was a deeper connection in the way he held her, a closeness that felt charged and electric. It wasn’t the usual flirtation, the casual touch-and-go kind of connection Gojo had with the girls who passed in and out of his life. No, this was different.

You quickly tore your gaze away, heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t jealousy, you told yourself—not exactly—but something about the scene unsettled you. Maybe it was the raw, undeniable chemistry between them, or maybe it was the fact that Gojo, the one who never seemed interested in anything serious, was making you feel like an outsider in his own world. You tried to shake it off, refocusing on the game, but the lingering feeling wouldn’t go away.

"Hey, you good?" Geto’s voice broke into your thoughts, but you hadn’t noticed him watching you. His tone was casual, no hint of suspicion, just his usual calmness.

"Yeah, just catching my breath," you replied with a small smile, grabbing another drink from the table as if nothing was amiss. "This game’s getting competitive."

Geto nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah, that's what makes it fun." He motioned to the cups in front of him. "Your shot next."

You pushed the moment with Gojo out of your mind, focusing back on the game as if nothing had distracted you at all.

The game continued with the usual back-and-forth banter and some impressive shots, but you couldn’t shake the growing feeling that your attention was divided. The lively energy of the game was fun, but your thoughts kept drifting back to that moment you had seen Gojo dancing with the cheerleader. It wasn’t anything that should’ve bothered you, but for some reason, it did.

Shoko tossed the ball at the cup with a confident flick of her wrist, sending it into the last cup with a victorious cheer. "Yes!" she exclaimed, raising her hands in triumph. "We win!"

You blinked, realizing you were so distracted by your own thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed the last round coming to an end. You let out a small laugh, trying to shake off the distraction. "Guess I lost focus there."

Geto leaned back with a playful grin. "Yeah, I noticed. You okay? You seemed a bit out of it."

You gave him a small shrug, not wanting to dwell on the weird feeling that had taken over you. "Yeah, just... a little distracted."

Shoko was already high-fiving the others, and a few people started gathering around to congratulate her. You felt the buzz of the crowd all around you, but it was starting to feel a bit too much, and you needed a break.

"Alright, I'm out," you said, pushing yourself up from the table. "Gonna grab some fresh air."

Geto gave you a lazy salute, looking half-amused. "Go on, take five. We’ll keep your spot warm."

You nodded, flashing a smile as you made your way through the crowd. The noise, the trashy music, the movement—it all felt too much, and you couldn’t quite place why your thoughts had been so scrambled. Maybe it was the way Gojo had been so carefree with the cheerleader, or maybe it was just the overwhelming energy of the party in general.

Once you made it outside, you stepped into the cooler night air, the sharp contrast immediately soothing your frazzled nerves. You leaned against the railing of the patio, taking a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill your lungs. It was quiet here, a much-needed break from the chaotic energy inside. The noise of the party was muffled, distant, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to just take it all in.

But as the fresh air settled your mind, the thoughts you’d been trying to ignore bubbled back up, more persistent now.

Gojo and the cheerleader—what had that been?

The way they danced so close, so natural with each other. It was like they had their own rhythm, their own unspoken connection. You could’ve brushed it off, but it was hard to ignore the tightness in your chest when you remembered how easily Gojo had slipped into it. He was always the life of the party, always the one drawing attention, always so effortless with everything, even with women.

A part of you—one you liked to keep tucked away—had always been amazed by how effortless Gojo made everything look. He just fit into the world, like he belonged. And yet, standing there now, in the cool night air, with that image of him twirling with the cheerleader flashing through your mind, you couldn't deny the pang of something… sharper. The way he looked at her, how easily he connected with her—it was all so natural for him.

And then, you remembered the words he'd said to you, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather: that he wasn’t really into relationships, that he wasn’t interested in finding a girlfriend. He didn’t want to be tied down, didn’t want to complicate things with attachments. He just wanted to have fun. At the time, you’d respected that, admired his free spirit, and told yourself that it didn’t bother you. He had made his stance clear. No strings. No complications.

But as you stood there, feeling the chill of the night air against your skin, you found yourself wondering why it felt different now. Was it because you had thought, somewhere deep down, that maybe things were just… simpler with him? That you didn’t need to define what you were to still have moments that felt real? You weren’t sure. All you knew was the sudden, inexplicable weight in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying to focus. Why was this bothering you so much?

It wasn’t like you expected anything from Gojo. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d look at you the way he looked at others. He had made that perfectly clear. And you had always told yourself that was fine. You were fine with it.

But then, seeing him with someone else, laughing with her, so at ease—it stirred something inside you. Something you hadn’t really known how to name, and certainly hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated with yourself. It shouldn’t matter. You barely knew him outside of these parties. Hell, you weren't even sure you were looking for anything at all. So why did it feel like something was missing when you thought about him with someone else? Why did it hurt?

