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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

The group chat lights up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

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

No, you're ignoring it on purpose.

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

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

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

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

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

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

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

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

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

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

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

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

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

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

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

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

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

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

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

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

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

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

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

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

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

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

And after your preparations, you follow.

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

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

Here, you can just be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything starts to make sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to.

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

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

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

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

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

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

Static. Again.

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

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

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

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

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

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you see him.

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

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

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

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

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

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

You’re so close.

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

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

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

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

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

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

Cold.

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

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

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

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

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

Wherever that is.

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

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

Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinny dipping, at that.

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

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

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

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

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

Answer: Naked man.

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

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

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

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

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

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

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

Then, a noise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

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

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

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

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

An idea strikes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you are...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"It's my aunt's island."

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

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

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

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

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

"My aunt’s island."

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

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

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

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

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

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

It clicks.

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

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

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

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t alone.

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

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

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

You look back at him, more confused than before.

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

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

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

But he isn't dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you do press him for information.

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

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

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

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

So you follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. New plan.”

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

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

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

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

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

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish you would listen for once."

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Like?”

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

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

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

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knock.

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

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

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

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

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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elijasz · 1 year ago

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depending on coagulation it can be slime-like, as if you have a slug in your mouth. Or just like warm water that was thickened a tiny bit. Or like very fatty milk. You can write having blood in your mouth as disgusting or as erotic as you want it to be, as long as you choose the right coagulation point. Also really fresh blood, like fresh out the wound, is just like warm water. It's just liquid. Unless ingested in large amounts. But I don't recommend that in general unless your body is used to it. You will throw up.

blood is thicker than water but you don't really understand this until it's in your mouth

#I've rarely had other people's blood in my mouth #so most of this is from having nose bleeds almost every day as a child #it gets annoying to just sit around and not be able to do anything #so I've painted with my own blood in the past #or collected it and watched how long it took to coagulate etc #Btw if you paint with blood the blood will flake off after a while if you don't mix it with something else or seal the artwork #not art

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nyannyannihon · 10 months ago

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#mahjong #sticker #flake seal #麻雀

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objectheadzine · 3 months ago

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Object Head Zine 2025, Fantasy and Magic Preorders are now Open! Preorders will last until April 22nd, 11:59pm PST.

Thank you all for your patience, I hope you're as excited as I am for the 2025 Object Head Zine preorders! Click on the link in this paragraph to go to the Kofi where this is hosted. We got:

A book that's 164 pages long filled with comics, illustrations, and work-in-progress sketches. Features a painted edge and embossed cover!

3 vinyl stickers (1 glow in the dark, 2 holo) [1000 Dead Draculas, CHRISQI, and Bunnii]

A 25-piece bag of wax seal stickers (5 different designs) [Dr. Jingles, Solaire, Izu/Potentialforart, nauma, and Juliette GMM López]

A metal bookmark featuring the zine mascots with a gold tassel [Izu/Potentialforart]

2 lenticular bookmarks [Blacklimes and Guillermo Saavedra]

3 acrylic charms (1 gold flake, 2 holo) [Jeong/dunesand, planetsandmagic, and Tien]

3 heat sensitive prints (use a hairdryer or a hot surface for best effect!) [Yulia "Mikh-na" Abdulkhakova, cowsaresushi, and R-GIE]

5 Holographic prints [Kai_QS, koloquials, siins, Corruptimles, and SkyShard]

A cute 1.5" purple chrome enamel pin! [hello*today]

Our wonderful artists are:

Izu/Potentialforart, Kimberly Wang, Louise Kay Uy | Kalkie, Jeong/dunesand, theholeyness, Blacklimes, Autumn Haynes, hello*today, Juliette GMM López, Betney, Hal (Cacoethic) + Len (Critterature), KIDSID, Vetiverfox, Caitlin Ono, Inktrashing, nauma, Pastachyan, Kosse, CORVIDAY, krispy, JOU, PigDemonArt, CHRISQI, R-GIE, Kai_QS, SkyShard, Feefal, Bunnii, 1000 Dead Draculas, Nisnow, Derek Hetrick, Madame RinRin, Rainboopz, koloquials, Kaz Fantone, Andrea C./punkoz, Iris, Andrhomeda, Skylar Valencia, Den_Ai_D, TK Pinkerton, Guillermo Saavedra, Nighto, June Flores, Sarah Skrutskie, bluequills, april, Nikru, corruptimles, Jara Draws, ZOOT, siins, Nullcasting, Dr.Jingles, Solaire, arcadechan, planetsandmagic, Poofylion, cowsaresushi, AKIRATA, Tien, Mangozic, Mina Martinez, Lemonjuiceday, Jackarais, K_Duffles, Yulia "Mikh-na" Abdulkhakova, Winiberto J. Garcia + Tango, Jenny Park, cosmicloak

#object head #object heads #object head zine #objecthead #objectheads #異形頭

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 5; ghoap x reader) masterlist

Give him blood and he’ll give you something new to chew on.

Except that isn’t the way it goes. Not this time at least.

He tries to talk Ghost out of it, but it falls on deaf ears. Blatantly ignored. The car barrels down the motorway under the cloak of night, a swell of stars overhead as the city falls farther behind. Radio shut off. Johnny thinks if Ghost had his way, the radio would’ve been pulled out entirely, just wires and an empty, black cavity in the dashboard, but it’s a rental.

And no one wants to deal with the paperwork involved in damaging military property. Not even Ghost.

Ghost won’t so much as glance over at him. Unaffected as ever, as if they didn’t just fuck. Johnny’s stomach hurts when he thinks about it. Even without her knowing, he’s broken his girl’s trust. Not for the first time; maybe not even the last. His guilt echoes not only that he let Ghost make him come, but that he liked it—that the buzz in his bones says do it again, please god, again, please let me come, I need to come, touch me, please—

He thinks about his girl, then turns to Ghost again.

In the pit of his stomach, Johnny knows this is wrong. In his rational mind, he knows it. If he were in a better place, he wants to think that he’d make a real attempt to change Ghost’s mind, maybe get him to turn around at the next gas station, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in his belly at the prospect of seeing his girl again after a week of nothing.

The silence has been eating away at him. Bits of his brain flaking away, moth-eaten. Checking his phone again and again to no new messages, getting the same voicemail message whenever he calls. Something flutters high in his chest, an itch he can’t scratch; it tells him to take off in the middle of the night, drive all the way back home and pound on her door until she’s forced to answer it, forced to talk to him face to face.

Again and again, he tries looking at it from her perspective—tries to empathize with her. What he would’ve done in her shoes had she allowed a coworker to grab his dick in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s more than fair, he thinks. His own shame leaks out of his pores in the middle of the night, sleeping on top of the covers because he sweats right through the sheets.

And yet, he keeps butting up against his own anger. Talk it out with me, yell at me, he growls into her voicemail, anger growing as the days pass one by one.

It’s the road that alerts him to their arrival into the city more than anything. More cracks in the asphalt, the car rattling over sewer depressions and potholes in a way that says home sweet home. Usually it’s a source of comfort, like seeing the silver lining on grey clouds or the iridescence in an oil spill, purples and greens catching the light. Not now. Now the road winds like descending into the underworld, each turn coming with a sinking feeling.

They park down the road from the flower shop, tucked just out of sight. A cool breeze wafts over his hot face when he steps out of the car. It nearly rocks him back. When he glances up, his heart stutters at the sight of her bedroom window, sealed tight now. Only cracked open during their sleepovers, when Johnny runs a bit too hot at night for them to sleep comfortably with the window closed.

“Should I…do ye want me to give her a call to wake her up?” Johnny asks tentatively, shutting the car door softly so as not to make a noise.

Ghost shakes his head. “We’ll let ourselves in.”

Johnny’s picked hundreds of locks in his time; he’s jimmied open doors with crowbars, set up explosive charges, used a good old fashioned ram from time to time—no stranger to the trade—but it feels decidedly uncomfortable with Ghost at his back, staring down at him as he breaks into his own girlfriend’s apartment.

“This is a bad idea,” he grumbles, turning the pick in the lock until he hears a familiar click inside.

Ghost doesn’t answer, just raps his knuckles against the back of Johnny’s head. A silent get a move on.

Her apartment looks the same but different when they enter it. His muscles remember the layout though. The pink couch in the living room with two dimpled pillows on either side, the footstool by the door, the stand with her shoes all piled in neat little rows, the vase on her kitchen island with a fresh new bundle of flowers, fragrant when he dips his head to take a whiff. He’s loved flowers ever since meeting his girl.

Ghost doesn’t try to muffle his footsteps for once. He rummages through her cabinets and drawers with all the finesse of a first time burglar looking to get caught. It smacks of intentionality. Johnny’s worked with him too many times in the field to know that if Ghost wanted to disappear into the darkness, he would. He’d be the thing creeping silently through the shadows, tread lighter than air, close enough to touch but never see.

So it’s more than deliberate when he noisily shuts a drawer. Baiting her out.

