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#seems to be a lack of foresight

somethingwickedarts · 3 months

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“Well... I like night orchids and can't swim. Is that the sort of thing you meant?”

“Really? You’ve spent decades training to become an elite assassin but never learned to swim?…. Perhaps one day I’ll teach you.”

Just two clerics of selune in looove.

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oogziepie · 4 days

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Reasons I cannot possibly be a trans girl:

1: don't like femtanyl

2: still don't have good taste in music anyways

3: people keep saying I am and I'm way too stubborn to be something that people tell me I am

#oogposting #Egg denial #In 5 years I'm going to look back on myself right now and say wow. What a fucking idiot #I have The foresight to know that I have probably got major realizations and a lack of denial in my future.#But for now #I'll keep denying it #Because it seems unlikely for some reason

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 4 months

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FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping water—deeper than anything.

In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves.

Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines.

“I still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,” is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older man’s garbled words. “So cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?”

Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later years—one who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled face—the glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline that’s more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. “Gets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.” Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. “Isn’t it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.”

“Don’t need my blood pumpin’ harder,” the old man grinds out, scoffing. “Gonna make my fuckin’ heart stop, Girl…” Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. “And, no, I’m not listening to the birds—they’ll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.”

Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this place—to Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe.

It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.

You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot.

The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a grunt—a cracking of old bones.

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back.

You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.

“You’ll scare away the fish with all that blabber.”

A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath.

“I’m as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Cheeky Bird,” Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. “You’re too wild for this place, then, eh?”

“For most places,” you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. It’s only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisher’s basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples.

Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, he’ll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harriet—older than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a bat—and then, finally, you. After that you’re back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat.

A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter.

Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly.

“Hey!” Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. “Watch yourself—you’ll send me overboard!”

“Did you see that?” Your eyes dart over the water. “I think I saw a fin.”

“You got excited over a fish?” The older man’s voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. “Hell, I got three in the basket if you’re that bloody impressed.”

“Shh,” you wave one of your hands, unblinking. “It was bigger than a fish, Otto!”

Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.

“Lost it,” your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. “Damn.” You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. “It was strange,” you admit. “Like a deep navy color—with specs of silver along the spine.”

Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back.

You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. “Do you know of any animal like that around here?”

“No,” Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock.

Your brows furrow after the silence falls stiffly—the boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air was…muddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water.

Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver.

“...Need help?” You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always.

There’s something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselves—and it wasn’t only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Otto’s strange behavior. The man wasn’t one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings.

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it.

“Don’t need any help,” he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. “M’not in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mum’s womb.”

“Feel sorry for her.” Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paint—

The fin is back.

“Otto!” Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. “It’s back! Look!”

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away.

Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, “Get back!” echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears.

“Whoa!” You’re quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook won’t slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Otto’s curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong.

Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life again—only ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all.

“You go back to the ocean,” Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. “Go back to the bloody hole you swam out of! There’s nothing for you here! Nothing!”

You watch, struck dumb.

“...Mr. Whitworth?” Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the man—utterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?

Perhaps time had caught up to him—was he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fish’s fin, nothing more, nothing less.

“Otto,” you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. “Let’s just go.” Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. “Alright…? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, it’s nothing important.”

His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, “You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.”

Withered hand connecting with your shawl’s edge, you’re dragged back with more force than you’d anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless.

Looking at the water, there’s nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.

—

You dare to ask when you’re pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. “I never took you for someone to believe in spirits.” The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harriet’s back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.

The man’s back over at the sink tightens.

“You watch yourself near the waters, Girl,” Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. “By God, you watch yourself. There’s things out there—terrible things.”

“What kinds of ‘terrible things,’ Otto?” Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life.

What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piqued—your curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. You’d only been here a year, that wasn’t enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles.

Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dog’s visage—worn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. He’d been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually, this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why.

He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, “What’s it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what I’m telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You don’t go on the water,” he blinks, face grim, “unless I’m the one ferryin’ you through it, eh? That’s the end of it. I’ll say no more.”

Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter.

But a fire had been lit in your breast now—a low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place.

To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any you’d seen before.

Blinking to look out the window of Otto’s home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that you’d always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.

—

It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpe—a tiny, unimportant dot on the map—when the way of life you’d chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. You’d picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.

One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment.

It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water.

Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning.

Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enough—the call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so.

Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder.

“What am I doing?” You ask yourself, shaking your head. “It was just a big fish—that old man was just being paranoid, anyways.” Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. “There’s nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.”

Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really say—what can be known are only three things:

One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip.

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

Your head snaps up to the sound of a man’s voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before you’re suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water.

The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendously—a flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp.

Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown.

Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first place—or who was poking a head out of the water before you’d gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.

You certainly weren’t going to.

Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirt’s collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where you’re yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as you’re heaved to the rocky shore moments later.

Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly follows—all spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air can’t come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined.

Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesn’t take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.

But there’s nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths.

Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge.

Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before it’s grasped from below and suddenly plucked—vanishing without a single trace.

—

The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and it’s not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still can’t stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat.

Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after you’d stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal.

There had been a man.

The sensation of hands around your waist—the gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as you’d turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds.

Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustache…square jaw…

“What in God’s name?” You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. “That isn’t possible.”

Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; there’d be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and pallets—bottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks.

There are paintings in the tens—in the twenties—hanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, it’s only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work.

There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows what’s under that thin surface? Well…apparently, it wasn’t human.

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin.

The thing in the water wasn’t… unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose sat—full cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique.

Spiney, nearly—four thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a ‘U’ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of being—for show in it…his?...species.

Could you even assign it a human gender?

You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. “What in the hell is going on?” Your voice is scratchy and low.

Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldn’t be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings.

Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace.

“What has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?”

More importantly…you had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.

With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet.

But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus.

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then.

—

There was no question if you’d gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the ocean—the evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth.

Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. You’re bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.

The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadn’t stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city.

You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friends—at the very least acquaintances. But before long, you’re at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.

The library.

Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences he’d called out on the docks that day—You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.

Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answer—there had to be something about this person, ‘Eleanor,’ in them, right?

If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first hand…you’d rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first.

Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.

“Oh,” the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. “Hello, Dear,” she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. “My, you look a bit under the weather, don’t you? Would you like me to get some tea going…?”

“No, thank you,” you wave an easy hand. “I’m here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.”

“Records?” The woman’s face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. “What kind were you thinking, then?”

After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. “Births and work records? Addresses?” You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. “I guess I don’t know…anything that might help me?”

The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. “How about you tell me what it is you’re looking into, and I’ll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. We’ll work together, then.”

Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. “Deal.”

“Go on then,” she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. “Occupation I can start with, Dear?”

“Well…” you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. “No, unfortunately. Only a first name.”

“You’re lucky Redthorpe is small,” the woman laughs. “Otherwise I would have told you you’re lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.”

“Eleanor,” you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled ‘1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpe’. “E-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least that’s the common spelling, I believe.”

The librarian’s body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, you’re reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face.

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. “There hasn’t been an Eleanor in Redthrope. You’re mistaken.”

“Wait,” you follow, stuttering. “I don’t understand, there has to have been—Otto was talking about her not days ago!”

“You’re mistaken,” is the repeated, firm answer, the librarian’s body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. “Go back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that aren’t there. Don’t take what he says to heart—”

“I saw it!” You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadn’t formed a relationship with the people of this town.

The woman’s mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expression…fear?

She backs up slowly. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dear.”

Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. “I’m done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!” Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what you’re telling her aside as she struggles to string words.

“It…it wouldn’t do that—that’s not how it acts. You’re just imagining things; you’re under the weather!”

“Who’s Eleanor?” You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. “And what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?”

Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarian’s lips move up and down in a panic.

“I…” she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. “I can’t talk about it. It’s not something to be said out loud—especially so close to the water.”

You bark incredulously, “There’s a bloody monster that lives down in—!”

A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body.

“Shh!” The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. “Stop it or you’ll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!” You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. It’s a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. “Do you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear.

She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, “If you’ve already seen it, it wants you. Don’t go back to the water,” before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock.

Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distress—this had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers.

“Careful, then.”

You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coat’s collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.

—

Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.

No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could do—could speculate—before the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided.

Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. It’s a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until you’re bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, there’s a point where a woman’s courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day.

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where you’d been previously.

“Don’t look at the water,” you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isn’t going to topple this way or that. “Don’t even think about it.”

But that tail…that face…

With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on.

The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpe—dreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didn’t mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than you’d like to admit.

The heat of protection, so to speak.

“Even a fish-man can die, I’d wager,” you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. “If I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,” you sneeze, shuddering, “if he even bleeds? If I crack his head open…will blood seep out, or salt water?”

You shiver, and it’s not from the cold. “Fucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, don’t you.”

Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where you’d fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting there…but also your shawl.

Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail.

You aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.

Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.

“Grab it and run,” your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rain—the storm—would render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so.

Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath.

Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due to…your eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.

“Fingerprints?”

Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do now—and, yet, there wasn’t an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared.

Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting.

Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running.

He’d been going through your drawings—he’d somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.

Did he like them?

Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasn’t too important.

Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelp…was it just under where you now study the waves?

So many questions, so few answers.

You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. There’s magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.

“Thank you!” Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree.

The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face.

“Truly,” you shout to the wind. “You have no idea how much this means! If you’re listening, I’d like to extend my gratitude…” Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. “My artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!”

A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldn’t drag you to the bottom of the ocean…right?

Hell, he’d already had a chance to do that—a perfect one—and yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.

Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking.

“You’re good at it,” you halt in a fraction of a second. “The images. Where’d you learn to do that?”

It’s a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.

A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.

Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shoulders—broad, of course—and the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before they’re gone again.

“I…” you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. “I was self-taught, Sir.”

Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and you’re near bursting with questions.

But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.

“You pulled me from the water,” you state slowly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laugh—perhaps it was strange to him.

You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory.

“I scared you,” he grumbles, sighing. “It wasn’t my intention to send you over.” Eyes still stay stuck. “My own fault.”

“I won’t deny you there,” you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thing’s eyes, and he hums. “Forgive me,” your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. “But I haven’t the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.”

“John,” is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesn’t waste his breath, seems.

“John?” You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. I’ve met more than enough ‘Johns’ so far.”

“Funny, are you?” The response, however dry, is tinged with something you can’t name.