You sighed deeply, trying to shake off the unease that clung to you like a fog. You hadn’t signed up for this. You hadn’t signed up for the confusing mess that your thoughts were becoming, nor for the overwhelming weight of emotions you hadn’t asked for.

As you stood there, trying to ground yourself, a loud cheer from inside cut through the quiet, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. The music and voices from the party had reached a fever pitch, the energy almost tangible, and for a moment, you were distracted by the chaotic buzz from within. The door felt like an escape, a safe boundary between you and everything that was swirling inside your chest.

With a deep breath, you pushed yourself off the railing and walked back toward the door. You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts, before stepping back inside. The noise hit you again—laughter, the clinking of glasses, a sense of collective joy—and you couldn’t help but feel out of place, as though your personal storm didn’t quite fit in with the party’s sunny atmosphere.

You made your way through the crowd, your eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching for something familiar, something to anchor you. That's when you spotted Geto, leaning casually against the wall, a half-empty cup in his hand. His sharp eyes met yours, and in that instant, you felt like he already knew something was off, even before you had a chance to say anything.

"Everything okay?" His voice was quieter than usual, soft but laced with an undercurrent of concern. The question hit you harder than you expected, and the tightness in your chest only worsened.

You forced a smile, but it was thin—barely a curve of the lips—and you knew Geto could see right through it. You shook your head, not ready to expose everything that was eating at you. "Yeah, just needed some air."

Geto didn't press, but his gaze lingered, measuring you with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t the type to pry, but he could read you like an open book. After a beat, his eyes shifted around the room, the calm in his demeanor a stark contrast to the growing chaos inside. Then, he looked back at you, his voice quieter still. "There's a lot going on in there... If you want to keep your peace, maybe it’s best you stay out here for a bit."

His tone wasn’t teasing. It was low, almost protective, like he was warning you to shield yourself from the storm brewing in the room. You frowned, a knot tightening in your stomach. Geto didn’t speak like this unless something was really going down.

"Why’s that?" you asked, your voice betraying the unease creeping up your spine.

He shrugged slightly, his faint smirk only half-formed, like he knew something you didn’t. But his eyes were darker now, unreadable. "Just a little... drama brewing."

You tilted your head, still not getting it. But before you could ask again, a sudden eruption of noise crashed over you—loud cheers, boisterous shouts of encouragement. It felt like the entire room was vibrating with an unseen energy, something in the air urging everyone to push harder, get louder.

And, against every instinct telling you to stay out of it, your feet moved. Drawn toward the door, the buzz inside almost impossible to ignore. You stepped closer to the entrance, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening, but before you could make sense of it, you saw them.

In the far corner, Gojo was kissing the cheerleader.

The world seemed to slow. The kiss wasn’t the playful, casual brush of lips you’d seen a thousand times before. This—this was different. It was slow, deep, intimate, a connection that felt effortless, yet so charged, as if every moment they shared was weighted with something unspoken. The way Gojo held her, the soft curve of her body against his—it was like they fit together in a way you’d never seen before.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart slammed against your ribs, too loud, too painful. This was no fleeting moment—it was real, it was them, and it made something inside you shatter in a way you couldn’t explain.

The crowd around them erupted in cheers, but all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears, the beat of your heart thudding painfully in your chest. Your body went numb, your vision narrowing as you tried to force yourself to look away, but you couldn’t. Every detail of that kiss, the way Gojo’s hand lingered on the small of her back, how she leaned into him as if there was no one else in the room, etched itself into your mind. It was too much. Too raw. Too real.

You felt cold, exposed, like the weight of the room had just pressed in on you, suffocating. The realization hit like a gut punch—Gojo, the guy who never did this, never gave anyone more than a fleeting glance or a brief touch, was suddenly offering someone else everything you had wanted to give him. The part of you that had always been there for him, the part that had waited and stayed in the shadows, felt torn wide open, vulnerable in a way that left you trembling.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. And in that moment, you knew—it was too late.

You stood frozen in place, heart pounding, the world around you blurring as you tried to force yourself to breathe. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. You blinked, feeling like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control.

That's when you felt Geto’s presence again, the way his gaze settled on you with an intensity that cut through the haze of your emotions. You could hear the concern in his voice, though it barely registered through the ringing in your ears.

“Are you okay?”

The question hit like a wave. You struggled to keep your composure, but the crack in your smile was all too obvious. You shook your head, the sharp edges of your thoughts scraping against your skull.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Geto didn’t buy it. He stared at you, his gaze sharpening. He could see through every wall you tried to build, and for a moment, you felt like he was going to call you out. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave you a small, understanding nod, though his eyes were still full of that quiet concern.