It’s no surprise when Johnny hears her creep around the corner from out of her bedroom. He’s tucked in the shadows of the living room, just out of the light, so he sees her first when she comes silently down the hall, whole body trembling with fear, the bat she keeps beside her bed drawn over a shoulder. Even her hands shake around the grip.

Of course she yelps when Johnny says her name, stepping out of the shadows, swinging wild. He winces when the bat smashes into a lamp, shattering it on impact.

“Fuck!” she screams, scurrying backwards into the wall behind her. Several framed pictures rattle against the wall, nearly knocked off their hooks.

“Noisy, isn’t she?” Ghost grumbles from the kitchen, tossing a bored glance over, unbothered by the commotion. He undoubtedly heard her creeping down the hall as well.

“What the fuck?” she gasps, chest heaving when she breathes. Her eyes dart from Johnny to Ghost’s massive form in the other room. Poor nervous thing. She must recognize Johnny’s voice saying her name even through the panic because her lips droop in a frown, more confused than petrified.

“Hen, it’s jus’ us—nothing to worry about,” Johnny coos, hands stretched out in front of him to show he means no harm.

It gets her to lower the bat, but only just, the slightest dip that has him darting forward to pry it gently from her hands. The ceramic shards on the floor will have to be swept up later, but he’s relieved that at least she didn’t step on any of them.

Up close, she’s just as pretty as he remembers. Pretty as pie. How could she not be? In the glow of youth still, not like it's been a decade since they last spoke face to face—only a little over a week. A sight for sore eyes, even though Johnny’s narrow when he stares down at her and thinks about the week of his texts and calls going unanswered. His jaw undulates, rage held back by the thin thread of her scent that wafts under his nose, making him lean into her.

Breathe in and out.

“Us?” she repeats, brow furrowing.

She glances over at Ghost again, the man still ambling around the kitchen, at home in her little one bedroom apartment like he visits her frequently. Like it’s his as well.

“Aye…Ghost wanted to come—Simon wanted to apologize…for the other day,” Johnny explains.

“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night…so Simon could apologize for sexually harassing me?” she says, the disbelief smacking in her words.

“Hen, it's no' nice to say it like that—”

“No time like the present,” Ghost says, not ashamed in the slightest. “Heard you weren’t taking Johnny’s calls. Might not’ve had to do this if you’d picked up.”

Johnny doesn’t believe a word of that, but there’s no reason to call him out on it now.

He can see her wrestle with a trifecta of emotions competing for first place. Anger, embarrassment, and then, a smidge of worry holding up the rear. Aware of the fact that she woke up to two grown men, one practically a stranger, breaking into her apartment under the guise of having a conversation. His heart aches at the thought. The lion’s share of the blame rests with him, but still it’s her that suffers for it.

“You…you shouldn’t be here,” she rasps, flinching when Johnny lays a hand on her waist, towering over where she’s still cowered against the wall. Bat gone now, defenceless. Her pupils narrow to a pinprick. He almost tuts, poor thing. Scared out of her wits.

It feels so good to touch her though. Soft and yielding.

“‘Was Simon’s idea, hen, but, ah—” his breathing picks up when his fingers tighten on her waist and she squirms “—I was goin’ crazy thinkin’ ye were pissed for what happened last week. Couldnae get a wink of sleep—kept closin’ my eyes and seein’ your face. Nearly broke me.”

“I am pissed at you,” she snaps, temper getting the better of her.

“I ken, I ken,” Johnny coos, ducking his head until his lips graze her temple. “Simon’s sorry—we came all the way here so he could tell ye to your face, but fuck, hen, I’m sorry too—shoulda said something instead of standin’ there like a fuckin’ dolt—”

“You should’ve,” she interrupts, still fuming mad, an iceberg melting right in front of them. It makes his cock pulse.

“—Aye, hen, I’ve no excuse, none at all. Shoulda told Simon to fuck off and keep his hands to himself—”

“Careful, Johnny,” Ghost says warningly, finally stepping into the living room. He fills out the archway imposingly, almost forced to twist his body on an angle to step in.

Her eyes cut over to Ghost, narrowing, lips pursing. Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest. It’s one thing to see his girl again in the flesh, but to see her all righteous and on the verge of an argument—he could bend her over the back of the couch now, sink into the plush, delicate folds of her pussy, reacquaint himself with deep, languid thrusts. Heaven after not getting his cock wet in a week.

He flinches when he thinks about the last person to touch his dick.

“So you’re sorry?” she says to Ghost, her disbelief clear. Difficult to see why she wouldn’t find it hard to believe that the man that shamelessly grabbed her ass in broad daylight in front of a group of his colleagues and her boyfriend would now choose to apologize.

Johnny knows the answer is no when he sees the way Ghost’s eyes rove over her body, taking stock of her little cotton pajamas and her bare feet curling against the cold floor. Ghost tilts his head to the side, eyes travelling back up to meet hers. “Sure I am, bird. Don’t I look sorry?”

Neither of them answer that. Arguing with Ghost feels different, like inviting in danger. Moving too suddenly in front of a hungry dog, jowls loose and salivating for a bite.

He takes a step closer. “Complete pillock, wasn’t I? And now Johnny’s getting the silent treatment ‘cause of it. Just couldn’t bear another second of him moping around base on the verge of tears.”

Johnny frowns at that. His girl frowns too, but there’s something more to it. He wouldn’t blame her for not accepting Simon’s apology, if he could even call it that—nothing about it rings sincere, more like words spoken softly to call a kitty over—but questioning it feels worse somehow. Like detonating a bomb at two thousand feet above ground.

“…Okay,” she says instead, voice trembling a little. “Apology accepted. You guys can go home now.”

“Bird’s forgiving, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny preens despite himself. “Aye. She’s a good girl, Lt. Told ye so.”

Ghost nods. “That’s right. A good girl who’s gonna let us make it up to her ‘til we have to report back in forty-eight hours.”

“Wait, you can’t—” she starts, then cuts herself off when Ghost’s eyes flash.

He can’t help the way he shudders at the helpless look on her face. Downturned eyebrows, pretty lips slack with disbelief, just the slightest hint of a whine building in her throat that dies when it dawns on her that nothing short of calling the cops will make the two of them leave.

And she’s a good girl—would never call the cops on him. His perfect girl. Sweet as pie.

Johnny falls in love a little bit more when she presses her squeezed fists against her eyes and exhales. “Fine. I’m too—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Ghost doesn’t react to her acceptance. It’s taken as a simple fact of nature—he says something and it happens. He speaks the world into being.

“I’ll take the couch,” he grunts, finally sitting down to unlace his boots. He looks comically large on her little couch—it’s more than likely that his feet will hang off the end, if not everything from the knee down.

Johnny already figured as much. No point in them driving all the way back to base when they both have the next two days off duty and there’s a perfectly serviceable couch for Ghost and the other half of her bed for him. He thought they’d have to convince her a bit more or strong arm her into it (a putrid thought; he’d rather have sweet talked her into the idea), but his girl always manages to surprise him in the best way.

On that thought, he looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, cock throbbing again at the thought of getting to hold his girl’s body against his. Touch starved dog. Mangy mutt, tongue lolling out at even the possibility of a pet.

Ghost must notice the object of his gaze because he sets him straight. “You can take the floor, Johnny.”

His tone brooks no argument. When Johnny whirls around, the words already on his tongue, she’s my girl, I’ve already slept in that bed ten times over, the sight of Ghost’s bare face, the mask now off, dangling in his hand like some scrap of fabric, makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not often he’s granted the luxury of seeing Ghost’s face—wide, clean shaven jaw, buzzed blond hair, old burn marks like a half-moon around his eye, nasty old scar slicing through his lips—and to see it now, here, makes something in him give.

Saturnine man with a wolf’s appetite. Ravenous.

It burns him that his girl looks slightly relieved at having the bed to herself. Irks him. Makes his jaw clench on a mean remark, half tempted to spit out something cross. Just because things have gotten complicated, now he’s not welcome in her bed? After the week he’s spent toiling, trying to make amends? Pleading desperately over the phone, stewing in guilt and heartache—Johnny knows she’s a good girl, but if he finds out that she’s replaced him with someone else in the week since they last saw each other—

Even the thought makes him see red.

He watches her as she turns around to retreat back to bed, more than a little displeased.

“Give Johnny a little kiss before bed, why don’t you, bird?” Ghost lightly suggests. Not a suggestion.

She freezes mid-turn. His expression dares her to put up a fuss. Johnny again nearly clucks his tongue, troubled on her behalf. Her spitfire nature is snuffed out easily under that stare. Grown men with experience in the field wither under Ghost’s stare. It’s no weakness of hers that she acquiesces time and again to his demands, glancing up at Johnny from under her eyelashes before shuffling over, pressing the lightest of kisses to his cheek.

“Better than that,” Ghost grunts, unimpressed.