“I try,” you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. “Just didn’t expect a man with a fishtail to act so….human. Certainly not be named like one, either.”

“Hm,” John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind.

It wasn’t out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse.

What would it feel like to touch it?

“You live here?” Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. “Right below the cliffs?”

“You’re the woman that goes out in the boat,” John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback.

“Yes, that’s me.” You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. “Otto goes fishing in the mornings—I like to sketch the shore. He isn’t the worst company, of course. He’s kind enough to let me along with him.”

But you won’t be kept down. There’s magical curiosity in your chest now.

“Your tail,” you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. John’s eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. “Forgive me, Sir, but I must know,” your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. “Is it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

John can’t find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You were…different, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old man’s boat—looking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes.

The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated over—the skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.

He doesn't know why he’s speaking to you, truly. He’d done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesn’t dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldn’t leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as that—a woman of all things? A human one?

Blue eyes can’t seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.

“No.” You blink, pulling back a smidge when John’s voice is low and graited. “Go back to your home. It’s late.”

“Hey, wait—!”

But he’s already gone under the waves, and you’re left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.

You stay there far longer than you’d like to admit.

—

You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and still…you were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting.

In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snails—you had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a man’s face peeking above the water.

Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasn’t any wind in here—and you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didn’t know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didn’t erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.

Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.

You turn in a half-circle.

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing.

Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and weary—shaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.

When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child.

Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until you’re inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty.

“What are you doing in here…?” You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces.

Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, it’s as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.

Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water.

You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently.

“One day you’re going to make me keel over,” your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his.

“A thief as well as an artist?” John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coat’s pocket, glaring lightly. “You left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.”

As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before you’re left breathless.

Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tail—that was something you could never describe.

The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You can’t see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the water…but even this was enough for now.

This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity.

It’s only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.

Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The being’s beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes.

“If someone’s avoiding you, Sunshine,” he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. “They usually don’t want to have a conversation.”

“I think it’s fair,” you huff. “You can’t just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.”

John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was so…stoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusement—even annoyed interest.

“I don’t have time to fuckin’ entertain others,” he thins his lips.

Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. “And what else is so much more important, then?” You raise a brow. “Scaring other women into the water?”

He huffs under his breath. “It was an accident—wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so jumpy, eh?”

“It’s not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,” you defend.

“Mer-man, Love,” he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.

“Well,” you chuckle. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

An emotionless glare is all you receive.

It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiry—what does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?

You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations.

A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; John’s hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone.

“And the rings?” You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. “Do you find them out there? Keep them?”

John tilts his head in an affirmation. “Shipwrecks. There’ll be hundreds of them—I’m not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.” He sighs. “Seemed a waste to leave them down there.”

You huff a sound of amusement. “I see. Fascinating.”

In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when you’d first entered.

You blink. “You live here?”

“Affirmative,” John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours.

Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. John’s face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.

“And…” you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. “If I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?”

There’s a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face.

The man was anything but small—everything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. You’d never imagined that you’d find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than you’d care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

“I’ll be here,” John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.

Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.

“...Okay.”

—

And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fear—nor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got.

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks.

The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might be—what correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didn’t have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself.

Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the merman’s rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, John’s face tightens as his eyelids narrow. You’d been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, John’s ears hadn’t twitched to it.

He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dull—he knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns.

He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you don’t look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.

“You’re quiet today,” he starts, frowning.

Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at John’s face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, and the man’s face pulls. “You can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Love, yeah?” John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” your lips mumble, and you shake your head. “It’s one of my questions again.” You pause, closing your book. “A difficult one.”

John’s lips flicker. “Well, we’ve been at this for ages. Can’t see how this one is more difficult than the others.” He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like this—having you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest.

John hums and swallows stiffly.

“Why not?” His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. “Something going on up there?”

Up there.

The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.

“More so in here,” you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot.

“Then speak to me,” John frowns, trying a low smirk. “Think we both know I’m a good listener then, Love. There’s time,” he glances at the entrance. “Won’t be near dark for a few more hours—don’t want you climbing at night.”

“Awe,” you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.

Not yet.

“Hurry up, Sunshine,” John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy.

There’s a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simply—so near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted.

Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, “You’re going to get cold.”

“It’s not as cold here as it is out there,” you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. “Besides, I’m right next to you—you’ll keep me warm, won’t you, John?”

“Fucking hell,” he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet.

You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of John’s tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch John’s left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks.

“There’s a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,” you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. “Eleanor.”

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

“And for some reason,” you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. “Everyone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I don’t know if she’s missing, or…”

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

Not noticing any chance on John’s face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. “Hey, are you alright?” Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.” Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. “I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were some murderous creature,” you shrug, “I don’t think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.” Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” the man huffs, quirking a brow. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Knew it,” you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.

John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. “Gettin’ cheeky, are you?”

If you were a bird, you’d be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps, John.”

It is a wonder, then, that the two of you don’t lock lips that very instant—long fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, John’s head is already moving back and his spine is straight.

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull.

“I knew of a woman named Eleanor—she would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.” Dark brows tighten. “Found her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.” Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. “Interesting that I’d be roped into it, but it’s understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?”

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper. “That must have been horrible.”

Blue slips over to you silently, and it’s a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly.

“Scared me when you fell in.” Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.

“Well,” you lean into him, face on fire, “it was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

“Oh, very,” you joke. “The tail is a bonus.” Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. “Since when did you know that navy is my favorite color?”

The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way John’s fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin.

“Bugger off,” he grunts.

You’ve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.

—

Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact.

John’s appearance in your work had started small—a glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the water—and had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought.

Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didn’t was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the ‘strange fish-man’ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks.

By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarian—

The bell of your shop dings.

Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy.

“How can I help you today, Sir?” Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, there’s the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch.

“I’m here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.” He’s well-spoken as well, and you’re shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpe—he doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Of course,” you nod, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I think I missed your name.”

“Noah Moore,” is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. “My neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.”

Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasn’t that Eleanor’s husband?

“Thank you,” your lips move, thinning. “That’s very high praise, Mr. Moore.”

“This creature,” Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. “The man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?”

Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way he’s trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isn’t right.

“Seen him?” Chuckles echo off the walls. “Who? The beast? No, Sir, that…thing…is just something I made up.” You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. “Oh my, clumsy me.” you laugh stiffly. “Apologies, Sir, but that’s the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.”

Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely.

“Ah,” he huffs, “of course. It was silly of me to ask.” Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. “Though,” Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer.

Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and there’s a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. He’d find you—you know he would.

“Though,” Noah continues, tilting his head. “There is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wife’s body was found at the rocks.”

Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs.

“As far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,” he hums, “you weren’t even here.”

Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. It’s why they’re so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left her—they saw him bring her body to shore.

It’s a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure.

“John would never kill an innocent woman!”

It’s as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, there’s a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noah’s wrist, clawing until there’s blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, there’s wild screaming, and you can’t tell if it’s the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear.

Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noah’s hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you can’t as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side table—searching fruitlessly.

“John?” Noah sneers, holding tighter. “The thing has a name?”

Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinct—breaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.

“It was perfect,” Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. “I had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!”

Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anything—anything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You can’t even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision.

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

“Two years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?”

Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noah’s head.

Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping.

Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead.

Running, you don’t know how to stop, and it’s even harder to catch your breath by the time you’re down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasn’t—but the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of John’s cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.

There’s a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hear—whipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking.

“Love!”

Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue that’s a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck.

Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.

“Hey,” John breathes, having dragged himself at a moment’s notice across the floor of the cave. “Hey,” he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury.

His hand is outstretched, but he doesn’t try to touch you again seeing how you’d jerked away. The man’s heart had stopped at that—his concern shooting up similar to how he felt when you’d raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.

But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.

“What is going on,” he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. There’s only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant.

Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is John’s outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jaw—the eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.

Openly gazing, when John sees you’re back, his blues slip to a softened caress.

“Love,” he mutters, face tight.

You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang.

“Shh,” John breathes, knowing that he’d get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. “I’m right here, Sunshine. Breathe, then…I’m right here, yeah?”

His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fish—no air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.

John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.

You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm.

Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth.

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

When it became apparent you couldn’t speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool.

Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks.

“Careful,” John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. “Let me get it, eh?”

Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate.

“I’m not glass,” you croak, one hand near your throat.

Blue eyes blink at you. “Never said you were,” he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adam’s Apple bob. “Don’t like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.”

Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, “And stop talking—you’ll make it worse.”

You hadn’t explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time you’d been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.

The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you weren’t blind.

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat.

He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment.

“...Can I?” You pause, swallowing as the burn persists.

Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefully—not tightening, not holding you there—resting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose.

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

“Easy,” John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. “When you’re ready, explain it to me, eh?” His head tilts, voice a low tease. “Glass or not.”

Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, “Quietly, now. Can hear just fine—don’t push yourself.”

Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back.

All you say is one name.

“Noah.”

There’s a moment of confusion on John’s face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftly—he wasn’t a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. It’s of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog.

A dog with scales, that is.

Your body is still running hot—your heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. You’re tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again.

When you shift your body, the man’s eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.

A noise exits the back of his throat, and John’s mouth moves in serious question. “What are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at you—”

Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck.

You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a merman’s tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. John’s chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.

You both say nothing, and it’s a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.

—

When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch you’d strung together in the meantime.

You fiddle with one of John’s rings—the emerald one—as you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.

“I think he killed his wife.”

By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.

“Hm,” is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.

He shakes his head, growling out, “You’re not going back up there. Not while he’s still walking the streets.”

You frown, but John glares without any venom. “It wasn’t a question, Love.”

“What will you do,” you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. “Run after me, John?”

The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. “If I have to.”

Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as John’s fingers once again continue their touching—as if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins.

“You don’t have legs,” you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply.

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

His face is immobile. “Then I’ll bleed.”

Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expression—the pull of the crow’s feet beside his eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of a joke in John’s eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low.

The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.

John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green.

“Keep it,” he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. “More of a use to you.”

Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you.

John shrugs. “The rest of ‘em, too, if you want the damn things.” His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things he’d seen from far distant waters.

Oh, but they’d pale in comparison to how you would wear them.

A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait.

A women to the water.

He’d seen your latest sketches—you’d brought them down to him here—and when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. He’d not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as he’d listened to you explain it. You’d told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.