“Alright,” he said, his voice softer now. “But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You nodded quickly, too quickly, like you were desperate to move on from this moment. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to feel any more. So, you did the only thing that made sense—you grabbed a drink from the nearest table, your hands shaking as you wrapped your fingers around the cold glass. Without a second thought, you tilted the glass back and downed it in one shot, the burn of the alcohol stabbing through your throat.

It was harsh, but it was enough to take the edge off. Just enough to dull the sharp sting of everything crashing down on you.

You set the empty glass down, the room spinning a little as you steadied yourself. Your chest still ached, but at least it was bearable now. You didn’t know how much longer you could stay, how much more you could watch, how much more you could pretend that you weren’t falling apart.

“I’m gonna head home,” you muttered, already turning away.

Geto didn’t argue. He just gave you a small nod and a glance that said everything without saying a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you made your way out, but you didn’t turn back. You couldn’t. Not when you knew if you did, you’d break open in front of him.

You didn’t want to be seen like that. Not by anyone.

So you left.

The cool night air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe. The city stretched out before you, the distant lights barely reaching up to where you stood. You knew you couldn’t just go home—not after everything that had happened tonight. Not when your mind felt like it was about to crack wide open.

Instead, you walked, each step purposeful, until you found yourself at the door of your studio. It was quiet here, isolated, the perfect place to think—or, at least, drown out everything with noise.

You shoved open the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and old instruments hitting you like a wave. It was a strange kind of comfort. The walls were lined with guitars, and the sound of your fingers brushing against the strings felt like the only thing that could quiet the storm in your mind.

You didn’t bother to turn on the lights—just went straight for your guitar. The soft, familiar shape of the acoustic greeted you like an old friend, and you sat down on the edge of the old couch in the studio, fingers instinctively resting on the strings.

You strummed a few chords, the sound mellow and comforting in the silence of the room. It was familiar, something that had always calmed your mind. But tonight, it felt... hollow. The notes felt small, contained, like they couldn’t fully capture the mess swirling inside you. You tried to lose yourself in the rhythm, in the song you were playing, but your fingers faltered. The music wasn’t matching what you felt.

What was it that you were searching for? You didn’t know. It was the kind of feeling that started in your chest and spread through your body, but the acoustic guitar didn’t have the power to express it. It wasn’t the quiet melancholy you’d often poured into your songs. No, this was something else—something more urgent, more intense. Something that, as much as you hated to admit it, made you think of Gojo.

You closed your eyes, letting the last chord ring out, but the silence that followed felt too thick, too heavy.

It was his smile. His laugh. The way he seemed to move through the world like he had everything figured out, with no hesitation or doubt. It was the way he looked at her—the cheerleader—like there was nothing but the two of them, and how effortlessly they seemed to fit together. There was something so... easy about it. Something you couldn’t quite place, but it made your chest tighten.

You set the guitar down with a frustrated sigh and stood up, pacing around the room, the weight of everything pressing on you again. You thought about Gojo and the cheerleader. The way they moved together, so effortlessly, so sure of themselves. You thought about how he could be so light, so carefree, and how you were... not that. Not in the same way.

It was strange. You didn’t want what he had with her—what he could have with anyone, really—but there was something about it that made you wonder. Why was it so easy for him? And why was it so hard for you?

You grabbed the acoustic again, but this time, it felt even more distant. The softness, the quiet—none of it matched what you were feeling. You needed something more. But what was it?

power to express it. It wasn’t the quiet melancholy you’d often poured into your songs. No, this was something else—something more urgent, more intense.

You closed your eyes, letting the last chord ring out, but the silence that followed felt too thick, too heavy.

It was strange. You didn’t want what he had with her—not in the sense that you wanted to be with someone else, but it made you wonder. Why was it so easy for him? The way he was with her, so relaxed, so certain. And why was it so hard for you to even acknowledge the way your heart twisted every time you thought about him, about the way he made you feel?

The cool night air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe. The city stretched out before you, its distant lights flickering like they belonged to someone else. You knew you couldn’t just go home—not after everything that had happened tonight. Not when your mind felt like it was about to crack under the weight of all the thoughts crowding in.

Instead, you walked. Each step was mechanical, like you were trying to outrun something. Anything. And before you knew it, you found yourself standing at the door of your studio, its silence a sharp contrast to the chaos that had swirled inside the house. It was the kind of quiet you could lose yourself in—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You shoved open the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of wood and old instruments hit you like a wave, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. It was strange—this place always felt like home, like the one constant you could rely on, but tonight it felt more like a refuge from something you couldn’t outrun. Something that had started the moment you’d seen Gojo with her.