His poor darling. Humiliated now. No skin off his back though. Johnny’s heart pumps double time when she presses her lips to his; soft petals that spread when he slips his tongue into her mouth, too eager after a week of nothing. Touch starved. Desperate to sink into her, lap his tongue over her lips and the roof of her mouth and press her jaw open to spit messily in her mouth. Take it, hen, every piece of me.

She rips her lips from his and dances away when he tries to get his hands on her, eyes wide, casting one last glance over at Ghost before hightailing it back to her room.

He barely resists going after her. Only Ghost’s stare roots him in place; his voice in Johnny’s head that rumbles, heel. I’ll tell you when to go.

He still doesn’t know what it says about him that he angles himself towards it. Bows his head to it. Moth to a flame that shocks him to the bone when he touches it.

Ghost tosses him the second pillow from the other end of the couch and takes the only blanket for himself. No matter. Johnny’s bivouacked on snowy cliff sides, chilblains blistering his toes for weeks; nights spent camped in torrential downpours, his tent on the verge of collapsing; windswept baysides chilling him to the bone. He can handle a pillow on a hardwood floor.

The ebb and flux of an ocean in his ear, and then Ghost’s voice from the couch: “I’ll take first watch.”

Whole body falling loose as if snipping a cord tethering him to the world.

“I’ll clean up the lamp in the morning,” he mumbles, vision already blurring. Ghost hums low in his throat.

He falls asleep with Ghost’s voice in his head, his girl’s taste still in his mouth.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #soap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader

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the-mortuary-witch · 8 months ago

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SPELLS

MAKE SURE TO CLEANSE YOUR SPACE, TOOLS, AND JARS BEFORE STARTING ANY SPELL. I WILL ALSO UPDATE THIS POST MORE OFTEN WHEN I FIND MORE SPELLS.

REGULAR SPELLS:

REDUCING STRESS SPELL:

• Take a small white taper candle.

• Spread oils and herbs on your candle that are associated with relaxation.

• Light it with intention.

GAINING MONEY SPELL:

You will need:

• A full moon.

• A coin (any silver coin, like a nickel, dime, or quarter).

Position the coin so that the light of the moon shines into it. Gently sweep your hands just above the surface, symbolically gathering the moons silver.

While doing this say:

“Lovely Lady of the moon, bring to me your wealth right soon. Fill my hands with silver and gold. All you give, my hands can hold.”

Repeat this 3 times - leave the coin there until morning, then keep it in your pocket.

REMOVING TOXICITY FROM YOUR LIFE SPELL:

• Lemon (only use half.)

• Salt.

• Chili flakes.

• Two white candles.

• String (tie around both candle.)

• Light with intention and as the cord cuts between both candles, visualize all toxicity being removed from your life. That includes people and situations.

SIMPLE HAPPINESS SPELL:

• Cleanse white tea candle before taking it out of the tin.

• Pour mint, lemon balm, and dried orange pieces into the tin.

• Put the candle back in the tin.

• Carve the Wunjo (for joy, harmony, bliss, and fulfillment) into the candle.

• Light your candle when you need some happiness in your life.

REMOVE SELF-DOUBT SPELL CANDLE:

• Cleanse a small blue taper candle.

• Make a herbal blend of: rosemary, basil, lavender, calendula, thyme, sage, and nettle.

• Anoint your candle then dress it with the herbal blend.

• Add citrine and amethyst crystals in front of the candle before lighting it.

• Meditate while you let the candle burn out completely as you let those self-doubts go.

ANTI-SEASONAL DEPRESSION SPELL CANDLE:

• Cleanse half an orange and small white taper candle.

• Place candle in the middle of the orange.

• Sprinkle cinnamon, ginger, rosemary, thyme, juniper berries, and rose around the candle and on the orange.

• Light your candle and let it burn it out completely.

FULL MOON SPELL:

• Cleanse small white taper candle.

• Make a herbal blend of: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, rosemary, mint, basil, and thyme.

• Anoint your candle then dress it with the herbal blend.

• Write your manifestations on bay leaves before using string to tie them to the candle.

• Sprinkle salt around the candle before placing clear quartz and moon water in front of your candle.

• Light your candle and let it burn out completely during the full moon.

PROTECTION SPELL CANDLE:

• Cleanse a small black taper candle before lighting the bottom and sticking it onto a waterproof tray.

• Pour moon water in the tray and sprinkle salt, sage, rosemary, black pepper, cloves, and crushed up egg shells into the water.

• Light with intention and let your candle burn out completely.

SPELL JARS:

MENTAL STRENGTH SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Place a protection symbol under your jar.

• Salt.

• Rosemary.

• Chamomile.

• Cinnamon.

• Rose petals.

• Protection symbol then placed on top of all the ingredients, the symbol should be facing upward.

• Red candle wax to seal the jar.

SELF LOVE SPELL JAR:

• Either a small or heart shaped jar.

• Rose petals.

• Dried lavender.

• Himalayan salt.

• A love note to yourself.

• Essential oils (rose, jasmine, bergamot, or ylang ylang).

• Honey.

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Pink candle wax to seal the jar.

SUCCESS SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Cinnamon.

• Basil.

• Intention/petition.

• Star anise.

• Ginger.

• Orange peel.

• Sea salt.

PROTECTION SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Salt.

• Obsidian (tiny ones).

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rosemary (break it up then place in the jar to save space).

• Cloves.

• Cinnamon.

• Thyme.

• Lavender.

• Rose (preferably two mini roses).

• Black wax to seal the jar as you focus on your intention to infuse the jar.

• Keep the jar in your home or carry it with you.

GOOD HEALTH SPELL JAR:

• Small jar.

• Cinnamon.

• Rosemary.

• Lavender.

• Garlic.

• Amethyst.

• Green wax to seal the jar.

• Keep the spell jar close by and draw its healing energy when needed.

GET A JOB SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Money rice.

• Cinnamon.

• Bay leaf plus dream job written on it.

• Seal with green wax.

• Visualize the moment you get your new job.

MOTIVATION SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Cinnamon.

• Coffee.

• Rosemary.

• Bay leaf plus intention written on it.

• Seal with orange or white wax.

PROSPERITY SPELL JAR:

• Green aventurine (tiny ones).

• Citrine.

• Thyme.

• Basil.

• Mint.

• Cinnamon.

• Coins.

• Cloves.

TRANQULITY SPELL JAR

• Chamomile.

• Salt.

• Lavender.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Fluorite.

• Seal with white wax.

ANTI-BAD VIBE SPELL JAR:

• Bay leaves.

• Cloves.

• Mugwort.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Salt.

• Chamomile.

• Seal with red wax.

PRODUCTIVITY SPELL JAR:

• Cinnamon.

• Cloves.

• Citrine (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Seal with yellow wax.

CREATIVITY SPELL JAR:

• Citrine.

• Lapis lazuli.

• Jasmine.

• Cinnamon.

• Honey suckle.

• Unakite (tiny ones).

• Rosemary.

• Black pepper.

• Pine.

• Seal with a mix of yellow and orange wax.

FERTILITY SPELL JAR:

• Red clover.

• Hibiscus petals.

• Cinnamon.

• Jasmine.

• Rhodonite.

• Moonstone.

• Garnet.

• Seal with a mix of pink and white wax.

SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS SPELL JAR:

• Thyme.

• Salt.

• Rosemary.

• Tiger’s Eye (tiny ones).

• Smoky quartz (tiny ones).

• Green aventurine (tiny ones).

• Citrine (tiny ones).

• Seal with purple wax.

ANTI-DEPRESSION SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Pepper.

• Cayenne.

• Lavender.

• Orange.

• Quartz (tiny ones).

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Seal with orange wax.

DIVINE MASCULINE SPELL JAR:

• Mint.

• Ginger.

• Turmeric.

• Salt.

• Tiger’s Eye (tiny ones).

• Garnet (tiny ones).

• Sunstone (tiny ones).

• Seal with a mix of blue and red wax.

DIVINE FEMININE SPELL JAR:

• Himalayan salt.

• Red clover.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rose quartz (tiny ones).

• Moonstone (tiny ones).

• Seal with blue wax.

ANXIETY RELEASE SPELL JAR:

• Sea salt.

• Lavender.

• Chamomile

• St. John’s Wort.

• Amethyst (tiny ones).

• Rhodonite (tiny ones).

• Seal with blue wax.

PET PROTECTION SPELL JAR:

• Salt.

• Rosemary.

• Cloves.

• Hair from your pet.

• Pentagram oil (olive or jojoba oil, add dried herbs including rosemary, sage, and frankincense for protection and purification, and essential oils like myrrh, cedarwood, and lavender. Store in a cool and dry place, plus keep away from children and pets.)

• Seal with black wax, to add potency, infuse the oil with a small pentagram charm, then allow it to charge for a full lunar cycle before using it.