You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciation—a voiceless devotion. He’d never been…captured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didn’t even know himself, and yet there they were.

Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that he’d all but forgotten about, the list was endless.

But he looks at you now, and he can understand why there’s a draw to immortalize the mortal.

His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. There’s little air to be taken in between the two of you.

“John,” you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips.

He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you don’t want to fight it, you don’t want to think about the strangeness of this predicament you’ve found yourself in—a creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.

When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself.

Head snapping up, John’s body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, it’s not long before you realize what’s going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse.

The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls.

“John,” you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. “You need to run,” you choke out. “Go! Quickly!”

You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows it’s fruitless. He won’t leave you here alone.

“They’ll kill you!” Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will.

“Stay under me,” John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows there’s little that he’d be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones he’d yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a ship—a spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter.

There was a sharp feeling in John’s chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment he’d seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers.

He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was.

“John!” You try to bark again, growing desperate.

Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadn’t shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell. They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.

Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something you’d keep for a home invasion beside the bed—the Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story.

He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves.

Half of Mr. Moore’s face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the ground—skin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup.

You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and John’s glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him.

“There!” Noah shouts, balking closer. “See! I knew it was here—seducing the next woman to take to the ocean!”

Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. John’s face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noah’s visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the merman’s waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go.

“Girl!” Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, you’re not sure you would. You wouldn’t even know what to say. “Get away from it!”

“I’d put that down,” John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. “‘Fore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.”

“Otto,” you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in question’s face pulls, wrinkles thinning. “You have to listen to me, please, it’s not how Mr. Moore told you—”

“It speaks!” Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. “Freak of nature, it already has its hold on her.”

“Oh my,” the Librarian gasps. “Noah, it’s horrible—look at the tail.”

Your eyes flare with rage as John doesn’t react.

“Hey!” You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but you’re already pushing until you’re on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.

“You watch your bloody mouth,” you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.

Steady. Keep your head on.

Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.

Your eyes glint. “Drop your weapons,” your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. “Leave. John is innocent—he told me all of it.” You turn to Otto. “Mr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.” Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers.

“Noah killed Eleanor,” you breathe, John’s grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls.

“Absurd—!”

“He pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,” you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. “You all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.”

It didn’t surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dull—he never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.

Hands whipping to snare around the merman’s shoulders, you’re only able to get a quick breath in before you’re completely enveloped in water, with John’s hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine.

You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noah’s muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Otto—held at his sides. There’s a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then John’s fins hide the rest as they slash through the water.

When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the side—always having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below.

“Lier!” Noah screams, face contorted. “She’s lying!”

You look at Otto and see the grim way he’s already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian did—believe a woman who’d been here a year or someone they’d known nearly their entire lives.

“Noah,” Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. “Breathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speak—”

The knife in Noah’s hands slashes the air, and suddenly there’s a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood.

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching.

The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate.

“Don’t move,” he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. “Keep still. Focus on my words, Love.” Under his breath is a tight, “Fuck!”

John speaks above the gargling—the spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes.

“Don’t look,” John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The sounds…oh, the sounds were horrible.

But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.

Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.

“That’s it,” John’s fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “That’s it, then. Doing good, don’t move until I say so, alright?”

When you don’t answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You don’t have to say you know him to understand that he’s only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.

Otto was dead.

John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil.

John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.

“Hey, hey, you hear me?” John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smile—a flash nothing more. “There she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; don’t look until I say so.” Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead.

The man that brought you out on his boat—the man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you can’t stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood.

“There’s nothing out here that can hurt you,” John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. “So long as I’m here, I won’t let it.”

He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears.

Noah is still screaming, but now it’s for help.

John’s voice lowers as he utters, “Hey,” the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes.

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss that’s leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, John’s already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film.

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice.

The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck.

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple.

Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarian—attacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, he’d walked into the sea and had taken his own life.

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it.

You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as he’d named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, he’d been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth.

Harriet stays in the shop with you, where she’ll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. She’s quite fond of the fireplace.

Most days, people find you near the water, and it’s something that wasn’t going to change even after Noah’s body was found in the rocks—freakishly close to where Eleanor’s had been. Some were calling it poetic and you’d have to agree…but for different reasons.

“You shouldn’t be giving me all of these,” you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of John’s trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.

John’s lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer.

“Want to,” he grumbles.

Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the man’s scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicated—lifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below.

Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. He’d let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his life—the softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well.

Shivering, John’s breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.

Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to ‘paint’ him, he’d allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distraction….but because he can’t bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.

“Where do you come from, John,” your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull.

That near kiss.

“No answer, Love.” You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. “I won’t be going back to distant waters anytime soon.”

John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Unique—made for one another despite the obvious.

He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.

“Getting water on you, Love,” he breathes. “New painting soon?” John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isn’t sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind now—instinct.

“Mhm,” you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. “I think I’ll make this one a portrait.”

John blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Portrait? Why’s that?”

Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant.

For a second, the man’s surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.

“I have a subject that’s caught my eye.” You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on.

“And I’d be a fool if I let him swim off.”

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

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merbear25 · 19 days

Text

Trouble finding sleep

When your nights are overtaken by cluttered thoughts, only the touch of the one most dear to you can bring calm to the tides.

a/n: Just some drabbles to help me cope with my constant lack of sleep.

Sanji, Zoro, Corazon

CW: SFW, gn!reader, fluff, headcanons

Sanji: Whenever you tossed and turned, your restlessness worked its way into his slumber. He unconsciously slung an arm over you, tugging on you gently to bring you closer. Scooching to close the gap between you, he nestled his laxed cheek onto the top of your head.

He murmured sweet coos of how much you meant to him as your form pressed itself into his dreams. Such whispers of love never failed to make your heart swell. Turning to face him, his light sighs puffed against your forehead. As you nuzzled yourself close to his chest, the embrace he’d pulled you in blanketed you in serenity, guiding you off to a peaceful rest.

Zoro: With how often you were moving in bed, you finally got up to distract yourself from the rest that would surely remain absent. When you were staggering about the room trying not to trip or run into anything that hid in the darkness, your lack of grace pulled him out of his dreams.

Mumbling at you to get back in bed, you explained you couldn’t sleep and thought it’d be better to be productive. Groaning at your idea, he knew your lack of foresight would only lead to a zombified state. He urged you to come back, not taking no for an answer. Pulling you into his arms, you exchanged any thoughts and ideas that popped into your heads. As the moon shifted in the sky, your eyes felt heavy. Before you realized, the both of you had drifted off to sleep.

Corazon: Being the light sleeper that you were, you could barely hold on to any rest that graced you. That night it seemed as if the whole world was calling out to you, nagging you to do this or that. With thoughts swarming your sleep-deprived mind, you’d be unable to rest until you gave into them.

Shifting the covers off of yourself, Rosinante stirred. In a daze, he mumbled his worry, hoping you were alright. Telling him that there was something that you needed to do brought him slight concern. Propping himself up, he offered to assist in whatever it was. You assured him that it wasn’t necessary and that the task was rather small, but that opened you up to the question of, “Then why do you have to do it now?”

When you hesitated to answer, he patted the space next to him, telling you that in the morning you’d tackle it together. As you laid back down, each of the worries you were holding onto were soothed by him, and with calming strokes of your hair, you were eased down to rest.

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getosfavoritewife · 5 months

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The Sun Always Rises

✮⋆˙ General Jing Yuan has a way of bringing sunlight to you, regardless of how much you avoid the warm rays. (1.5k words)

✮⋆˙ A/N: first post!! jing yuan has such a lazy/cozy feel and I'm still trying to gauge his personality so sorry if it's a bit ooc!!

✮⋆˙ Warning(s)/Content: forgemaster!reader; implications of mental health concerns (nothing heavy); can be read as platonic or romantic; fluffy fluff, teasing

✮⋆˙ jing yuan x gn!reader

Hearing three knocks against your door on a sunny winter evening could only signify one thing.

Not even trying to conceal the lack of surprise on your face, you open the door for your expected visitor; as usual, Jing Yuan greets you with a pleasant smile, hands comfortably clasped behind his back as he strides in like he owns the place, opens the curtains, and makes himself at home.

“Arbiter General,” you murmur, almost as if scripted.

“Forgemaster,” he replies in turn with a twinkle in his eyes, also as expected.

You don’t ask if he wants tea, opting to pour two cups and place them on the table as you both sit down. Forgemaster Yingxing had always taught you to be polite to guests, but that was a very long time ago, and Jing Yuan wasn’t just any guest.

“There’s a festival in Aurum Alley this evening,” Jing Yuan muses as he eyes the tea with interest, picking the small cup up as he gives the hot liquid a gentle blow and careful sip.

You know where he’s going with this, so at this point, the best course of action is feigned indifference and avoidance. “And you came all the way over here to let me know? Especially during such a busy day at The Seat of Divine Foresight?”

You take a ginger sip of the tea, grimacing as it burns the tip of your tongue, before placing it back down on the table. Master Yingxing’s tea was far superior to yours anyway—if he could see the hot garbage you’d brewed, he would have scolded your skills all afternoon.

Jing Yuan’s voice brings you out of your thoughts. “Astute as always. You should get out of the house more.”

“I leave the house,” you try not to sound defensive, squinting at the man sitting across from you. “I go to the forge every day.”

“Other than there?”

“And… I went to the market last week,” you grumble, rooting around in your brain for excuses. Lamely, all you come up with is a throwaway line about being too busy that you know Jing Yuan won’t buy. Anyone else would accept the lies that rolled off your tongue like second nature, but not Jing Yuan. He knew you and your habits all too well.

He stands up, dusting his pants off with a lazy smile. “Wonderful, grab your coat.”

“No, Jing Yuan. No.” You respond too quickly, shooting up as you wrack your brain for an excuse.

The softness with which he calls your name is lost to the roaring silence of the room and you know what face he’s making without even looking.

That corner above the cupboard really needs dusting. Master Yingxing would sneeze because of the dust, and he’d blame allergy season. Maybe tonight—

“Only for a little while,” he coaxes, as he swipes a strand of hair from obscuring your eyes. Maybe that’s what makes you meet his eyes: golden and full of life as usual, albeit with his dark circles that seemed worse than before.