Your fingers brushed the neck of your guitar as you sat down on the worn couch in the corner. The shape of the instrument was familiar, comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You strummed a few chords, the sound soft and tentative, as if even the music knew you weren’t really here.

But the melody felt wrong. Hollow. Like it was a poor imitation of the storm inside you. The rhythm, the notes—they couldn’t capture what you were feeling, no matter how hard you tried to make them. Your fingers faltered, slipping on the strings as your mind wandered, unwillingly, back to the image of Gojo and the cheerleader. The way he’d kissed her, so easy, so effortless. Like there was nothing else in the world, like nothing had ever been more natural. It was all so... simple for him.

Your chest tightened, the air thick with something that wasn’t just frustration—it was something sharper, something you couldn’t define. Something that stung, deep and raw.

You closed your eyes and let the final chord ring out, but the silence that followed felt too heavy, like the space between the notes was just as suffocating as the weight in your chest. The truth that you were trying to ignore came crashing down in a way you couldn’t escape: It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the way he moved, the way he was with her—so light, so carefree. It was how he looked at her, the ease with which he seemed to fit into everything, into life.

And you... you couldn’t even breathe around him without wondering if you were doing everything wrong.

You set the guitar down with a sharp sigh, the sound too loud in the quiet of the studio. Standing up, you paced, unable to sit still as your thoughts collided with each other, sharper now, more frantic. What was it about him that made everything feel both so simple and impossible? The way he’d looked at her, the way they fit together—it felt so effortless, so right. You’d watched him move with her, and for a brief, ridiculous moment, you wondered if you could ever have that. But you weren’t like them. You weren’t that easy, that sure of yourself.

You grabbed the guitar again, but it felt even more distant this time. It was just another object, another tool, in a room full of things you used to make sense of the chaos. The soft notes, the gentle strumming—none of it matched the whirlwind inside you. You needed something stronger, something that could hold what you were feeling, but the music just wouldn’t come.

What was it you were really searching for? You still didn’t know. But you did know one thing: you weren’t ready to face it.

The guitar felt foreign now, the touch of it somehow wrong as you strummed another failed chord. The frustration built, and your fingers slipped off the strings again. Your thoughts turned back to Gojo—his laugh, his smile, the way he moved like he was untouchable. And, God, how easy it all seemed for him. Why was it so effortless for him to just... exist, and so impossible for you? Why did everything about him make you feel like you were drowning?

The last thing you wanted was for him to be in your head like this, but there he was. His face, his touch, that damn smile that seemed to slice through everything, leaving you exposed and uncertain. And what were you supposed to do with all of that?

You exhaled shakily, leaning back into the couch, the room spinning just slightly. It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t anger. It was... something else. Something far more unsettling. You tried to deny it, but it was there, festering beneath the surface—the way your heart twisted every time you thought about him.

You didn't want to want him. You didn’t even know how to want him. But there it was, the ache.

Maybe it was the feeling that you'd never quite measure up to whatever it was he had with her. Maybe it was the knowing that, no matter how hard you tried, you’d never feel the way he seemed to make it look—effortless, natural, right.

And all you could do was sit in the silence, that hollow ache growing louder, until the music was just noise, and nothing made sense anymore. PART TWO

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru #angst #jjk #tiiraameesuTOTGA

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d-emeter · 6 months ago

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babee i just have to let this out: i was watching one of those yt tarot video of your soulmate to cheer my non-existent love life after receiving 3 wedding invitations and i got "different background/lives abroad, built/fit structure, gives importance to his hair, nice eyes, a bit tanned skin from working outside" guy and the image of john freaking mactavish's blue eyes, in his compression t-shirt under las almas sun with his stupid mohawk is all i can think about asld;kasl;fk (im east asian so that checks out the different bg/lives abroad aspect lol). do whatever you want with this information 🤣 love your writing!!

oh he might just be your soulmate idk what to tell you. this also gave me some soap with an international partner brainworms enjoy

Soap with an international partner — reader x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

Now I will not pretend otherwise, the first thing this man will do when he finds out you're from another country is ask you to teach him cursewords in your language (or in your accent/slang if you're from another english speaking country). This immediately devolves into dirty words once you start dating.

If you're facetiming your family abroad, best believe this man is in frame too, talking with your mother like he's known her for years. If they ever come to visit or you visit them, he also very quickly becomes the favourite 'uncle' to any kids in the family. No getting rid of him now, bonnie.

If you ever get homesick, he's pulling out all the stops to make you feel better. I'm talking cooking your favourite dishes, decorating your apartment with your national flag, playing music from your country. When it gets really bad, he already has the plane tickets purchased.