#fyp #fypシ #fypシ゚viral #fypage #fyppage #tumblr fyp #witchcraft #witch #witches #witchblr #learning witchcraft #witch community #spells #spellcraft #spellwork #spell jar #information #helpful #occult

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noctiva · 1 month ago

Text

Inspired by this comment on the first part:

Couldn’t stop thinking about it lmfao so thank you

Clouded By The Smoke [Pt. 2/Epilogue]

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!]

Part One

WC: 3.4k

Summary: Snapshots in time as you try to convince Toby he’s worthy of being loved. A chronological breakdown of his willpower.

CW: 18+ content, sort of detailed sexual content, biting and marking, dealer!Toby, he’s an ass but he’s aware and feels bad about it, drugging, recreational drug use, addiction, drugs other than weed, toxic relationships, codependency, denial of feelings, angsty angst, hurt + sort of comfort, ‘I can fix him’ ass mindset, but it kinda works, reader deserves better

Reminder to separate reality from fiction! Acts written here aren’t meant to be endorsed or romanticized - be kind to yourself!

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

“Do you remember what I said to you, last time I was here?”

It’s a Monday, or maybe it’s a Tuesday - you’re not quite sure. Days seemed to blur together into one big pile of thoughtless mush ever since you met Toby. But, one thing was certain; you were here again. In his room, swaddled in a blanket as you sat curled up on some lumpy old beanbag chair - staring up at him where he sat at his desk.

It was an old thing. Paint flaking off and chips in the wood, stickers plastering almost the entire thing, burn holes from cigarettes littering the spaces in between. He’s busy, listening to you absently, a cigarette dangling precariously out of the corner of his mouth as he works.

It’s a sight that had made you gut twist the first time you sat close by and witnessed it, but now it was just something you had grown accustomed to. Sometimes, it’s weed, sometimes it’s pills. Right now, he’s sat with a scale in front of him, the hood of his sweater pulled over his head as he measures out scoop after scoop of white powder. One gram each, exactly, and then he’s transferring it into a little plastic baggie - sealing it, then tossing it into the little pile he had accumulated next to him thus far.

You watch as he wipes the excess powder off of the scale with his finger, cringe a little when he swipes it across his gums before brushing his hand off against his pants. So casual with it. Like you were the crazy one for abstaining.

“What you s-said to me?” Toby murmurs back to you softly, raising an eyebrow though he doesn’t look at you. “I dunno. You say a-a lot of stupid shit, hard to keep track.”

“Don’t be a dick.” You scoff, lips twitching down into a frown as you tug the blanket further over yourself. You had only smoked a little bit today, not enough to cloud your mind over, certainly not enough to put your thoughts to bed.

“Not being a d-dick.” Toby snorts, before letting out a soft sigh and finally directing his gaze over to you. He leans back in his chair, the beat down furniture creaking under his weight, eyes half lidded where they hone in on you through the strands of his messy hair. “I also say a lot of d-dumb shit. That’s why we’re so g-good together, eh?” His lips stretch up into a lazy little grin, one hand reaching up to adjust the hood of his sweater. “Just t-two fuckin’ idiots.”

Any other time you would’ve laughed and agreed with him, but not right now. Not when your thoughts were so loud that it made your ears ring.

”Toby.” You let out a soft sigh, your eyes tired as you look at him. Really look at him. The freckles that stain the bridge of his nose and trickle down his cheeks, the scars and blemishes, the bags under his eyes - drooping lids with dilated pupils. Hidden under his hood his hair is knotted and unruly, but it's soft, you know it is. “I told you I loved you.” You don't even try to beat around the bush. There’s no point. You feel like ignoring it would hurt just as much as coming clean.

And you’d swear you stopped time for a moment, with the way he froze completely. His body stiffening, jaw tensing up. Eyes going wide in shock for a moment as he stares down at you. Silent for a few moments before he’s raising an eyebrow, eyes narrowing.

”You re-remember that?” He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised. You were puh-pretty fucked up.”

”I remember because I meant it.” You insist, sitting up a bit, leaning forwards to get closer to him. Or maybe, you were just drawn in by the sweet raspiness of his voice - like a fish snared on a hook, ready to be reeled in. “You know I meant it.”

“No you didn’t.” Again, denying you so easily. Breathed out without an inch of sorrow, like he was just discussing the weather - not the tribulations of your heart.

”I did.” You frown, eyebrows scrunching together. “You can’t just keep denying it like that’ll make it true.”

”Yeah, I can.” Toby shoots you a pointed look out of the corner of his eye before stretching his legs out and using them to roll his chair back closer to his desk. “You d-don’t love me.” Said as a fact. “You wouldn’t even fuck with me at all if I didn’t keep you l-loopy.” He fishes into the front pocket of his hoodie, pulls out that same old grinder he’s had for years, and you let out a soft breath through your nose.

”I would.” You tell him, watching as he unscrews the lid and sets it on his desk. Eyes tracking him the entire time he reaches down to grab the bong that lay in rest on the ground next to his desk. “I’m barely even high right now.”

”Uh huh.” Toby doesn’t sound convinced, his fingers trembling as he scooped up a pinch of herb and packed it down into a bowl. “Well, you should be.”

He doesn’t take the hit himself, just packs the bowl right to the brim then extends the bong out to you - his other hand tossing a lighter into your lap. “Take that, a-and just shut up about it would you?”

And you do.

A week later you’re sprawled on his couch. Head on his lap, one of his hands lazily carding through your hair while the other one fiddles with a remote for the game he’s playing on his console. Something low energy, you watch with hazy vision as he places block after block in the Minecraft world he’s been curating for quite a bit now.

There’s a joint between his lips. Puffing on it every now and then just to keep the cherry lit, his eyes focused on the screen before him even as the wisps of smoke obscure his line of vision. He’s shirtless, scars and bruises on full display - things that he never gave you a clear explanation for whenever you asked.

’D-Deal gone wrong.’

’Snagged myself ho-hopping a fence.’

’None of your business.’

You sometimes wondered if he’d ever fully let you in. You always wonder if you’ll ever care that you’re pretty sure the answer is ‘never’.

”Toby.” You murmur to him softly, gazing up at him with hazy eyes. His fingers twitch against your head at the sound of his name on your tongue, before he’s back to moving them through your hair - blunt nails scratching soothingly against your scalp. “I love you.” You try again, wondering if he’ll accept it this time.

And he doesn’t, but close.

”Yeah?” He doesn’t look down at you, just lets out a little hum as his free hand fiddles with the joystick on the controller. The cherry at the end of the joint crackles when he takes a drag, smoke slipping out of his nostrils when he exhales. “What do you l-love about me?”

”You’re sweet.” You hum back to him. “Strong, caring, funny.” His fingers still, and you’d swear his breathing is shakier next time he breathes out. “You take care of me.”

”I make you w-worse.” He corrects you. “I drag you d-down to my level. I don’t know who you th-think I am, but I’m not some fuckin’… Prince Charming.” When he reaches up to pull the joint from his lips, a spot of ash falls right onto your cheek. You don’t even flinch. “It’s bad e-enough you’ve stuck around this long.”

”I like being around you.” You murmur back to him, eyes tracking his every movement when he reaches down to wipe the ash from your cheek, his calloused thumb smoothing against the softness of your skin.

And he chuckles. Soft, mellow, amused.

”You shouldn’t”

But you do.

“I love you- Toby, I-“

His fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of your hips, fingernails leaving crescent shaped indents behind now, and surely bruises in the future. His body curled over yours, his chest flush with your back as he presses you down into the mattress. Sweat dripping off of his hair and onto your neck, lips parting in a moan that vibrates against your shoulder.

”I know, I know.” Gritted out like it pains him, his eyebrows furrowed together every time his hips snapped into yours. Actions desperate, needy, selfish in the way he took your body like he owned it. “F-Fuck- I know-“

Your jaw drops slack as drool seeps from your lips and stains his pillow, joining the marks from your mascara that was already smeared there. Sniffling, whimpering, sobbing as his body all but suffocated you - just bordering on the edge of being too much to handle. Overwhelming, disorienting, but he always was. Like those qualities were ingrained into his very essence. “Stupid- So fuckin’ stupid-“ Muttered under his breath, strained and shaky - just barely slipping past your foggy mind. You were too busy trying to remember how to breathe, his words were falling on deaf ears.

But maybe that was a good thing, because you probably would’ve taken it the wrong way.

His teeth scrape against your shoulder before they’re sinking in deep - snarling in a bite that has you choking out a broken cry and jolting beneath him. A stinging ache that made your gut twist, and yet it was welcome. You arched into it, fingers curling into his bedsheets. Grip so tight you might just rip them.

Your body feels like its floating, his body heat melting you into a puddle beneath him. Breaking you down like he always did, reducing you into a mess of sweat and tears he’d have to mop up when it was all over. “S-Say it again-“ Gasped out as he feels you twitch around him, clawing at your hips as he pins you down against the mattress. Near punishing in his actions, not giving you even a second of reprieve even as you struggle to breathe through moans and cries. “Again-“

”I love you-“ Right as you cum. The confession dripping with desperation and desire as you tremble and twitch beneath his scalding hot form. Stars in your eyes, vision blurry, tears wetting your skin as you bury your face in his pillow.