“I’ll think about it,” you sigh tiredly, reaching up to run your fingers under his eyes. “You should sleep more, Jing Yuan. You look tired.”

A laugh rumbles out of him at that as he closes his eyes and leans into your touch. You can’t help but let the corners of your mouth quirk up in response. “Don’t let the others at The Seat of Divine Foresight hear you say that.”

“If only you would stop sneaking away at the sight of paperwork, maybe they wouldn’t be so wary of your work ethic,” you scold halfheartedly.

Jing Yuan simply watches you, an adoring smile peeking out that makes you want to push him away from you, embarrassed. Instead, you card your fingers through his hair, murmuring how his ribbon is coming loose as you free it from his snowy locks.

He sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut as you tug through his fluffy hair, replicating his usual hairstyle with practiced ease. You let your thoughts wander to when you used to re-tie his hair every day after it came loose during sparring while Master Yingxing went to go meet with sword master Jingliu and the others.

“How’s Yanqing’s training coming along?” Breaking the delicate silence, your voice always sounds unfamiliar these days; the results of less use, you suppose.

A golden eye cracks open to peer at you, and Jing Yuan lets out another sigh, this time more rueful. “You know how he tends to be. It still surprises me the speed with which he is able to pick up on new techniques and skills, but that obsession with winning and losing…” Jing Yuan trails off. “It’s like I say, if you treat him as a child, he'll put on the airs of an adult. If you treat him as an adult, he'll show the temperament of a child.”

“It’s a difficult age. Remember how you used to be?”

You bite back a snicker at the mock-offended look Jing Yuan shoots you.

“I don’t quite remember it like that,” he says. “I believe I was a joy to be around at every age.”

“I’m sure you remember it like that.”

“How else could you remember it?”

You take a break from playing with his hair to flick him on the forehead, at which he lets out a soft hiss, rubbing the small red mark and catching your hand before you can give him another one. “So mean.”

With a scoff, you make no move to remove your hand from his grip, letting yourself relax in his grasp. “You were nothing short of a terror. Anytime I tried to hang out with you it was always ‘Let’s spar here!’ or ‘Extra training is basically hanging out!’. I got so sick of you that I told Master Yingxing to stop meeting Master Jingliu when I was around.”

“Was I… really like that?” You can’t help but laugh at Jing Yuan’s face, ignoring the smile creeping onto his face at the sight of your laughter.

“All I’m saying is that he’ll grow out of it, just like you did. Kids are desperate to prove themselves at that age. You ought to praise him a little more,” you advise him softly.

“I give praise where it is deserved,” Jing Yuan places your clasped hands on his chest with fake affrontedness, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he huffs in amusement.

“Yet I am expected to praise you even when you are undeserving?”

“I hadn’t realized there were times where I was ever undeserving of praise?” You can’t help to smack him with the hand that was resting on his chest as he pretends to ponder.

“Speaking of Yanqing though—” you start before Jing Yuan interrupts.

“I thought we were speaking about me?”

The roll of your eyes seemed to simply be an intrinsic reaction to Jing Yuan’s teases after all these years of dealing with his painfully fatherly sense of humor.

“General.”

The pleased smile on his face only curled higher. “I’m listening.”

“As I was saying, Yanqing’s birthday is approaching this month. Maybe it’s time he finally receives a sword from the Forgemaster on his birthday this year?”

“I can already imagine his tears of joy. He still asks when he can meet you sometimes. I admit I have yet to give him an answer in fear that he will spend every moment not used for training to instead bother you incessantly at your forge.”

“Like father, like son, I suppose. Send him around—it’s truly no bother. It would also help me figure out a suitable blade for him.”

You pretend to not see the way Jing Yuan’s brows knit together at your teasing jab.

“Come watch us train sometime soon. To help you gauge his fighting style, of course,” Jing Yuan remarks lightly.

“Of course,” you echo. Giving him a look before sighing, you grab your coat off the hook, opening the door for him as you slip it on. “Only for a little while at the festival, please. And no buying or winning me anything while we’re there.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t even try to hide the smile unfurling on his face and you know the next words that come out of his mouth are bound to be an easy lie. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else, Forgemaster.”

From spending every free minute together as kids to only seeing him when he came knocking on your door every single day. No matter what happened, the sun always rose the next day. And no matter what happened, your Jing Yuan was always there.

thanks for reading!! ✮⋆˙

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vantaesfairie · 5 months

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𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔞 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔡 : 𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯

atlty’s tarot readings: art commissions, paid readings, spell ritual comms open!

choose a pile below:

part 1 of my christmas series!!!!

pile 1, reindeer friends with a cute snoot:

wow they could be quite rich! they could be from old money or enjoy spending daddy's / mommy's money.

they could be continuing a family's inheritance or legacy in their area of study or work.

they could enjoy nature or watch things grow.

they definitely put in long term strategies. they are probably good in investing money.

they have pretty good foresight. they could play a role of 'caregiver' a bit, like they will spoil you materially.

they could have a small waist regardless of gender, and tall.

they are a good negotiator and likes to make you smile.

they are someone who takes care of you deeply and wants to watch you prosper.

they want to steer you away from your bad troubles and only towards good days. they want to take away your pain.

you may meet them at a time of prosperous growth or when your life seems to be taking a turn to the next chapter.

pile 2, black cat in christmas lights:

they have a very strong energy, they could be a fire sign or enjoy gaming or group sports.

they are very assertive and tend to be more masculine.

they motivate others and you, and would literally fight off people to protect you.

they could feel challenged a lot, they may have trouble with their self worth, esteem, and ego.

they want to win arguments, they want you as their prize.

they could be blunt but quite persuasive. they could be good with words to make you happy or seduce you.

they would love to debate or banter playfully with you.

they could play sports that involve a stick, like hockey or polo.

they are very ambitious in their work with clear direction of where they want to go and achieve but lack proper emotional development.

they may need you to keep them in their lane sometimes with their bad days, but they would be so passionate with you.

pile 3, stag (james potter? should i start a hogwarts pac?):

they could be more soft and introverted than the rest of the piles here. they could have sadder eyes (in your opinion).

they could hurt people without knowing and suffer hollow victories.

they want to treat you like their forever lover with everything that they give you. they want you to glow and be a rainbow in their life.

they would be very attracted to you, you would be their type.

they could be blunt with words which they regret immediately after.

they see you as someone who can help heal them so they may come to you for comfort.

they could feel like an outcast in their peer crowds easily.

they run out of emotional energy quite quickly so you would help give them spiritual energy like a charger.

they would learn many emotional lessons from you. they never want to hurt you.

they could be avoidant when you two fight because of their nature to hurt people easily, but they want to always cherish you.

i hope you enjoyed this pac! please consider purchasing a paid reading by sliding into my dms. reblog and share if possible! i’d love to know if this resonates to you. thank you so much!

#witchblr #tarot #witchcraft #pac #tarotblr #pick a card #astrology #small business #divination #support #tarot readings #major arcana #cards #piles #free #paid

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thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch · 7 months

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the general of the luofu has a habit you've picked up on. a habit in which when he finds himself in a place of predicament, he will gracefully place his hands atop each other at the small of his back. that is why you also decided to develop a similar habit of standing just slightly behind him.

never when you had first relocated from a separate xianzhou alliance ship to the luofu's exalting sanctum did you imagine you'd be standing within the seat of divine foresight on a near regular basis. of course, the notion was not unheard of since it is the office of general jing yuan, but then again you hadn't expected yourself to eventually be working so close to him either.

working nearly in step with jing yuan was not in your relocation papers. when you first arrived and he was always on your heels, it nearly made you lose your cool more than you'd care to admit. the way he would just smile your lack of alone time off irked you further. you figured he was just doing it because he could, because no one would demand the general to knock it off aside from the master diviner and- more often than not- her nags were brushed aside unless absolutely dire.

but with that same, insufferable smile and persistence of his, jing yuan did what he did best and used it to his advantage until you were absolutely smitten with him, and he knew it.

you had attempted moving your work to central starskiff haven where all the hustle and bustle of the main hub for all things imaginable could take your mind off the dozing general, but it was a useless feat.

the bond between general jing yuan and yourself was something precious yet unnamed. it was seen and noticed, but you both refused to adapt to the way of labels- another thing jing yuan had a habit of. superstition about labels and them ruining everything he holds dear to him was a belief he had yet to be proven wrong.

the labeling and eventual tragic fall out of the high cloud quintet was more than enough proof for him. he would not risk you slipping away from him if he were to try and repeat the mistake. jing yuan was more thankful than you could ever imagine when you told him you understood.

"labeling a relationship with you, general, would surely bring unwanted gossip."

a rather poor excuse to try and ease his mind, since you both would float around each other's orbit, but it still worked nonetheless. thus, the nameless, labelless, and unspoken relationship that everyone aboard the Luofu knew about grew.

"he's like a weed," you had told fu xuan when she was once again pleading with you to try and convince him to do his job behind his desk and not run around avoiding it. once successfully coerced, fu xuan admitted she had no idea how you could withstand his stubbornness. "he's persistent and tough to get rid of. i just kind of let him be after getting too tired of trying to fix my garden."

jing yuan was easily within earshot of the jab, whether you meant to hurt his ego or not, you did bruise it. how could you not when you were calling him a weed just 20 feet away from the very desk he was confined to?

time can be both noticed and unnoticed by long-life species. on one hand, the passing of time seems so endless it just flits by seamlessly. 100, 200 years are nothing short of youth to them. until you reach the gate of older age where you then worry about when the mara will eventually strike.

jing yuan did not speak much of his past to you, and you never found a reason to harp and pry on it. you knew more than enough from texts and scrolls recorded in the halls you were fortunate enough to work in; no need to reopen old wounds he is too stubborn to admit still bleed.

the general who cares for the luofu cannot decide if he fears being stricken with mara himself and slowly losing his sense of identity to the point he cannot recognize you, or you being marked as an enemy for him to strike down because the mara struck you first more. should the former ever come to pass, he has faith that what needs to be done will be and you will stay safe with yanqing.

now, as you stand in the seat of divine foresight with the newly arrived trailblazers from the express also occupying the office with jing yuan, you notice his hands neatly folded behind him.

a slight advantage to the many layers of clothes he puts himself through dressing every day is that his two-tailed half-cape that rested on his shoulders and flowed down to his hips can offer some peripheral coverage.

like clockwork, when you noticed his hands placed in the small of his back, you took half a step closer to his diagonal and placed the pads of your fingers in the middle of his open palm. his fists would never fully curl behind his back, left open and lazily sitting on top of each other.

jing yuan's shoulders would drop just a fraction- hardly noticeable to anyone even if they were looking directly at him- every time you did so. the tips of your fingers were warm, a reminder of the present and also a teether to not let his mind wander too far.

he could feel the callouses on them, the rough skin so accustomed to battle ingrained into the skin of your hands and it brought him such comfort. his eyes gently shut and a smile lifts his lips, not one to mask behind, but one brought about naturally.

and just like always, when he felt your fingertips push lightly into his palm, his hand opened further, fingers pulling apart before he was curling them into yours.

yes, the general of the luofu has a habit you've picked up on. but he has also picked up a new habit of waiting for you to hold his hand when they're behind his back.