When visiting your home country, he insists on taking those garish tourist photos in cheap knock-offs of your country's traditional clothing. Will also make you do this when you visit Scotland, then hangs the photos next to eachother on the fridge.

His notebook is filled with little words you've taught him, usually along with a tiny sketch of said object or concept (he's a visual learner).

He'll never show you before he's sure he has you locked down, but he started googling and making a list of baby names in your language after the first date.

And finally, a few years down the line, he'll end his vows by telling you "I love you" in your language.

#soap x reader #johnny mactavish #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty #soap imagine #johnny mactavish imagine #johnny mactavish x reader #cod x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish

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arolesbianism · 1 year ago

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Man oni can't do this to me I'm supposed to be preparing for artfight but all I can think abt is Them™ from the second I wake up to the moment I go to bed how am I supposed to prepare in these circumstances 😔

#rat rambles #oni posting #and dude the beta is probably still going to be going during that time klei how could you do this to me #like I will still be participating in artfight but I fear Ill be on oni lockdown for the first week or smth dhskdhkdh #Ill try to at least sketch some stuff out but god if I can get my hands onto any amount of lore its so jover #now thats not a guarantee this is a beta after all but god man. fuck.#also I need to know the new dupes name right now its important #mostly because I want confirmation that I got z on the cypher right lol #chances are theyll just have another a name or smth #who knows maybe theyll have a w name and be the second ever contender for being sent to the constant #although for all we know there could be plenty more w names in the cast that are just hidden in the full names like with nails #I am in such agony rn with seemingly every place ppl post abt oni being dead silent still hello is anyone there #I thought Id at least see some more speculative stuff on the gameplay side of things but Ive seen like 2 things where ppl even bring it up #tbf some of the new stuff seems pretty obvious to deduce to me like there's no way the new fox deers dont produce lumber #and we already know the bunny guys (or the big one at least) provides reed fiber at least #the plants are mostly more mysterious tho #we have the obvious one being our new bestie the oxylite plant and the lil puffball tree thats probably the new decor plant #and the crystal grapes are probably going to be a new muckroot equivalent and at least one of the new plants probably produces smth edible #as for what recourses they need we know that at least 2 of them need watered in some way #Im currently betting theyll need ethanol but thats not based on a lot #honestly if any of them use plain ol water or even any water variants Ill be surprised #I wouldn't be surprised if most of them take ethanol or some liquid gas or smth #I still am holding out on a plant that consumed liquid carbon dioxide but Im not too hopeful #one thing Im very curious on is just everything abt how the oxylite plant grows I wanna know how good itll be so bad #because I am a proud member of the desperately wants more viable oxygen production option in oni gang and I wanna see this baby flourish #but based on how seemingly abundant it is Im afraid itll just join the squad of early game oxygen options that become too much of a hassle #to sustain late game so you're usually just going to switch to exlectroliszers each time #I hope Im wrong but I wont be surprised if Im not #they already took one oxygen plant out back and shot it dead so this guy might just be a corpse on arival if we're unlucky #well hey thats why there's a beta ig gotta make sure things are balanced or whatever

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kombuuuu · 2 years ago

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miles deflecting is so GOOD he makes me ILL!!!!!! i love ur writing <3 do u think we cld have like a short continuation 4 it?

Deflecting on you.

42!Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

“Would you hurt me?” “Never again.”

continuation to this C:

im infecting people with the 42!Miles propaganda cough cough 🗣️ ly2 pookie (also this is definitely not short)

A few days had passed now, and Miles had stayed his previous level of civil, bordering caring, with you.

He wasn’t glad with how easy he had let the two other kids get off. But when they were reduced to cowering forms in darkened corners whenever he was around, it brought a pinch of justice, pride to his chest. Although, James had a rather decent punishment, in his opinion.

Word had gone around that he’d gone insane, smashed his head against a desk in an old , deserted classroom until he’d passed out. Mangled his own skull, intended to stab someone, but couldn’t get up from the damage to his own self.

A tip to the cops surveying the scene, and the rumour was spread a little wider.

He had been wary with you, from the moment you both sat staring at the city life below you, in his bed.

In his room, his house with his Ma just outside. The domesticity of the moment making the ache in his lungs suffocate his heart. Squeezing and pumping out as much blood as it could, heart rate trying to keep up with the lack of air.

He’d thought back to it too often in the mere days since occurrence for him to simply brush it off, but he sure tried.

—

He tapped the rubber of his pencil along his desk, staring at the page below him. The words being said had been drowned out by his racing mind, something he fully knows would get him in trouble eventually for “lack of effort”. But it was maths, there wasn’t a single thing being told that he didn’t already know.