And he just knows you mean it.

“C’mere.”

You barely even have a second to respond before Toby’s greedy hands are already grappling at you and scooping you up from where you sat on the floor beside him. Pulling you onto his lap so easily, because your body was still so limp and pliant from whatever he had fed you earlier. Your chest is heaving, breathing ragged and uneven, eyes unfocused and hazy when they drift upwards to look up at him.

And for once in his entire life, he feels bad. “T-Too much?” He asks you softly, lifting both hands to cup your face and try to steady you - his eyes honing in on the sight of you. Flushed and incoherent, your pupils pinned right out when he looks into your eyes. You can’t even focus on him, staring through him rather than at him - like you’re not even there. “Fuck, baby..” He’s muttering out softly, smoothing his thumb across your lower lip, wincing when your mouth drops open and drool wets his fingers. “Hey. T-Talk to me.”

”S’fuckin’…” You sway in his hold, lips stretching into a goofy grin as you lean into his touch. “Can’t- Can’t feel my fuckin’ face.” You snort out a little giggle, wriggling out of his hold to press your face into his neck. So loose and sloppy, like you were melting in his lap.

”Y-Yeah, I bet.” Toby hums softly, reaching up to pet your hair softly as you murmur incoherencies against his skin. It’s gibberish. Just a whole lot of nothing, spit out between snorts of laughter and little hiccups. He can feel your heart beating against his, absolutely slamming against your rib cage. “You-You’re alright though, right?” His other arm wrapping around you, cradling you against him - like he was trying to protect you from the world. Though, he was the real danger, and both of you knew that. “Just re-really fucked up?”

“Really fucked up.” You repeat back to him, words slurred and laced with laughter. Skin sticky with sweat, your hair matted to your forehead.

”Let’s get you s-some water then.” He hums, before standing up and bringing you with him. Easily, letting you cling to him like a koala as his hands slip down to cup the backs of your thighs. Through his apartment he walks, kicking a few empty solo cups out of the way as he makes it to his kitchen.

Grabbing a mug out of the cupboard before setting you on the counter, one hand on your waist to keep you steady while his free hand fills it up at the tap. “Open.” As he presses it to your lips, his eyes soft and fond as he feeds it to you. One gulp after another, his other hand cupping your jaw to keep you from swaying. “Atta girl. Th-There you go.”

“Toby.” You slur out once you're finished, nudging the mug away with your face as you gaze up at him. Glassy and unfocused, but they don’t drift from his face. “I love you.”

Toby lets out a sigh, his expression melting just a little bit more. You thawed him. Chipped and cracked at the ice day after day, never giving up on him, even when he put you in situations like this. Looking up at him like a saviour, even when he was the serpent in the garden.

”I love you too.” He only says it back because he’s sure that you wont remember it at all. Something he could get off of his chest, but easily deny if ever confronted. And it hurt him to say, like pulling teeth the way he had to force the words out of his lungs.

Not because he didn’t mean it.

But because he did.

“You-You should stop c-comin’ over here.”

Not inside, but on his front porch. The cool evening air tickling your bare skin each time a breeze ripples past. Toby sits beside you, fiddling with a lighter as he toys with a cigarette between his teeth. “S’not g-good for ya’.” A breath, and then; “I’m not good for ya’.”

”I know.” You don’t even try to fight his words. Try to assure him that he’s not nearly as horrible as he seems to think he is. Because he is, and you both know it. “I still love you though.”

Toby lets out a soft sad laugh. Pained, broken in the way it cracks and shakes. It’s not the sweet, honey-smooth sound you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s hollow and strained. It’s sorrow wearing a disguise of nonchalance.

“You’ve g-got to stop saying that shit.” He breathes out, casting you a sidelong glance before taking a drag. Pulling the smoke into his lungs like the burn might just overpower the ache in his chest. “You’re not benefitting anyone.”

”No?” You watch him, chin resting on your palm, eyes tired and yet they still glitter with adoration. “Then why haven’t you kicked me to the curb, if it annoys you so much?”

Why hadn’t he? The answer was easy. He had told you when you were fucked out of your own mind, too stubborn to let it grace your sober ears. Stubborn, or scared? The more he thought about it, the more it was starting to seem like the latter. You were a comforting constant to him. Someone who was always around, even when he didn't ask for it. Never chastising him, never trying to steer him away. onto some better course of life. Just silently accepting. Picking up all of the flaws he laid out for you and cradling them close to your chest.

You were scary. Terrifying. Because you had done what a lot of people had attempted and failed at. You made him want to be better.

And maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad if you had tried to shove the notion down his throat. Act like everyone else, call him a failure and a waste of space. You didn’t do any of that. You didn’t even try. Just you being around had brought it out in him.

He saw what he was doing to you, what he was doing to this sweet precious life. Tainting it, ruining it. Dragging you down into his depths and drowning you, stealing the air from your lungs while you wore a blissful smile.

It made him want to repent. To ask a god he didn’t even believe in for forgiveness.

Not you, because he knew you’d give it to him in a heartbeat and he didn’t deserve that. He deserved to grovel at your feet, to kiss the ground as you walked out of his life.

“You d-do realize that you could do so much b-better, right?” He asks you softly, his voice low - knowing that if he raised it anymore it would crack. “You shouldn’t settle f-for this. Shouldn’t w-want this. No one should want his.”

”You don’t get it.” You hum back to him, hair blowing him the wind. Soft and feathery. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch it. “I don’t want this, I want you. Just you. No matter who you are or what you do.” You watch as his fingers tighten their grip on his cigarette, looking damn near close to snapping it in half. “You could be who you are right now, or you could be some fuckin’ big shot CEO and I’d still feel the same. It’s not what you give me, its who you are.”

And how is he supposed to fight with that? How can he argue when you’ve laid it all out clear as day? Spelling out your devotion in a way he could only ever dream to. Eloquent. Brave. And yet he sat beside you with a lump in his throat, rendering him mute.

It takes him a few moments, a stretch of silence settling down over the two of you as his gaze drops down to his feet. Trying to figure out what he could say to even come close to what you had just told him. Wracking his brain, filing through his thoughts and finding the exact same thing spelled out in every single folder.

So eventually, he has no choice but to spit it out.

”I love you too.”

—————————————————————————

Hi lmfao im back at it with this mess. I just could not get this thought out of my head, angsty dealer!toby has my heart and im forcing you all to partake in this with me 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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valalice · 6 months ago

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݁₊ DECISION TO DECISIONS ARE MADE. ft. 𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼.

pairing. ellie williams 𝑥⠀fem!reader

✦ summary. new year's is just a few days away and your roommate, dina, plans a party to celebrate the new year, inviting a certain special someone. ellie wanted nothing more to do than lay in bed, ignoring the fact that she's starting out yet another year without a kiss. however, she gets roped (or threatened) into attending a party she didn't even want to attend, for the sake of being a "good friend". now minutes before the clock strikes 12:00, both you and ellie are left without a special someone to embrace as everyone else welcomes the new year. what decision will the two of you make? wc. 6k

warnings. fluff. angst. modern!au. loser ellie if you dare. reader is a socialite. roommate!dina. drinking (everyone is of age). ellie smokes. mentions of joel. the both of you are lowkey crushing on each other so bad. self sabotaging. talk of new year's resolution & the future. kissing.

a/n. my little treat to you all, happy 2025! i was going to make this set in tlou universe, but i can't stop thinking of city living and ellie, so here we are. ellie definitely has a loser girl, self sabotage mindset in this, but trust all she needed was to get kissed silly by a pretty girl! anywho, happy new years, lovely's, and i hope 2025 brings you success, peace, and treats you gentle 🤍 remember to support your writers by reblogging & commenting !

m.list | tlou m.list

The TV screen illuminates the dark room, the whistling wind swirls around flurry flakes into the night. It’s the first big snow of winter, and you hope it sticks instead of turning to the grey mush that’ll occupy the crevices of the city streets. You push your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs and resting your head against your knee and letting your cheek squish into it, allowing you to observe the storm and the snow building up on the window seals. It’s unfortunate you think, and perhaps a little funny that the snow storm decides to happen the day after Christmas. Maybe even a little poetic or just a big fuck you from nature. However, you’re content by it.

Your name's being repeated, it takes a moment for you to fully comprehend that you're being called upon, still wrapped within the thoughts of your own mind. Till something small and light hits your head, "What?" lifting your head up from where it rested upon your knee to turn to face the culprit, eyes flickering down to see the lone popcorn fallen on the couch cushion. "Dina—" you scowl, letting an arm fall from around your legs and picking up the kernel, throwing it at Dina's face. Her face scrunching up as it bounces off her forehead and lands in her lap. "What was that for?" it sounds closer to a whine than a question, the storm outside is now forgotten.

"You weren't answering me," she responds, her focus falling to her lap to pick up the popcorn kernel and pop it in her mouth. "and you're not even paying attention to the movie, you picked it out."