#jing yuan #jing yuan fluff #jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail jing yuan #jing yuan x y/n #honkai star rail #jing yuan blurb #jing yuan fic #hsr jing yuan #hsr #hsr fic #honkai star rail fic #honkai star rail fluff #jing yuan angst #jing yuan comfort #jing yuan hurt/comfort

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extinctionstories · 1 year

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Once, there was a bird called a Heath Hen. It lived all along the coast of New England, from Virginia all the way to Maine. More abundant than wild turkeys, these grouse-like birds fed Americans native and colonist alike; some believe that it was actually heath hen that graced the table of the first Thanksgiving.

Yet countries grow, and so does the demand for food. Like the passenger pigeon, the bounty of heath hens seemed inexhaustible…until it wasn’t. By 1870, the heath hen was gone from the mainland, occupying only a tiny oasis on the island of Martha’s Vineyard; by 1900, there were only 70 in the world.

But humans had begun to notice the animals vanishing around us—to realize that there steps we could take to make it stop. Protections were put in place, and the birds began a recovery. In 1915, at least two thousand heath hens called the island home.

During the following nesting season, however, after years of misguided suppression measures, a wildfire ravaged the preserve, devastating the ground-nesting birds. Now lacking shelter, birds that survived the fire were easily picked off by predators. Efforts were made to rebuild yet again, but there just weren’t enough birds left. The final heath hen died in 1932, after having been alone for 4 years.

One of the stories that always sticks in my mind about heath hens comes from the people who went out searching for survivors after the fire. They spoke about finding female birds, burnt or suffocated by smoke, still sitting on their nests—their last act, to shield their young.

Those charred hens had no way of knowing that the eggs they guarded were some of the last the world would ever see—no conception of the ideas of rarity or foresight that might cause a human to go to lengths to protect such a nest. For them, it was enough to be a mother, whose child would always be as precious to her as if it had been the only one in the world, worthy of protecting with her life.

An epitaph of Jane Seymour, third queen of Henry VIII, who died in childbed, went, “Here lies a phoenix/by whose death/another phoenix life gave breath”. My above art was painted in clear acrylic medium blended with ink and the ashes of burnt feathers, and is titled ‘There Were No Phoenixes on Martha’s Vineyard’.

#extinct birds #extinction #extinct #heath hen #extinct animals #extinction stories

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heckyeahponyscans · 3 months

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One of the benefits of vending at real-life toy shows is you get to chat with real-life people. I complimented a guy's shirt and found out there are marble racing leagues, I helped a guy track down some Shopkins because the ones belonging to his daughter (now a college grad) had accidentally been donated to Goodwill and she was nostalgic for them, and I learned that the vintage action figure of Allura is still one of the few toys she's had.

I also talked with a woman who asked if I had any Cabbage Patch Kids in my booth. (I did not.) She said, "I had one as a child and I always wonder . . ." She smiled, looking across the booths full of toys.

She got her Cabbage Patch doll in 1983, the year of "the craze". They were THE big toy. No modern toy that can compare to that phenomenon. Parents were getting into fistfights over these dolls, buying them from scalpers, or standing in long lines.

The woman at my booth said her aunt was the one who stood in a long line to get her a Cabbage Patch doll; she smiled as she described the doll, she obviously remembered it so well.

Then she said: "I used markers to give her makeup. I wanted to make her beautiful, but my father didn't see it that way. He saw it as me ruining the doll that it took so much effort to get. In anger, he threw it in the trash right in front of me."

She kept smiling wistfully as she was talking, without any apparent ire, even though after all these years she was at a toy show "wondering" about her doll.

As a collector, I love finding a mint condition toy. But when I was a child I cut holes in the vintage baby doll diapers (because I didn't like baby dolls but did like stuffed animals) and I gussied up Little Red Riding Hood's hair with streaks of eyeshadow that never washed out. I do not think it is possible for a child to "ruin" a toy. (Unless they make it physically unsafe to be around).

The purpose of a toy is to bring a child joy, fun, and help them grow. Sometimes that will mean dolls with cut hair, action figures dramatically buried in a grave after an imaginary battle, or, yes, Magic Marker makeup on dolls "to make them look beautiful." And if a child regrets what they did to a toy, that too helps them grow. Learning that a doll's hair, once cut, remains cut forever is such a mild and safe way to learn the importance of foresight.

For an adult looking back on childhood, it can seem idyllic. But one of the main experiences of childhood is a lack of control over your own life.

But a child should at least have control over their toys.

Adults: if you want to guarantee that precious toy you spent so much money on stays pristine . . . buy it for yourself and put it on your own shelf. It is not a child's job to be a caretaker to an object for twenty years.

I hope that lady finds her Cabbage Patch doll.

#toys #toy shows #CPK #Cabbage Patch Kids #dolls

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chiyoso · 10 months

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“breaking the 4th wall”

h. star rail : jing yuan.

▶CONTENT. insomnia, self conscious doubt, comfort, self aware au, something personal for those who have trouble with loneliness, insomnia and exhaustion, jing yuan is self aware!

▶NOTE. im tired and its 3am, but jing yuan exists so have this comfort fic. also @ainescribe gift for your hardworking ass, ily aine feel better.

Your eyelids grew heavy, laid against the arm rest of the warm sofa, scrolling and tapping away at your phone for anything, any eventful thing that can spark a motivation, an inspiration to you.

It's eating you away. Death scrolling, letting the blue light affect your sleep instead of earning a sleep that your body desperately needs for tomorrow.

Yet, your fingers can't seem to stop moving, as if it had a mind on its own, causing further subconscious guilt and shame, a knowing voice gnawing and belittling behind your state of self, commenting on your disheveled, tired appearance, bags underneath your eyes, your flesh warning you of your stress and lack of self care that you couldn't find the time to do anymore. Shit, and the studying you have to do tomorrow.

All that, but your fingers never leave the glass screen.

3:25 AM Sun, Aug 6 ᯤ [▂] 22%

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“Finally.” You said, tapping the first notification.

You sighed, the notif reminding you of your shitty sleep schedule. It had originally updated you at the early mornings, gradually turning into afternoons, then the evening... night... and...

You were brought back to reality from the sound of the lobby theme, the Astral Express, traveling in your sight, wishing you would be reincarnated into such a life, meeting the ones who made this horrible, tedious lifespan bearable.

Once you hit tap, you were greeted with a loading screen that had Jing Yuan's fact along the bottom, earning a faint smile from you as the image of his splash art pops up in your mind.

Jing Yuan: The Divine Foresight, one of the Seven Arbiter-Generals of the Xianzhou Alliance, leads the Cloud Knights of the Xianzhou Luofu. A student of the Luofu's previous Sword Champion, though not known for his martial prowess.

You were greeted by the sight of Jing Yuan's pixels as always, greeting him bubbly and warmly as you spin him around to face you, zooming into his features, especially admiring his beauty mark under his eye.

“Pretty, so damn pretty,” You hum, moving onto other features, before resuming, checking your daily tasks.

Now what were you doing at this time of night?

You wouldn't know, you will never know, but he will always appreciate the way you greet him every day, but this day—being the observant, Arbiter General that he is, he notices your slurred, tired voice, but still coated with affection that he enjoyed quite a lot. He didn't quite like the bags underneath your pretty eyes that he will take glances of every chance he can get. He didn't like how you were feigning ignorance to your bodily needs, on how you were sacrificing sleep to play.

You led him to the cavern of corrosion; Path of the Holy Hymm once again, endlessly grinding the perfect relics for your main dps, wasting all your trailblaze powder for him. Bronya, Tingyun and Luocha snickered to themselves on how much you spoil the Arbiter General, on how much you baby him lovingly despite his commanding, superior status as the Xianzhou Luofu's face, causing his cheeks to grow hot in result of your affectionate words whenever you go to the character screen, setting and upgrading his relics.

“So strong my general...” His breath got caught to his throat upon hearing you, his blush deepening from the sudden suggestive tone in your voice.

The character screen was filled with the various people that you earned, and they were giggling and smirking slyly to your gestures, making his arms full of materials from the endless grind you did, all for him—a bonus as well, he didn't feel any shred of guilt as you do the same towards the others, but he was just your very, very favorite, and he knew all about it from your vocal prowess.

He would find your curses endearing when you get a shitty relic, but he would soon then join your annoyance as this body relic had stats befitting for a damn healer, might as well give it to Bailu since she's the same element, and fortunately a healer. (In which case you did.)

...

You worried him. Once you were done with your tasks and finishing off your remaining trailblaze powder, your eyelids threatened to shut, giving the Arbiter General a feeling that he hadn't felt in awhile, a certain dread, and a strong one at that towards the player who felt strongly about him.

Your consciousness was drifting, your lids weighing down, but the unthinkable happened.

On the top left corner under the map, a red exclamation mark appears on the chat logo, your tired eyes noticing the sudden mark, giving you a burst of little energy.

You blinked a few times, rubbing your lids gently before landing your irises upon the message again.

Was this a new message update?

A new trailblaze mission?

An event leak? Hoyoverse tease...?

You shook your head, regaining focus to check the patch notes in the game, seemingly finding nothing about any update, but your search doesn't stop there, you looked through the official website, hoyolabs, tumblr, youtube, heck even reddit—but none have mentioned a message regarding to this.