What had his current attention, was the faint sketch of you on his gridded paper. He hadn’t meant to draw it, he’d just—, spaces out and it was there when he snapped back.

Now he was at a standstill with himself, use the currently tapping eraser to get rid of the drawing, or live with the faint lines hidden between pages. It was obvious, rub it out. But the thing, the most difficult aspect—,

—Was how utterly gorgeous the drawing was.

How your hair framed the page, the shape of your eyes being shaded in led. The soft look you’d given him that night being practically pulled from his mind and placed on the cheap paper. He’d recreated it perfectly, he could feel the apprehension, the uncertainty.

But despite how bitter those words sounded, uncertainty was still consideration.

You were considering him. Not as an enemy, or a nuisance — as a stranger.

You can get to know a stranger.

You can get to know him.

Miles closed his eyes and groaned under his breath, rolling eyes at the hope rising in the back of his neck.

He flicked to the next page, promising to never open to it again.

If it ended up cut out of his book, folded neatly and stuffed in the hidden latch of his desk drawer, no one but him would know.

—

You hadn’t forgive him, of course you hadn’t — you’re not that naïve.

He hurt you, cause you an entire season of torment, sleepless night and stress filled days.

You tried to stay quiet, like you always had. Passing by crowds unnoticed and surfing under the noise with a cotton stuffed ear.

And he’d started a ruining of that.

Trying not to draw attention to yourself, despite him so clearly trying to put you in spotlight.

This whole ordeal was a domino effect from that damn kaleidoscope, and he was just another finger flicking the next tile.

Until he wasn’t.

And he’d near killed a man for you. Taken care of you, feared for your life.

He’d found you, from nothing but a gut feeling.

The way he would stare now, was less vindictive. His gaze no longer that of anger but of a man conflicted. Like he couldn’t tell what to think of you.

You lay over your ruffled sheets, quilt and bedding under you to not overheat yourself. You window was wide open, airing out your humid room. The soft sway of leaves sprouting from the vines crawling over your building was pleasant. Digging their roots in the crevices of your window sill like Miles had been digging into the crevices of your mind.

You put a hand over your head, stretching your back up and listening the the crack that came from it.

Dropping back down and huffing, you continued to watch your ceiling in mild disinterest, trying desperately to reach the essence of sleep, and let the way Miles’ lips curled into a smirk fall from your mind.

He hadn’t realised it, but his small rebuttal to your teasing that night in his room had made a permanent statement in your head, no longer able to forget about it.

“No, just you —,” Your mind hadn’t cared to supply the rest.

Every single thing about that scarring night had burned its way into your temporal lobe. Like giving it a searing kiss with memory stained lipstick.

A small clicking had caught your attention, like fingernails tapping glass. The clinks were rhythmic, had the coordination of a spiders legs.

Your focus on the plain ceiling was now broken, a curiosity replacing it.

You approached the open window without caution, Moonlight spilling through the glossy panes. Placing your hands on the sill, you leaned forward, and felt the small rush of wind over your shoulders, the breeze cooling your heated face. An urge to close your eyes and take it in almost over-reigned that new curiosity, but your self preservation thought better of it. Checking left and right either side as if someone was going to be waiting right there for you. Because that was a completely rational and not at all ludicrous thought. You scoffed to yourself, glancing at the skyline with glistening eyes before turning and heading back inside, to finally — maybe, fall asleep.

—

Miles released a quiet breath, braids swaying from his suspended position hanging from a rooftop. Your rooftop, of your building—.. Where he was watching you. It was coincidence, really. That somehow, running from guys he stole a cure his Momma needed for a patient from. And when grappling from building to building, using clips and hooks and zip lines to get away from them, he’d stumbled into your street.

He’d lie to himself and say it was just the street his Ma’s favourite Paella was made, but the one time he’d seen you, exhausted from school—, drag yourself into an apartment across the street from that very place..

His opinion hadn’t changed, so to speak. But there was an added motive, that’s it.

And he’s hiding, it’s not his fault if your apartment is high up. Or his need to see you is growing at alarming rates, or his heart was beating so loud in his ears that he hadn’t heard you approach the window.

So when your fingers had softly scraped along the sill of your window, he’d pulled himself above you — and prayed you wouldn’t look up.

You hadn’t, thankfully.

He’d watched the way your skin had shone under the city lights, your features illuminated and accentuated by the chaos the streets. You were so unbothered—, so calm, even amidst everything he (and everyone else) had put you through.

Like a stubborn stone keeping the whole wall from collapsing.