Twisting your lips, eyeing the TV screen, "Yeah, I guess you're right." It wasn't a movie you've never seen before, in fact it was a one you've seen more times than you can count. A safe pick for you as Dina let you choose the movie this night, and when picking it your mind was already elsewhere. So, even now with just a glance at the screen you can tell exactly what point the movie is at. "What did you ask me?"

Dina's hand piles into the bowl, grabbing a handful of popcorn and shuffles it in her mouth. Watching her demolish the delightful crunchy-buttery snack made you outstretch your arm, a silent ask for some popcorn. She takes hold of the bowl and passes it to you, taking your own handful of popcorn and eating it one by one. Dina swallows, "Was thinking of hosting a New Year's Eve party."

As if she could already sense your hesitance for the idea she continues on, firmly placing her hands on the plush couch to give her leverage to twist her body, making it face you as she tucks her legs underneath her. And as she leans forward, "C'mon it'll be so much fun. And we have yet to have a party in our new place, there's far better room here for one." she exclaims.

Your eyebrows raise at the last statement, "Barely." you remark, eyeing the room straight ahead into the kitchen. It was a nice place, far nicer than the shoe box you and Dina lived in months prior, but by no means is it more spacious.

"Okay, so maybe not by much. But, think about how much fun it'll be."

"I guess." You ponder the thought of it, dozens of people boxed in your guys' apartment like sardines in a tin can to welcome the New Year. Then you grimace at the thought of everyone drunk and sweaty, the booming voices counting down the clock, people scrambling to find someone to messily kiss. "I retract my statement, actually."

"Oh, c'mon." Dina huffs.

"Why can't we just invite over some small friends? A small gathering? Yes, a small gathering sounds far better." Nodding your head at the idea, trying your best to convince Dina of your idea.

"That's boring. It's gotta be a party, and besides, aren't you supposed to be a socialite?"

You let out a groan at her words, "Reluctant. It's a curse that I'm good with people."

"And that's why you're going to invite some of your fancy socialite friends over."

Your brows furrow deeper than you think they've ever done before. "I'm doing what now? And they're not really friends, just—" you pause to think of a nice name to call them rather than the ones you're currently thinking of. "acquaintances. And I thought you were just thinking of having this party?"

That cracks a smile onto Dina's face. "Well it's decided now." she muses, bunching up her shoulders and throwing up her hands.

"Really?" feeling unfazed by her.

"Yep!" Dina quips.

"Why do you always invite? They're not very good people." you confess.

Dina shrugs, "They suck but at least they bring good booze."

A laugh erupts from you, enacting a full body shake, pointing your index finger at the girl. "I like the way you think."

"I know." she smirks.

The mattress underneath Ellie vibrates, causing her to groan and flip over, giving her phone the cold shoulder. Sighing when it stops, feeling herself mold further into her pillow. Till the bzz bzz bzz begins again, she tries to ignore it and focus on getting back to sleep, but at this point it's been ringing an eternity. Dramatically turning her body back over, taking a hold of her phone and holding it up to her and squinting; Dina. A finger presses answer and she brings the screen up to her face.

"Hello?" she groggily asks, running a hand over her sleep ridden-face. Her body aches from the travels.

"Where are you going to be on New Year's Eve?" Dina demands.

Straight to the point she guesses, rolling her eyes at the lack of "Hello, to you too, Ellie. How are you feeling from your long travels?" Ellie lets her arm fall over her face. "In my bed. Is that okay with you?" she grumbles, hoping this isn't one of Dina's schemes.

"Wrong answer."

Ellie's head pushes further into her pillow, confusion written all over her twisted up face. "How?"

"You're going to be coming to my party." The girl on the other side of the phone corrects.

"Is that an invite where I can accept or decline?"

"No, you're attending this party."

Ellie lets out a long string of groans in retaliation. She didn't even why she bothered to ask if it was an invite, of course she'd be forced to attend another party.

"Oh, stop being dramatic. You always have fun."

A chuckle falls from Ellie's lips. "If you think me having a few beers and listening on to some random conversation is fun, then sure."

There's some rustling on the other end of the phone, like a faint jingle of keys. The noise alone alerts Ellie to check the clock on her night stand, moving her arm from over her face to peek at the clock; 2:54 p.m. She throws her arm back over her face.

Dina huffs and takes a breath, "You just never put yourself out there. That's why. You could easily spark up a conversation with a rando and they'll love you!"

Ellie scoffs at the image of her talking to some random person, let alone her initiating it. "Yeah, right. Besides, I don't really like any of the people that are at your parties, they're all outsiders from our group." Remembering a time at one of Dina's parties when she planted her ass on some couch then out of nowhere a small crowd started to surround her. One of the guys in the group had some weird bullshit rhetoric he was spewing, so she called him out, correcting him in the meantime as well. Everyone around her froze and started looking at her as if she grew another head; she carry's that memory with her to not fuck with any rando's.

"They're my roommates, friends, or acquaintances, whatever they are." Ellie perks up at the mention of you, her arm falling off her face once more, and this time she shuffles in her bed to sit up. "But, they bring that good beer you like."

"Ah, right. All's forgiven, I guess." she doesn't think her voice could get any sarcastic.

There's a moment of silence, Ellie clears her throat. "So, uh, how's your roommate?" It's an innocent question she asks, a hand coming up to her head to smooth over her messy bed head. She knows your name but she still calls you Dina’s roommate.

"Oh! She's good. Neither of us went home for Christmas this year, so we spent it together."

"Cute." Ellie hums. Whenever she hears Dina talk about you it makes a small part of her ache for a roommate, someone to always be around and grow a close bond with. But, not everyone gets as lucky as Dina in the roommate lottery, and the thought of it always gets pushed out of her mind in favor of a space entirely her own.

"She's going to be at the party." Dina blurts, knowing what Ellie is trying to do, she knows the brunette girl too well.

"Well, I would hope so." Her response was casual, holding her phone away from her face and unplugging it from its charging cord, deciding to press the 'Speaker' button and not succumb herself to holding the hot screen phone to her face. Swinging her legs off the edge of the bed, she stretches, a few small noises falling from her lips when doing so. Is it so wrong for her to ask such a question?

"I just bet you do." Dina teases, not convinced with the facade Ellie's putting up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ellie quirks, pushing the shirt that's ridden up her abdomen and pushing it back into its rightful position. The socks on her feet shuffling against the ground to move her body out of her room and to her liven area; it's living area and kitchen combined, she thinks it's a cool name since the entire area is open, but everyone else just calls it the dumbest name ever.

"You don't need to skirt around asking about her. I know about your little crush on her."

Ellie chokes at the word crush, playing it off back hacking up a lung. "I don't have a crush on anyone." she argues, still trying to recover from her coughing fit, wiping away the few dribbles of tears in the corners of her eyes.

"It's all that damn smoking." Dina retorts at Ellie's fit.

"You sound like Joel." Ellie snorts.

There's a beginning of an insult Dina begins to say until she gets interrupted. Being nosy Ellie tries to listen in to what it could be. “Uh, hold on a sec, Els.”

"Yep, it's not a problem." Ellie says, her mouth falling into a tight line. She takes a seat on her couch, listening intently to the chatter happening; as best she could, it's extremely muffled, almost like whispering. Placing her phone to be perched on her thigh she takes hold of her hand, picking at the skin around her nails. Picking at a stubborn piece of skin before she pricks herself and starts bleeding, "Ah, shit." bringing her finger up to her mouth to nurse at the bleeding spot.

“Ellie?” Your voice startles her to remove her finger from her mouth urgently, and straighten her hunchback.

She picks up her phone for some reason, clearing her throat. “Hey.”

“Hi!” You exclaim, enacting a small jump in Ellie's heart. Are you happy to talk to her or are you just like this? She'll settle on the latter. “How are you doing?” the simple question makes her feel embarrassed, a soft pink hue forming across her freckled cheeks.

“I’m doing all right. I just- uh," she pauses momentarily, and she thinks of lying, and telling you that she just got home from running errands, and before that she went to the gym for a few hours; to make herself seem productive. "I just woke up.” she tells the truth.

“Rough night?” there's something endearing in your voice and how it seemed to drop when you asked if she had a rough night, as if you're trying to work a dirty secret out of her by telling her you wouldn't tell a soul. And truthfully if she did have some wild night, it wouldn't take much for her to tell you about it.

Ellie shuffles on her couch, leaning forward, placing her elbows on her spread knees, leaning her head on her unoccupied hand. “You could say so. I landed back here at like 3 a.m.” Although the flight had not been her worst by close measure, she was still sleep deprived and being on a plane always managed to make her body ache.

“Oh, from Christmas. You visited your family, right?” Yet, again her heart leaps. Dina must've told you her plans in passing, but it's the fact that you remembered that made her heart thump a little faster.

She knows she's cheesing way too hard, but maybe you could somehow sense her happy mood through the phone, or at least she hopes. “Yeah, I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving, so it was good to see them.” Her family wasn't large, nor typical, but she held them dear to her heart.