Deciding to remain quiet about this ordeal, you went back to the game to find another message, and another, his restlessness growing evident as the moonlight continues to dawn over your world.

3:38 AM Sun, Aug 6 ᯤ [▂] 19%

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⊗

What- What the fuck?

Your throat lumped to the sight of the first notification, its whole box felt out of place from the others, yet you found your thumb nearing the glass towards the notif, accompanied with your growing blush and curiousity.

You were then met with the Hoyoverse screen once again, assessing the situation you were in as you stare into the blackness of the screen.

Was I... Imagining things? Surely not.

Fuck — I'll just... sleep all day tomorro—

...?

You were met with a slightly glitchy screen of the normal sequence of Jing Yuan's back, but he was... already in his phone. The sprite of his pixels, typing away, seeing the red exclamation mark on top of the speech bubble under the map, earning him a slight breathy inhale from you.

You click the link, losing your shit at the messages that fell before your eyes.

“Ha?”

“What the fuck? I-”

I've lost it.

Oh.

I haven't lost it?

You find yourself staring in silence, re-reading repeatedly the words that only instilled a slight fear yet wonder that was visible on your reddening face.

“But I-... How?” You spoke gently, softly. Something the General wished to hear again, and on cue, his sprite in the game chuckled, as if he was truly listening to you.

'I am only fiction to you' it rings through your head, aching your heart slightly.

You were about to speak, but another message popped up, leaving your body with disappointment and longing, gripping your phone as your eyes gloss over the phenomenon.

“W- Wait! Ji-... Jing Yu...”

You gulp down a lump, bringing your phone closer to your face, your eyes glistening, your whole senses overwhelmed with intensifying longing, warmth — yet accompanied with a growing heartache from the fleeting interaction and him excusing himself abruptly in this otherworldly situation.

...Wait.

Everythi—?

“General...” You muttered out softly, your reddening face from the embarrassing memories that flooded you, his words greatly reminding you of the times where you acted with full on eccentricity, degenerative behavior, lustful tendencies and so on. It made you wonder if other characters such as Blade, Welt — or perhaps even the Aeons heard and witnessed you all this time. It made you shiver with embaunable feelings of humiliation and continuous embarassment, making you unable to think clearly, and the way you threw away your phone onto the couch lightly to cover your heated face? Still being witnessed by the General, and a few other silent spectators of course.

Jing Yuan couldn't believe this situation as well.

This was somehow the work of Silverwolf, a wanted enemy of the Xianzhou, Destiny's Slave, but he felt the most warmth and joy since being summoned by you — no, especially this unforseen interaction with the mortal whose been taking care of everything in the universe within your phone, for taking great care of the Xianzhou especially.

... An endearing mortal at that.

The General and the rest of the game couldn't see as you apparently let go of your device, but your wails and silent squeals were still audible, as the General comes to a conclusion that you perhaps needed to calm down, but in reality, he quite enjoyed this spectacle of yours, even by only listening — in which he was once again very greatful for his grand, and sensitive sense of hearing as he listens to you.

After another, final deep breath, your hand reaches to your phone again, before beginning to press your fingers onto your screen in a frantic haze, but the joystick button was... unresponsive, as well as the others—except for the message button in this moment.

BZZT

Another messaged popped up, quickening your heartrate immediately.

“WH—” Your heart only fluttered and dropped at the same time.

He can do that?

It's... It's probably a bluff.

...

He's the Arbiter General, who am I kidding.

With a warm sigh of content, you find yourself smiling at your phone, hugging it onto your chest with the game still open unknowingly.

“...I love you all. You are all my calm and peace.”

You said quietly, sniffling and accompanied with sounds of your light breathing, drifting off your exhaustions away to fulfill your body's needs.

Finally in your slumber, your phone switches off within a few minutes, thus the floating screen on their end disappears, earning a content sigh from the General as he makes his way towards his office in the Exalting Sanctum, each step felt heavy without your sight now that you were aware he can — or his world can access yours in this small, yet impactful way, but his form grows with confidence, determination setting in his soul as his sights land upon the Cloud Knight whom guarded the way to his office.

Jing Yuan sought out to Welt Yang and Silverwolf immediately in secret after his satisfying interactions with you, informing them of what happened in full detail (though he left out the parts where you cosplayed a squealing tomato, sparing you from further humiliation) and the whole ordeal as it was successful. His subtle praises earned him multiple cheeky and cocky remarks from the criminal hacker, along with a few teasing about him being smitten by you (and to Welt as well), but what can he really do to retaliate back? She was a main source of intelligence and control who provided a connection to you in the first place.

Inevitable, but he was willing to cooperate either way, all for this world, for the Xianzhou — for you.

The three continue to dive into their conversations, planning on how he or others who are interested, can continue to interact with you further more without raising suspicion from their creators upon breaking a few bits of code and data. It was no doubt in mind risky, that was apparent, but so was their endearment and affection towards their human, their player.

In all honesty, Welt and Silverwolf also found themselves wanting to interact with you as well from Jing Yuan's stories of the first ever interaction you had to their world, but of course, if they did it consecutively, it would most definitely be noticable if a few more characters began to act on their own accord, threatening the programmed codes as numbers shift and modify suspiciously.

Though unfortunately, only resorting to using the message system for now, but Silverwolf was confident with her abilities, making use of the way she was made, using the descriptions laid for her against her own creators.

After all, Hoyoverse made her annoyingly cunning, intelligent and skilled. A mistake on their part, or rather, an intended choice of character building for players like us to create, indulge and enjoy? We'll never know.

Unless Hoyoverse put out a stream that specifies the matter, until then Silverwolf remains focused and unyielding to her program, heeding Jing Yuan's call if need be and taking Welt Yang's advices about his own knowledge when it came to multiverses and other worlds from his prior experiences. All this planning, the risk, the longing for more interactions with you — it was a motivation to the three, as well as for the others that greatly wished to converse with you.

An aloof and lazy, the general he may be, but he's a living legacy of dreams and determination for a reason.

A wielder of a great glaive with materials dropped from the remants of the Reignbow Arbiter's Lux Arrow — and tonight, as you slept peacefully, this felt like a moment of miracle once again, the fleeting moment of grace that made their world reach a state of serenity, all from the possibility of having to finally, finally interact with you.

reblogs help my audience reach, thank you.

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sigmaleph · 8 months

Text

it feels like a complete lack of foresight to, when creating a classification of any sort, to label one of the categories 'new' or 'modern' or anything along those lines. i know it might seem to you now that the most notable thing about the thing is that it is more recent than the kind of thing that came before it, but consider for a second that someone might be in your position in the future and have to end up in a situation where modern whateverism is in fact the old kind of whateverism, as opposed to... well hopefully they can come up with something better than 'contemporary whateverism'.

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meaningofaeons · 10 months

Note

Hello! Have you played the latest part of the xianzhou quest? If not ignore this ask lmao.

If yes, holy shi the potential for hurt comfort in the scenes of the final battle against phentylia??

I wanted to ask if you could write a hurt/comfort fic jing yuan x reader, where reader is in the battle and sees all the shit go down and is quite shaken.

Thanks!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ at the end of immortality

⊹ character(s) - jing yuan ⊹ word count - 829 ⊹ notes - SPOILERS FOR 1.2 TRAILBLAZE MISSION !!!, gn!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is like jing yuan's right-hand in battle and in the seat of divine foresight/implied to be a guard of some sort to him, reader and jing yuan are not together but they're both pining hard, a bit angsty but still comfort, not edited sorry

hi anon omg. this ask got me giggling kicking my feet like YES... thank you for requesting!! (＾º◡º＾❁) (also im so sorry I made this a little more angsty than I expected to wtf!!!!)

You were mad. Furious, even.

Jing Yuan could tell without even beholding your expression that you were positively seething with rage.

Towards him.

He dare not say a word about your current state to your face, though. Not when you silently draped new bandages over his wounds, and not when your hands lingered just a bit longer than they should've.

Not when he could feel the near-imperceptible tremble of your fingertips as you carefully nursed him back to health, treating him like a precious ornament that may break at the slightest touch.

"...How bad is it?"

The General's hoarse voice cut the silence like Dan Heng's spear had cut right through his torso.

Your mind flashed back to the scene, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut.

"General!"

Jing Yuan fell through the air as Phantylia's grip faltered at last. He wasn't a Void Ranger, but...

Seeing the spear of the Vidyadhara High Elder pierce him had just about sent the same level of fear shooting through you. As though the weapon had pierced your chest, instead.

"Y/N, wait!"

"Imbibitor Lunae, what did you—?!"

Your fury came off in waves, your distress even more palpable. The aforementioned Vidyadhara—no, Dan Heng—approached you with the General in his arms, handing him off with little resistance as you helped the man to a stand.

He was still alive. You could've wept. He was still alive.

But he wasn't okay.

"I told you to stay back," you whispered, forcing your hands to still as you finished patching up his wound. They brushed over the space where Dan Heng's spear hit, and you winced at Jing Yuan's flinch.

At his slight chuckle, you worried he might come up with some witty quip that would undoubtedly enrage you into pounding your fist against his wounded back.

Instead, he only turned to gaze at you, golden eyes smoldering.

"You know I couldn't do that."

As angry as you were, you did know.

But still...

What use is a guard if their charge is always the one at the front lines?

As the General of the Xianzhou Luofu... what could you even do for such a brilliant man?

"If it had been you up there, I may have died in my worry. I'm not getting any younger, my dear."

"And neither am I. Do you have no care for the pain you put my heart through?"

Your words were far from proper, your actions even less so as you rested your weary head on the General's shoulder. He seemed to lack any concern for his own propriety, his hand reaching up to grasp your own, his rough thumb brushing your fingertips with a delicate tenderness you didn't want to think too much into.

"...I'm sorry."

Jing Yuan's relenting words were bittersweet to your wanting ears, roughened by his strain. You clutched his hand just a bit tighter.

"Is that an apology for your actions, or an apology for the fact that you'll continue to be reckless until the day you die?"

He chuckled more. The sound sent a warm, tingling feeling through your chest, a feeling that you desperately clutched to in your distress.

"Would you hit me if I said both?"

"I'll be merciful enough to save it for when you're in better shape."

The rumbling laughter continued, and you silently scolded the man for the chance of exacerbating his wounds. He only deflected the blame unto you for your quip, and you sighed out.