His admiration for you had grown, not only from the past months — which he realises is slightly sadistic — but from your tenderness that had only lasted mere minutes. Even the glimpse of a softer you, not the one covered in a satiated rage, hands squeezing lemons until the bitterness dripped not from the fruit broken skin, but from your own. The sting of acid only making your bloodied finger feel more justified.

Not that.

What he saw was a woman free of woes, no need to split her skin when her heart was already so vulnerable.

And he craved for a mere glimpse of that again.

Like old, your anger had satisfied him. Gave him those doses of you he’d fiend for, and had excited him to no end. Now, he’s found something stronger.

He can’t let you go.

He watches you scoff at yourself, his mask retracting from his face. You look towards the city’s edge one last time before turning and making your way back inside.

He sighs, adjusting his position on the buildings ledge, and grabs the waterspout running the side of the building, crawling back to the shadows.

His claws clink, like nails tapping glass.

—

There wasn’t a day of peace in the last fortnight.

You were still suffering the effects of your previous injuries. People knowing that something had gone down between you and James, seeing as he hadn’t showed up in two weeks. And the near-healed bruises on your face were a well indicator of your involvement.

So when you stumbled upon Keith, someone you’d basically owed your still-intact-body too, scrambling out of an alley. Bloodied and bruised, nose broken and face almost as busted as your was that day. Safe to say you weren’t exactly confused to what was happening.

He looked up, eyes meeting yours almost eerily fast, the blood from his nose coating his teeth a deep crimson. A sick chill ran down your spine and you stumbled back. A wet gasp for breath was heard, diverting your attention towards its gruesome origin.

Turning your body towards the darkened alley, vision blurring at the edges. Your breath escaped you.

Keith had started speaking, and over the ringing in your ears he’d begged for your forgiveness, scraping his knees while he clawed to get away from his friends continuous spluttered coughing.

“What—..”

Mathew was lying on the floor, avidly trying to protect himself using only his bare hands. While a figure you could only see the back of punched in a strict, repeated pattern — like they’d done this before.

“Miles?”

The man whipped his head towards you, blood dripping down a cut on his cheekbone, and a snarl over his face.

Said contortion quickly smoothened out, a rather *confronted look replacing it.

Keith was long gone by now, having dragged his bloodied body away from whatever mess you were now a part of.

“Chiquita, don’t freak out.”

The way your lungs seemed to refuse oxygen kind of refuted that command.

You were frozen still, eyes stuck on the barely conscious body beneath the subject of your recent intrigue.

Mathew was barely recognisable, eyes puffed up in bruises and bloodied flesh. Miles had taken near no damage compared to the other men.

“[Name], c’mon.” He was getting up now, shuffling off his opponent with a tone of apprehension.

Only when his movement shifted your frozen eyes, did you see the key details you’d missed.

Braids, Nikes, Jacket, Collar, Claws.

A spray painted logo you’d only ever seen one man branding.

The Prowler.

"No te precipites, Ma."

“Don’t act rash, Ma.”

Right as the endearment left his mouth, you turned on your heel and ran.

"[Name], Por dios — quedate aquí."

“[Name]! Oh my god — stay there.”

He waved nonchalantly to the definitely not-going-anywhere boy on the floor. Shifting his foot back and jumping at a wall, claws digging in and gripping the ledge to the roof, swinging himself over it and keeping the momentum in a run.

Darting through corner stalls and confused pedestrians, you tripped over yourself to get away.

A strong, persistent mantra of ‘Holy fuck.’ was circling through the forefront of your mind, and yet everything else was hyper aware.

Not a fault in your step as your grace seemed to come out in times of dire panic, like a dancer following their cues, every movement made around you was an instructors yell.

You turned into the alley leading to your apartment, a shortcut, when you heard someone drop down behind you. You spun around, fast enough to dizzy yourself, and gave one look to the neon mask of the vigilante before going to run again. A small noise of panic escaped your shaking form.

“No corras, por favor!”

“Don’t run, please!”

Your heart beat fast, reaching the door to your apartment complex, swiping your key card and launching yourself inside, the scuffle of shoes being heard just outside the slammed shut door.

“Please, [Name], let me in. We can talk this out, Ma.”

Miles begged, knocking on the complexs’ back door.

"They were gonna jump you, [Name].”

“I don’t believe you.”

Your voice came out shaking, confused and *scared. You’d known he’d been capable of violence. It was adamant in the way he wouldn’t flinch at a hit, or the scars that coated his exposed skin.

But this? A man who’s killed people? Who was going to do it again had you not been a witness.

“I—“ You whined, voice giving out and tears finally breaking the surface of your waterline. “I’ve seen you—,” The back of your head hit the metal door and you sobbed silently. “,—On the news.”