“That’s very sweet.” you say, and just as Ellie hoped, on the other side of the phone you sit on your couch mirroring an identical dopey grin. She pushes her head into her palm, she hates that you have such an effortless effect on her, and she hates how your voice sounds airy, much like the noises doves make as they fly around. “Did you get everything you wished for, for Christmas?”

The question takes Ellie by surprise, letting out a soft, breathy laugh. “Oh, c’mon.” She's sure she'll bore you with the niche presents she got, and she's even more sure that you wouldn't care.

“Sorry, sorry.” you chuckle.

Ellie shifts once again, letting her body fall into her couch, a hand running through her knotted hair as her leg bounces vigorously. “I hear you're hosting a New Year’s Eve party.” She's making conversation.

“Well, it’s really Dina doing it all. I’m helping out, though.”

“That’s good. You're a real trooper helping Dina with all her shenanigans?" The smile she once had now turns to a crooked smirk; anything to send harmless jabs at Dina.

"Need a trophy for it really. But, I don't mind, she's lucky I love her." Your words strike something within Ellie, she doesn't know quite what it is, but there's something at how comfortably the word love falls from your mouth, it makes her feel bitter.

“You coming?”

It's a yes or no question, but Ellie still takes a moment to think. Dina's already made it clear that she has to attend, but she could also use this as an opportunity to back out of it and just spend the first few weeks of the new year hiding out from Dina like someone hiding from a hitman. “Uh, yeah. I am.” She's fucked.

“Fantastic!” You amuse her, not in a silly way, but in a way as in she's never met someone who genuinely uses the word fantastic quite like you. She finds it cute. “I was a little reluctant about it, but I’m coming around to it. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” Oh. So you weren't on board for this either?

“I’m sure I will, too.” She's beyond fucked up.

You don't respond, but that inaudible whisper is back, the two of you must be talking. “Oh, um. Dina wants her phone back," Ellie can feel herself deflate, slumping into the couch. She felt childish that she wants to whine and say she wants to keep talking to you. "but how much longer do I have to wait to get your number, or do you just not like me?” Your words bring life back into her, placing a hand on the soft cushion and pushing herself up. The two of you have known each other for about four years now and you two don't interact without the influence of Dina. And she feels embarrassed that not only do you think she could possibly not like you, you're also the one asking her for her number. But, of course you are, she's not as outgoing as you.

“What? No, no, it’s not that." It could never be that. "Just, uh, get it from Dina.” She panicked, but then again she didn't know if you had your phone on your or paper and a pen near you to write down her number. Dina comes in clutch, she guesses.

“Okay, I will. See you Tuesday night, Ellie.” You said her name again.

“See you Tuesday.” There's silence and she almost thinks you hung up till she taps her screen to see Dina's ID screen.

“And you say you don’t have a crush?” Dina's voice quips.

Ellie groans, her hands slapping at her face before they drag down.

Ellie's phone buzzes in her pocket, reaching for it she frees it from her jacket and unlocks it.

You

Hi! Hope you're excited for the party tonight, can't wait to see you! x

4:23 p.m

Ellie

Hey! Can't wait to see what Dina put together, and right back at ya :)

4:24 p.m

She stands in the store aisle as she watches a blue text bubble appear with three little dots, it abruptly stops, and instead of whatever you wanted to say you replaced it by hearting her message. Ellie stuffs her phone back in her pocket. Sighing as she throws her head back, squinting at the fluorescent lights. Rolling her neck she looks straight forward, swiping the golden figure from the shelf into her hand, taking it and the complementary beer for the party to the register.

Chatters overtake the living space, looking over it you see how certain people group together, it's endearing really how certain types of people naturally gravitate towards each other and stick together like magnets. You take another sip of your beer, looking down in your lap, flipping over your phone to check the time, 10:40 p.m on the dot. You huff, unlocking your phone and picking an app to mindlessly scroll through.

Someone says your name, causing you to lift your head in an instant. “Oh, Mack.” Lifting yourself from off the couch to hug the girl, letting your phone fall into the cracks of your couch in the process. “Hey.” She breaths into the embrace.

“How are you? You enjoying yourself?” you ask, you've gotta be a good host, although you've asked the same questions over ten times now when greeting each person. But, with Mack you don't mind all that much. She's one of the more tolerable socialites you know, and maybe even a friend if you dared.

“I’m doing good, and uh. Yeah! I just got here a little bit ago, saw Dina and everything. I love the new place.” she answers, looking around the room at the last part to take in the space once more.

“That's good, and thanks. Dina and I have been really enjoying it.” Flashing her a polite smile. “She was actually the one to push the idea of a New Years Eve party.” You're creating conversation that you're not sure you want to create.

“Well it's a nice party. You guys really went all out with the decorations.” Motioning to all the gold and black decorations littering the living space.

You hum, forcing another smile, “Why don't we sit down? I heard you just joined a startup from Jonesy, congratulations!” And there you've done it.

Out of your sight, Ellie shuffles into the apartment, searching for either your or Dina.

“Ellie!” A familiar voice yells over the chatter, Ellie looks out to see a tan hand up surfing through the crowd, it’s Dina. She pulls Ellie in for a hug, and she wraps her unoccupied hand around Dina.

“Hey.” Ellie’s greeting was faint, something only Dina could hear.

“Was worried you were gonna flake.” An elbow nudges into Ellie’s side, and she squirms, swatting Dina away.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” she grimaces, green eyes flickering around the sea of people packed into the small space.

“Yeah, I’d hunt you down if you did.” Dina’s words are playful, but there's some truth to them. Ellie focuses back on the girl in front of her, and she remembers the beer in her hand.

“Oh, I bought some beer.” Lifting up the case and showing it off.

“Great! Can never have too much of it.” Taking a hold of the case from the brunette and walking to the kitchen. Ellie follows after her, watching as Dina opens the fridge and places the case of beer next to another one, the one she knows one of your fancy friends brought, the one she likes. It makes her chuckle thinking that her case of beer will feel at home with the rest of the alcohol in the fridge.

“Did you want one?” Dina asks, still bent into the fridge.

“Yeah.”

Dina reaches and grabs a beer, extending her arm to Ellie. But upon one look, “Not that one, the one I bought.”

Dina removes her head from the fridge to stand up straight, questionably eyeing her. “I bought it with my money so I’m going to drink it.” Ellie shrugs.

“Whatever you say.” Dina mumbles, placing the beer back and grabbing the one from the other case, handing it to Ellie; she says a quick ‘Thanks’ looking behind her on the counter she's leaning against, grabbing a bottle opener and piping it open, pocketing the top in her jeans pocket taking a swig of the drink.

“Uh, where's roomie?” It's an ice breaker she tells herself.

Dina pouts, leaning so she looks over Ellie's figure into the open space living area that's completely filled with people. She shrugs as she sets herself back in place. “She's somewhere in there, y’know how she is.”

“Yeah, I do.” Taking another, longer swig of her beer.

"So," Dina begins. Ellie squints at her, the look in Dina's brown eyes tells her something is up. "Who are you kissing tonight?" Of course.

Ellie swallows. "Who are you kissing tonight?" She's deflecting, but she's also genuinely curious.

Dina looks off somewhere then back at Ellie. "I'm sure I can find someone. Now, stop deflecting. Who are you kissing?"

She rolls her eyes at the stupid question. "You know the answer. No one." It's been no one for years, it would be something she's embarrassed about but she's too used to it to feel that way. A reason she didn't want to attend the party, she didn't want to have to come face to face with the fact that she's so content with feeling alone, even when there's countless people who kiss other people with no strings attached on a night like December 31st; Ellie just couldn't do it.

Dina could see the question get under her friend's skin, the aversion of her gaze as it flickers around, focusing on anything but Dina, and the hand layer unoccupied on her jeans, a nimble finger scratching at the fabric. "Okay, okay. Stay lonely and un-kissed, loser."

Lifting herself up from leaning on the counter, "Have fun finding someone random to kiss." Ellie swings her beer up in the air, a solute to Dina's findings. The moment she turns her back to Dina she feels a twinge of regret, maybe she's being too sensitive about the topic. . . Nah. She knew what her friend was trying to insinuate when asking who she's kissing tonight, and with her hounding to know if she has a crush on you, it's too much. Ellie Williams isn't kissing anyone on New Year's Eve and she doesn't have a crush on you.

Your butt feels numb, you hadn't moved much since you sat down in an effort to seem interested in whatever Mack is talking about. It's routine really, ask someone about something recent, often something new or life changing and the person will talk your ear off, litter a few Ah's and Oh, Really's?, maybe a few questions of your own if you're feeling frisky. But, at this point you're starting to worry about how long someone could possibly talk about a startup.