Ease. Your anger dissipated, fading into a comfortable silence that the General did not dare break again.

He also did not dare, however, to turn and face you. You were grateful for that.

Because in spite of your assuaged rage, your abated worries, you still fear many things.

You fear seeing new scars on Jing Yuan that you did not have to see before. You fear seeing the exhaustion grow in his youthful features, yet aged all the same. You fear the possibility that he is only a phantasm, that the mara has stricken your mind at last and all you have left of him is a pathetic delusion created by your own longing.

More than any of that, somehow, you fear that if he were to turn around in this very moment, you would cross that one line you had sworn never to touch.

The line that, when crossed, would allow you to abandon all restraint. The line that, when crossed, would mean you grasp your General in the way you've longed to, kissing him slowly to make sure he's really still here with you. To make him promise he would be here with you, forever, until the end of your immortality.

Judging from the way Jing Yuan placed his rough lips upon the back of your hand, you knew he was thinking the same.

Not yet. Not now, not even now.

But perhaps one day, it wouldn't be such a daunting wall to scale.

#jing yuan x reader #jingyuan x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai x reader #honkai #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan #jingyuan

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esamastation · 8 months

Text

Shizuroth, part eight.

"How is he?"

"What do you think?"

Lazard gives the SOLDIER First Class an unimpressed look and Genesis sniffs. "Never fear, Director - your Hero will be well fit for duty - after a break," Genesis says.

"Sephiroth never takes breaks," Lazard points out.

That earns him another sniff, one much closer to a scoff this time. "And people wonder why he's so unapproachable," Genesis says, rolling his eyes. "Why he keeps destroying training rooms in regular spars."

"I seem to recall you and Angeal having a hand in that too," Lazard says, amused and unimpressed. "You are all still forbidden from using the training rooms."

"Yes, yes, ours is a tragic tale of woe," Genesis says dismissively. "The point I'm trying to make is that whether Sephiroth takes breaks or not, he still needs them. He might be Elite even among us Firsts - but he's still human. No matter what the professor says."

Lazard folds his arms. "So this was to be expected, is that it?"

"Wasn't it? Have you not seen Sephiroth's schedule? And I don't just mean his mission roster. He's in and out of the labs so often they should install a revolving door, just for him," Genesis scoffs and looks away. "It's a wonder he didn't start losing it before."

Lazard narrows his eyes. "Has he lost it, then, Genesis? Has he been pushed to the brink?"

Genesis is quiet for a moment and then sighs. "No," he says. "Not yet. But something happened that shook him. Apparently his heart stopped, he was given too big a dose - but I don't think that's it. Not all of it."

"It sounds plenty shocking to me."

"SOLDIERs flatline all the time. That's what Phoenix Downs are for," Genesis waves a hand at that. "Sephiroth must've gone through it a thousand times. But maybe, in combination with the higher dose he got, and however long he was dead…"

Lazard hums. "Memory issues?"

"Most definitely," Genesis agrees, and gives him a sideways look. "He'll be able to cover it up - given time. But he must've forgotten more than he was letting on. I don't know how much - but it was a lot."

Lazard hums in grim understanding, and they're quiet for a moment in shared acceptance. Memory loss in a SOLDIER is common enough and usually isn't reason alone to pull them from the field - higher ups really didn't care. But it tends to have other detrimental effects…

Like an increased mortality rate.

SOLDIERs were sent out only on toughest of missions, taking on most dangerous assignments the company had to offer. Everything Turks or Infantry couldn't handle, the SOLDIER took care of. And going on a high-risk mission with any level of loss of mental faculties…

If Sephiroth was operating with something worse than your usual case of a few burned synapses…

"He needs to be evaluated," Lazard says finally. "Sephiroth has numerous missions coming up in Wutai - if his abilities are compromised -"

"You'll send someone else?" Genesis asks and scoffs. "That I would like to see! How will that look in the newspapers, when the poster boy is replaced? The horror, the controversy - the conspiracy!"

Lazard casts him a look. "Or maybe I will have to shuffle the roster to send someone with him," he says pointedly.

"To babysit Sephiroth?"

"Better than to risk everything due to lack of foresight," Lazard muses and leans back in his chair. "Angeal will be back tomorrow - I want you to debrief him on the situation - quietly - and then the two of you can assess Sephiroth's condition."

"Out of the company's view, I assume?" Genesis asks while whipping out his PHS to check the calendar.

"It wouldn't do for rumours to spread," Lazard agrees and looks away. "Thankfully the Third who saw him already promised to be discreet."

Genesis hums dubiously. "We'll see how long that will last," he mutters, scrolling through his schedule. In his experience, SOLDIERs gossip worse than the secretary staff.

"I'll take even a day's delay. With the true extent of his stay in Injections suppressed and with you handling the rest, hopefully the gossip won't find enough ground to spread," Lazard says.

Genesis hums and then frowns at a new message notification. "Ah," he says, reading the title.

"Hm?" Lazard asks

"Well. Speaking of gossip," Genesis says, his brows arching. "Someone is getting fired at Laybell's."

Lazard frowns and gives him a confused look. "Laybell's? You mean the clothing store?"

Genesis opens the mail that had just been sent out to Silver Elite and reads it through.

SEPHIROTH JUST ORDERED A WHOLE BUNCH OF SHIRTS FROM LAYBELL'S?!? by Beybelina

Hi, hello, hey, I'm a bit of a lurker, usually I don't have anything to say, but something INCREDIBLE just happened!

I work at the Laybell's in Sector Seven and I was just processing orders when it popped up! At first I couldn't believe my eyes! The name on the order, it couldn't be! It was SEPHIROTH! I thought it was fake, so I checked - and the mailing address is Shinra HQ!

Aaaah, my heart is pounding like mad! Sephiroth, making orders from our store! This is the happiest day of my life!

There's almost instantly a reply.

Re: SHIRTS FROM LAYBELL'S by Silver Tail

OH MY GODDESS! What did he order? What kind of shirts? What colour? Tell us everything!

And then an answer to that, just as quickly…

Re:re: SHIRTS FROM LAYBELL'S by Beybelina

I have the full list, though I probably shouldn't mail it because of customer confidentiality! But let's just say it looks like he's moving in from the Glorious Coat of Greatness and Goodness and we'll all be worse for it! He will look amazing of course, but it's still a tragedy!

Genesis brows arch slightly in incredulity. What customer confidentiality? "Apparently Sephiroth has been shopping for clothes."

Lazard looks up, and Genesis shows him the message. "Hm. I agree, someone is certainly getting fired," he says dubiously. "But is it really that unusual? Everyone uses mail to shop these days."

Genesis gives him a look. "You have no idea what the state of his wardrobe is, do you?"

"I make it a point not to pry into the personal affairs of SOLDIER members," Lazard admits.

"And we're oh so grateful - but I do, and it's something else," Genesis says flatly. He'd gotten his own leather coat because he'd gotten inspired by Sephiroth's style - only to soon realise where it actually came from.

He's never known anyone too damn haughty to get a new shirt, before Sephiroth. It would be amusing if it wasn't so irritating. Of course, there's also the fact that whenever they do as much as charge their hairstyle it's newsworthy. Sephiroth is especially sensitive to it, having been in the spotlight all his life. But mostly it was just the man being contrary on purpose, because someone said something, and sometimes Sephiroth just decides to dig his heels in about the weirdest things for no good reason. Like with the hair, oh, Goddess, the hair.

So the idea that Sephiroth is suddenly becoming fashion-conscious…? Highly unlikely.

Genesis scowls, snapping his phone shut.

Lazard is right - Sephiroth really needs to be assessed, thoroughly. Because either the man has utterly lost his mind… or he's up to something.

Cut to SY, sobbing screaming throwing up over a pile of torn shirts.

#Fanfiction #FFVII #Svsss #genesis rhapsodos #lazard deusericus

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tarotchariotpickyourcard · 4 days

Text

PAC: Why you didn't get the job/placement

Wondering why you were turned away or didn't receive the call? It's natural to wonder, even if people tell you to just move on. Here is an attempt to understand.

Group 1 is a ring. Group 2 is a pink flower, Group 3 is a plant.

GROUP 1

THE EMPEROR - TEMPERANCE - KING OF PENTACLES

Immediate impression is that the employer directly thought perhaps you as an applicant were not ready or prepared for the stress or situations that the placement might bring. They potentially would have wanted an applicant that was more ready to step quickly into the role, rather than someone they would have to spend more time/money training up or paying more attention to. This isn’t to say you’re not actually qualified, it’s more that this person just made their mind up and that was that. With king of pentacles this is more money oriented, more thinking on profit long term. They may have thought that you didn’t connect with them in terms of the long term impacts of the business/studies. If this was regarding specifically studies this could be that they saw it as a lack of foresight or big picture thinking. (Again, not saying this is actually true, if you feel that it’s an incorrect representation).

I asked what the employer, or teacher or leader or whoever was in charge, was looking for that you may have missed in communicating or showing. The card is Drive. It says “No matter what my energy level is, today I’m lighting my motivational furnace and burning with drive. Starting now, I’m the reigning badass of productivity and I’m about to blaze through my entire to-do list and then some.” So if you were to apply again or with the same people, you may want to show examples of how you have been assertive, or a self teacher, or someone who has initiative in their work.

Now we have ‘Tijme to move on’ and ‘Stay optimistic’.It says “don’t quit right before the miracle occurs.” If this is something that crops up as a yearly opportunity or something to that effect, then stay optimistic that you can get a chance next time. If you are really interested in the role or type of opportunity, stay optimistic that you can get something similar in nature.

If you are applying for roles or studies while you’re already in something, time to move on suggests letting go of where you are mentally and emotionally first. That will energetically open you up to more opportunities. Stay optimistic suggests holding on for a bit longer and trying to visualize positive outcomes that make you feel happy, like something has happened.

I drew a card as something that you can show off about yourself and it is imagination. It says “I treasure my imagination, and I can conjure it at any time. My imagination helps me dream up creative solutions to complex problems that I wouldn’t have thought of from inside this same-old box.” So you are someone who can think up some helpful solutions, even if they seem a bit different or strange. You can think differently and really add to research, work and teams.

I’m sorry that you were turned away, but it’s looking positive for you in the future so good luck.