Outside the thin steel, Miles sighed, guilt weighing his chest down heavy. He got sloppy, and paid the price. His anger, rage toward these men. And what they’d planned to do to you — he’d say it was justified. You’d say it was monstrous.

“You kill people, Miles.”

His heart broke at the tone of your voice, the quiet sniffles and shortened sobs. The way your voice cracked and broke under the pressure of your open heart.

“Ma, I—“

“I don’t wan’ hear it.”

His hands rest on the cooled metal, forehead pressing against it as he sighed.

“Please let me in.”

“I can’t.”

“[Name]. Chiquita, por favor.”

He’d begged, ready to get on his knees and stand out in the 40° (104°) heat, and wait until you opened the door. Even if it took days.

Although,

“I’ll break in.”

“Wha—,” you cut yourself off in a sobbing laugh, rubbing at your tear tracked face. “Miles, That’s not a very good bargaining chip.”

He smiled, closing his eyes and loving the sweetened tone you held. You weren’t scared of him, you were scared of the Prowler.

“‘Made you laugh.”

His accent thickened over the words, dragging them out in a rasping hush. Something only for you to hear.

Your resolve was breaking, lungs slowing to a calmed lull as the adrenaline left your body. You didn’t break though— couldn’t.

“I can’t—,” You looked to the ceiling of your apartment’s ground floor, standing in an empty back room. “,—You’re not good, Miles.”

“You helped them, before.” Your brows furrowed, not of anger, but of betrayed desperation.

“You.. You just watched—“

“I know, baby, I know.”

He opened his eyes again, staring at the door like it had attacked you.

“Go upstairs, yeah?”

“Why—“

“Just go on, Ma.”

You huffed out a slow breath, fight draining from your being. You wanted to yell, to scream at him how wrong of a man he was. How he couldn’t risk everything he had for you, not now. Not as the estranged people you were.

You wanted to show the anger you never could, reach that brink of anguish until you’d finally given him what he’d wanted since your moment of meeting. But he no longer wanted that.

He’d always wanted you to break, now he just wants you.

“Okay.” You were breathless and tired, coerced.

He lifted his head quickly, hands splayed against cooled metal curling into fists, an excitement running through him like that of a promise.

—

A minute later you were opening the door to your apartment, and locking it behind you. Anxiously making your way to your bedroom, worried to see what was inside, When you stepped inside, you weren't exactly surprised when your eyes landed on Miles' face, what had surprised you though — was that he was hanging off your window sill with a sheepish smile on his face.

"Now will you let me in?" His voice muffled through the glass and you breathed out a quick gasp, "You— Miles, get down!"

"Down?" He smirked, letting one of his hands drop from the wooden sill. "Oh my god!"

You rushed towards your window, discarding your phone on your bed carelessly. You slid your window up, as Miles laughed, swaying from his one hand. "Jesus Miles— are you trying to kill yourself?!"

He crawled through and you grabbed his free hand, dragging him inside. "Get—.. get." Giving up on your scolding half way through, you quickly ushered him towards your bed and turned to close your window.

"When you said 'Go up.' I didn't think yo—"

"I'm sorry.'

Your hands were left floating above your windowsill, shaking in still air. Miles had come up behind you, hands resting over your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt. His face lowered towards your ear voice dipping with it.

"I know you're mad— hate me, all that. 'S okay. I know—,"

He slowly moved his arms further around your waist, watching your breath hitch and the feel of your pulse under the blow of his breath.

",—And I'm sorry."

"I don't hate you."

"You don't hate anyone."

You relaxed into his hold, tears brimming forth again.

"You keep—" "Scaring you." "Yeah." He dragged his left hand down, trailing his fingers over the skin of your arms and watching as the bumps rose along your flesh. You were entrancing.

"Are you scared now, Mami?" He grabbed your wrist in a gentle hold, swiping his bloodied thumb over your smooth skin. Your hand twitched, and his thumb stopped.

"No." You flipped your hand into his, linking your fingers together, careful to not agitate his bruises.

"Would you hurt me?" He reciprocated, closing his fist over your own, the flick of pain felt like nothing— not when the aching in his chest was finally being calmed.

"Never again."

—

DUDE MY PHONE IS FUCKING BROKEN LOLLL

no ending image today im on my laptop (fucking cries)

translator (bbg) @sataraxia

taglist!! @red-riot-rat , @stvrfir3 , @erensbbg , @umawooma , @wisteriaflowersss , @inejsknifes , @meowsannie , @manduse , @rainy-darling , @riya1161 , @key-zee , @toasttew , @em711 , @starsval , @gemma42 , @lovelymiaablogs

#miles morales x reader #spiderverse x reader #earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles x reader #earth42!miles x reader #earth42!miles #miles morales x you #miles g

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