Stretching your neck side to side you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, opening them to put your attention back on Mack. And as quickly as it happens, you lose it. Eyes roaming the window you were staring out of just a few days ago, you couldn't see it about an hour ago, you guess people have congregated elsewhere. You're just about to focus on the girl sitting in front of you, again, till a bright little flickering flame catches your eye. Squinting as you watch the flame be brought to something then be gone, the moonlight and the city lights allow you to see silhouette, Ellie.

Turning back to Mack, you place a warm hand on her knee, "I'm really sorry, Mack. But, I think Dina is calling me." you lie, a very tiny fabricated lie that shouldn't hurt her too much. Rising from the couch and walking towards the window.

"Oh, but—" Mack's head twists behind her, a finger pointing to the opposite side of the room where Dina's at, talking to a few people.

Both you and Dina had thought it was a good idea to keep the balcony window open during the party, knowing that everyone would be packed in tightly together and some fresh cool air could keep the environment comfortable. The sheer blinds flap from the wind and you catch them, entering the balcony, but not quite. You were right, now faced with the back of Ellie staring down to the city streets, taking drags of the cigarette she just lite, expelling the smoke to let it be carried away by the wind and be swirled around. Everything about her is so signature, from her half up half down hairstyle, the chunky tan jacket she wears everywhere, the jeans she has on, down to the boots she exchanged during the winter season instead of wearing her converse; and there's a beer at her feet.

"Smoking and drinking? Pick a struggle." You remark, folding your arms over each other.

Ellie's startled by your voice, again. Turning around to see you standing in the opening of the window. The sheer cream blind sway behind you, but the moonlight illuminates to make them appear brighter, it gives you a halo that hitches Ellie's breath. And there's a toothy grin on your face, it's a telltale that you're clearly teasing her.

She tears her gaze away from you and turns back around to lean on the railing of the balcony, nodding her head.

The grin on your face drops at Ellie's action, and there's a few short clicks of your footsteps before you're also leaning against the railing next to her. "Was it too far?" you ask, in a softness close to a whisper.

Ellie turns to you, brows furrowed. "No, I just um—" She eyes the cigarette between her fingers, bad habits die hard. "My New Year's resolution is to quit." she stated, she doesn't exactly know when she decided this, but she always felt the need to say something unnecessary around you in hopes to impress you.

Your eyes widen at her words, "Oh, wow, Ellie. That's huge." you beamed, you feel proud to know this, and you wonder if Dina knows about her resolution. "You know we're all here for you."

Ellie huffs out another drag, she does it by looking in the opposite direction from you. "Yeah, I know." she agreed, turning back to you. "It's going to be fucking hard, been smoking for years."

"You're strong, Ellie. It is going to be hard, but again, just please remember that you have a support system. Even if you don't want to go to Dina or whoever, I know we're not super close, but I'm here." You're sincere in your words, and you just hope Ellie can tell that you are. Comfortable silence, or as close to silence falls over the two of you, eye contact not breaking as you gaze into each other. As Ellie looks at you she lets your words soak in, everything about you is soft right now; the kiss of your lashes on your cheeks when you blink, the small smile on your face and how it reached your eyes causing them to twinkle, the faint aroma of your perfume, to your words. Just alone with your comforting words she likes to think she could quit smoking cold turkey, despite knowing she'd probably roll over and die if she did.

"Thank you." A smile now mirrors yours. And in response yours stretches wider, a silent, No problem. "What are you doing out here?"

"Needed a breather." You needed more than a breather, you needed to escape from the Hell that is uninteresting conversations.

"You got one." She quips, she's sure you have better things to do, better things to talk to than her.

Your eyebrows rise, you weren't expecting a response like that. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Williams?" Quirking your head to the side. Feelings of Ellie not liking you come washing back, and your body burns, but she said she does like you, and you trust her.

"Not a chance." She confirms.

"Sounds like you are." You press, still hung up on such a response.

"I would never." Ellie consoled, she feels bad for her snarky remark, so she places emphasis on the word never. "It's just that—" She stops mid sentence, your sharp gaze waiting for the next thing to come out of her mouth, she feels hot and looks away for a moment, releasing the hand on the railing to come up and pull at her collar before smoothing to rub at her neck. "I just thought you'd be doing your socialite thing right now."

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?" You groan, and everyone as in Dina and now Ellie.

"What? You are." she proclaimed.

"Not by much," you grumble, looking down to the streets of the city. "Can I confess something to you?"

Ellie walks around you, to the little table and chair you and Dina had set up on the balcony, you could only fit those two things without taking up the entire balcony, so whenever the two of you come out here one sits on the chair and the other sits on the metal staircases. She buds out her cigarette into the ashtray Dina keeps outside before returning to her spot next to you. "My lips are sealed."

"I don't really like my life." you admit. It's a heavy topic that's been looming over your head in dark clouds. You would have talked to Dina about it, but she thinks your life is the best thing ever, and you know if given the chance she'd gladly jump into your shoes, and you'd let her.

"Oh."

"Yeah." you sigh, "Sorry if it's too much. I don't have many people to talk about this to." This is a bad idea.

"No, it's not, trust me. I just don't know if I'm the best person to talk to this about," She feels under qualified to talk about such a topic with you, although she understands the feeling all too well. "maybe Dina will?"

"Dina won't understand."

"Ah." she acknowledges, she agrees with that. "What's the matter?"

"I just feel unhappy and unfulfilled." you say, and you feel ungrateful doing so. "I shouldn't be that's the thing."

"How so?"

"Because, I guess I have everything. And I'm lucky and thankful." You break, collecting your thoughts. "But it's like everything I do is to please others. I'm tired."

Ellie frowns. She thinks of a decent way to try and comfort you, but each one doesn't sound right, and she doesn't want something she says to make you feel worse; there's even a passing thought of pulling you into a hug, but she decides against it; you guys aren't there quite yet. "Fuck that." A little brash, but she hopes it'll get the message across.

Your face scrunches up and you let out a breathy laugh. "What?" Confusion written all over your face from Ellie's response.

"Fuck that. Fuck people pleasing. And fuck not being happy your life." You're startled by her words, not knowing where she's trying to go with what she's saying; Ellie doesn't know where she's going either. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out her phone, "It's 11:43, and we're leaving all that bullshit in the past in about 16 minutes. You're turning a new leaf in 2025." she retorted, feeling a new kind of adrenaline from her words.

You break out into a loud laughter, sure enough that the few people walking on the streets could hear you, but positive enough that no one inside the apartment could hear you. Ellie watches you fit, laughing a little herself, but not too much to take in the scene in front of her. You; mouth wide, curled open, cheeks plump as the press up into your closed eyes, the little birthmarks on your face and how they move as you express joy, she's taken aback by you.

When you calm down, there's still some giggles exiting your mouth. "Fuck all that."

A weight is lifted from off Ellie's shoulders, she twists and leans over the balcony railing. "Fuck all that!" she yells into the night.

You follow her actions. "Fuck all that!" you repeat louder.

A random person on the street heard the two of you and yells in retaliation. "Shut the fuck up!" their booming voice roars, but it only makes you and Ellie whip your heads to each other and erupt into a shared fit of laughter.

The two of you lean on each other to have support from the full belly laughs you guys are having. Ellie brings a finger to swipe at her eyes, "God, I'm crying." she croaks out. But you notice commotion happening inside, and you sober up from laughing quickly.

"You hear that?"

Ellie turns to look into the apartment just as you're doing, she can't see much, but she can hear the countdown.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Ellie stays strained looking, the blind are sheer enough, and there's still wind picking them up and flapping them, so she's able to see everyone inside with little party gadgets and jumping up and down as they count. "Well happy-" Words leave her mouth when she feels a hand on her cheek, pushing her to turn it to look back at you. Her green eyes widen when she feels the tip of your noses touch.

Three.

Two.

One.

It doesn't take much to move just a smidge closer, and kiss Ellie, letting your eyes flutter shut. Fireworks rocket off inside Ellie's head and her body tenses, this was the last thing she expected to happen, but her panicked state begins to match your relaxed one, a hand coming up to cup at your jaw, while the other comes to rest on your waist, pulling you further into her. She swears your lips is the softest thing she's ever felt, the way at which you two kiss has her chasing for more.

The noises of cheers rings through your ears, and you're the one who lets up first, giggling when Ellie still has her eyes closed, leaning into you for another kiss. You swipe a finger along her bottom lip, breaking the string of saliva that connected you two.

When her eyes peer open again, they're dazed, probably much like yours. "Happy New Year." you whisper, a coy smile on your face.

You watch as Ellie seems to remember something, and you're disappointed to feel her touch be removed from your body. She stuffs both her hands in her jacket pocket, like she couldn't remember which one she put an item in. And she lets out a little Ah Ha, as she pulls out a golden statue, or trophy. She hands it to you, and you take it in your hands, examining it, there's a little ripped piece of paper taped on the stand of the trophy with Ellie's scribble handwriting on it.

#1 Trooper of Dina's Shenanigans

"Happy New Year."

You caress the little trophy, holding on to it, and looking back up at Ellie.

2025 is going to be a good year.

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