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GROUP 2

So we have the 8 of swords and the king of swords. We also have time to move on and blessed change. This was not the job or placement for you anyway, I see really strongly it wouldn’t have been beneficial for you in the long run. There is something more unexpected for you down the line.

The reasoning seems more based on how you appeared as a person? I feel like the ones who interviewed were people who saw themselves as logical, down to business and they may have seen you as an applicant who was more in their head in an inefficient way? I just don’t think you were a fit, on either side. So the course, or the workplace, or the environment, wouldn’t have really gelled. I’m sorry I can’t see any more than that to be honest. 10 of swords as an extra is hinting to me that maybe you said something that put them off and that was the nail in the coffin. I’m not saying you said anything drastic, it could have just been something that made them think attitudes were different, or values weren’t aligned. For example, I know someone who wasn’t taken on because they said they were a direct person in the workplace. Imagine not wanting someone who is direct. So please don’t take it personally, I just don’t think you were for each other.

I asked what they were looking for that you may have missed, or didn’t show. The card is prep work. “I make friends with the quiet loners, organization and planning. And I suddenly realize how cool they are! I start hanging out with them, and I bend to their influence. I even allow them to give my daily habits a makeover. Normally I wouldn’t succumb to peer pressure, but isn’t efficiency the best?”

Yeah, definitely seems like they were looking for someone like themselves (in their opinion). Now, let’s have a card showing what you can show off about yourself that you have. Self Reliance (ah, so you can be a one man band at times). It says: “I am a confident, capable, walking, talking, learning machine - and I practice total self reliance every chance I get. Even if something’s tough, I can probably do it. Even if something is new to me, I can probably figure it out. Or maybe just google it.” Whether you think you’re confident or not, you have a quiet type in work where you know you will manage things. This is a self starter energy that doesn’t run away. Do you know some people get afraid at the idea of working at a different branch or with a team that isn’t their usual? I feel like you would walk in there and introduce yourself and get on with it. You can walk into a job needing to learn on the go, and you wouldn’t bother colleagues as much as they think a new hire would.

Good luck, I see a positive unexpected opportunity that you will be able to go for because you’re still freed up. It’s going to make you grin.

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GROUP 3

10 of pentacles, The world. Empowerment, Wait, Let yourself receive.

There’s something here regarding timing or travel. Maybe they needed someone asap, but you had a 6 week wait to go. Timing could have just been off. Perhaps there was time between jobs or roles that they didn’t like. Maybe there was a need to travel when you were asking for remote work and they weren’t willing to give it. Another possibility is you didn’t seem enthusiastic about their desire to hop from site to site, or travel for a longer period of time for a project or course.

Empowerment makes me think you told them about a boundary or limit, but they weren’t willing to shift, compromise or allow. I get a very stubborn energy from the employer/interviewers side. If they were really immature, they could have noticed if you weren’t very early. Maybe you were right on time or a little bit late for the interview. I feel like you had a lot of good qualities that they were looking for, but it was more the practical aspects of things that got in the way.

I honestly don’t see anything too deep. I think you did a very good job in the interview or discussions you had. I think you’re able to stand up for yourself and refuse to give more than you can. I think you have a good head on your shoulders. You deserve a better role or placement that gives you more in return for what you do.

The cards that you have on your side to show next time in an opportunity are risks, and enthusiasm.

Risks says “ I take big risks and leap into the unknown with fearless abandon, knowing that the best surprises and richest experiences come from bold choices. Worst case scenario? The unknown is filled with spiders and they swarm me and eat me and decorate their spider cave with my bones. But what are the chances.”

Enthusiasm says “When I have to make a spreadsheet, sit in a long meeting with no coffee, or do anything else I don’t like, I dig deep and find a way to be enthusiastic about it. The difference between having to do something and getting to do something is all in my perspective.”

So the cards are overall saying bide your time for better results, the right place will accept what limits you genuinely have, and there can definitely be a fair give and take for you. There is patience needed though.

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Hope it made sense have a good one.

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astroyongie · 2 months

Text

Stray Kids April Reading 2024

note: please take my words with a grain of salt

Bangchan

Love: It does look like Chan was able to get closer to his crush and that things have been developing so far, however there’s still a lot of miscommunication and not enough emotional connection between the two. Chan might be trying too hard as well, and not listening to his crush's need before engaging themselves in a possible relationship. it feels like his crush isn't in a relationship anymore and be might the reason why

Career: there’s a lot happening in their career, either the preparation of new music, preparations for new tours, ect that is putting Chan in a more complicated position because he lacks some foresight in some situations. he has been having a hard time adjusting to everything that has been happening on his life. he also wants to stay o the same path instead of trying new things like some members have been asking for

Self: he is doing okay, both physically and mentally. he has been working a lot on his inner self and on his self worth and trust. At the moment he believes that he is able to conquer anything and despite these initial fears. Chan has also been turning more into faith when it comes to managing his fears of the unknown

Minho

Love: Boy is frustrated as hell. I believe that he is still in a relationship with their partner but that things haven't been the same since september. they haven't seen each other much outside of their work which also makes things complicated (due to the lack of time). His partner is also putting a lot of red light on Minho’s actions, which makes him hasty in a sense. there’s high chances the relationship won't work

Career: at least in his work space things have been doing well and more healthy. Minho has been helping his teammates a lot and he has finally found a healthy way to cope with everything while being productive. he is also happy with how things are turning out of the group. he got especially close to the younger members

Self: I still believe that he suffers a lot with his mental health (and his relationship also doesn't help him at all). he is in a vulnerable position emotionally and he gets easily overwhelmed and sensitive. there’s way too much grief he needs to work on

Changbin

Love: single as always, not looking for any relationship at the moment changbin is already battling against his own mind and his own self. He was however a lot of inner turmoils because it feel like he does have a crush on someone but he isn't exploiting it because he understands that he isn't on a good place to engage relationships

Career: Things are complicated as well. I don't think Changbin has been having the best relationships with his teammates but also with the people he has been working with. That is because his relationships are usually filled with jealousy and sabotaging from other people and it has impacted a lot on his capacity of trusting people around him. I believe at the moment, the environment he is in and the career itself is the most toxic place for Changbin to be which is really sad

Self: without any surprise, hsi mental health hasn't improved. I sense some depressive energy around him, but also more of dark energy and thoughts surrounding him this probably linked to his work , his self worth and an overall burnout). JYP should pay more attention to him and allow him to rest

Hyunjin

Love: Okay so lmao this is a huge thing but take it LIGHTLY!. It does seem like Hyunjin and his crush have finally parted ways. To prove his point hyunjin is currently seeing someone else (it looks like this person is an idol as well) and they have been trying to get something out of here. now in my opinion, he doesn't have feelings for this person but that is probably trying to move in by using this person while also showing his crush that “he doesn't need them”

Career: career wise things seem to be going well for him. one a first instance his relationship with the members seem to be going well and also his sponsor has been also to get him another exclusive contract (so there’s chances to see Hyunjin from April-June to travel somewhere for his endorsement or for some type of public appearance). he getting the bag and the connections

Self: Despite all of it, I think Hyunjin is also in a dark place at the moment. Firstly because he is trying to portray himself as someone he isn't and also because he is using his wealth to protect himself and to create an image that doesn't suit him. but he is hungry for change in his life which is making him take reckless decisions

Han

Love: the relationship he had in September is finished now. things didn't work well and the co dependency was becoming toxic and his partner took the decision to call it quits. however Han is upset about it and isnt accepting the break up very well (he probably still is in denial about the whole thing as well)

Career: he has been feeling lonely lately. there’s a chance that Hna has been self isolating himself from the members and also has been procrastinating when it comes to work (like for example husband been writing his music or hasn't been contributing a lot artistically speaking) because he just isn't feeling the spark on it lately

Self: Emotionally there’s a lot happening and i think that Han needs to work on his emotions and also let go of things that isn't serving well (and in this same case, accepting that his relationship wasn't going to work no matter what he did). he is probably very dispirited and struggling to push forward

Felix

Love: Listen y’all.. this guy is also in a very new relationship that started very recently. I have no idea who the person is and how the relationship is going exactly because I didn't get much information. All I can say is that Felix seems to have switched his whole personality (this person isn't the type of person i ever thought he would go for) so I wonder if this is an experiment or if in contrary there are really feelings here.

Career: He hasn’t been talking much with his members either, and has kept an introverted self around them mostly because there’s some members he doesn't want to talk with (cough cough). in any case i believe that he is overwhelmed and way too overwork to actually focus on things properly

Self: Everything that he has been speaking on social media is a simple side of his idol image. It does seem like Felix is refuging in his idol image because it's the only thing that has been protecting him from the reality of his life. his self expression feels pushy and fake and i wonder if his love life, his whale drastic change is due to something hat has happened this last weeks

Seungmin

Love: Seungmin is still dating the same person however it does seem that lately he has been rather moody about his love life. that mostly because he has a sense of extreme jealousy toward his partner and he doesn't know how to deal with it. Instead of communicating he has been lashing out and just is unrealistic with his own thoughts. there’s the need of him to come down from his delusions

Career: There has been a conflict between him and another member (I couldn't figure out who) which has provoked some tension in the group. although the problem as been fixed by the management team, Seungmin still holds a few grudges that he hasn't processed

Self: Other than that, he is doing okay emotionally and physically. he is happy with the life he has and despite the stuff that sometimes happen he is able to regulate his emotions well. he just needs sometimes, a little time to figure it out

Love: still single and still enjoying his life as a boy of his age. Jeongin isn't interested in anyone, he has a lot of flings opportunities and people around him love him easily. honestly he is just a young boy who is living a life of a person single of his age which is actually healthy

Career: Boyis thriving on his career, he has the good people around him and he has also a good relationship with everyone he works with. his sponsor is also doing wonders when it comes to Joenging’s lifestyle which is a good thing. he is overall happy with his career life

Self: He has been doubting a little about the honesty of some people around him but he tries to hide it. I think Jeongin is also going through some sensitive stuff and things that make him a little more immature and emotional but this is also linked to his young age and lack of experiences.

#Stray Kids #Stray Kids astrology #Stray Kids reading #Stray Kids tarot #Stray Kids headcanons #Stray Kids imagines #Stray Kids scenarios #Stray Kids reactions

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