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ronearoundblindly · 9 days

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Dirty Water

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader

Prompt from this dirty ask game with our pairing from the Sun, Salt, and Shield series.

Summary: After a very long (but unofficial) courtship, where Steve is too shy to bring up your anatomy and his compatibility, a cultural misinterpretation quite literally sinks his resolve.

Warnings for smut (I'm gonna have to call this what it is and just say it's monster-f**king, or the one where Steeb gets maybe-CNC-boinked by a 'monster.' Sorry, babes. Ro's dipped a toe into the darkside for a smidge.) MINORS DNI. Poorly--or rather, not--edited and I have no idea the word count...

Steve swallows harshly and tries not to nervously splash his feet in the pool.

"What?" he chokes out.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say, not that it would matter when so much is lost in translation.

All you did was ask about the singing outside the doors of your 'room'--the retrofitted gym pool at the Avengers compound, the one is the basement without windows for your highly sensitive eyes--but he...could never have predicted why you were so curious.

"They're just enjoying themselves," he'd chuckled, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Do you sing?"

The look on your face, jaw slack and head tilting in contemplation, it should have warned him. You unfurled from your relaxed posture, the stance where your arms cross behind your back and fit atop the swell of your--he'd say tail, but it's more like your ass--rump, the rest of your body bent in a curve until your fin nearly touches the surface, and inched closer to his feet in the deep end.

"Yessssss," you hissed slowly through three rows of sharp teeth, crawling up his legs, out of the water, dripping over his lap as you braced large, webbed hands on either side of his hips.

Even in the very low light of damp room, he could see the lavender of your stare drop to his crotch.

"You sing too?"

Steve's an idiot. He didn't understand yet, so that dumbass actually began humming 'You Are My Sunshine' because nothing else occurred to him.

Then he noticed your tail glowing beneath the scales.

Then he realized you were pressing yourself to his legs.

Aaaand then Steve Rogers looked down your body to witness his knee disappearing in a spongy spot where the armoring swelled apart.

Oh god.

"What?" he now asks like an frightened teen seeing boobs for the first time.

"I make you sing?" Your broad green lips turn up in a smile. "Show me."

Suddenly, Steve's forgotten more english than you've learned. "Huh?"

Your flowing, textured hair, shapely even out of the water, sways when you cock your head to the side, looking through your lashes at him.

"How Stevie sing?"

He shivers for the first time in the cool water and lets an involuntary grunt leave his lips.

He's tried to stop himself from imagining your body and how it works to...ya know, and how he might...oh god, he's going to hell, but apparently, you've already been imagining that humans are either masturbating or fucking outside your door at all hours all the time--

--and oh shit, that means you sing as a part of sex.

He turns his head to the almost black ceiling and fails to think of anything else as the light from your body reflects in waves on every wall. He whimpers when he feels a ripple of muscle through the wet cotton of his jeans.

"Doll make Stevie sing?" Your voice is hoarse, and just as quickly as you say that by his throat, you flip back into the water. You can only breathe air for so long without hurting your throat and lungs.

He thinks he's off the hook, praying the tightness in his pants dissipates faster than they'll take to dry, but he lowers his head to find you peeking from the water, intent as ever on learning his ways.

He should be ashamed, so very fucking ashamed, of how badly he wants to take himself out of his pants and watch the wonder of those pretty eyes as he comes at the thought of you, but Steve's drowning in the hope that he can have you. It's been so long that he's wanted this, even in the most innocent ways.

Your final plea bubbles to the surface.

"Show?"

Steve inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

This is wrong, he thinks. You should not be doing this.

Yet he does it anyway because he wants to; he wants to so badly.

He sits up straight at the edge of the concrete, popping the button of his jeans and aches as he lowers the zipper. He can't meet your eye while he pulls out his semi-hard cock and fists it harshly.

You're so long that even looking away leaves your shimmering tail in sight, and he thinks he sees you rattle in excitement. It makes him shiver again, and the vibration shakes the moan escaping his tight chest.

Yikes, it does sound a bit like he's singing...

What the hell are you even doing?

Of course, he knows he's touching himself and he knows well enough how to do that, but he shouldn't be doing this in front of you, much less enjoying it. His blood is running so hot beneath his skin, though, the chilly pool feels soothing over his shins where he rolled up his pants (to no avail).

The heat floods his veins and mind to the point rational thought quiets, and Steve's eyes slither up your demure form.

Your eyes get wider and wider the more noise he makes, and his rampant imagination feeds off the sight of that gap in your scales visible as it undulates in the refraction beneath his feet.

He leans his head back and closes his own eyes at just the wrong moment.

Mid-whine, he misses the splashing sound that would have warned him you were coming, and instead Steve is pummeled by the end of your tail and topples into the pool, shocked and sputtering salty water until his body is pinned to the flat of the concrete wall he used to be perch on.

As he scrambles to toss his arms over the ledge, he feels claws dragging his jeans farther down his legs, and the fabric hangs like an anchor while the silky-slick webbing of your fingers glides up and down his thighs.

Then your tongue runs the length of his cock, making Steve moan embarrassingly loud and thrust his hips forward. If he weren't in the water, he'd be a puddle.

Pleasure races up and down his spine, fighting for dominance over the feeling of cold when he slips from the ledge and submerges briefly.

He barely registers the loss of your tongue and your quick lap of swimming before you're backing into him again.

It's on your ass, too, the soft entrance like you rubbed against his knee, but he could not have imagined what it could do--what you could do--how you could manipulate your muscles inside your tail.

He has no brainpower left to describe it. Steve just lets go, trusting your body to hold his weight as one hand grips the mossy softness of your waist and the other hand spreads over your lower back. Out of instinct, he tries to get leverage to push himself in and out of you, but that's useless.

There's a strong ripple of muscle that pulls him in, and in, and in, delicately tight on his sensitive cock and wide enough to slowly suck his balls into the massaging cavern.

Steve's eyes roll far into his head. He's going to pass out if this keeps up.

"Doll," he gasps, but it's too quiet in the slosh of the water. "Please, I'm--"

A clear, high note crescendos from the deep below, something disturbingly pure and paralyzing, and Steve can't move. He can only feel and experience a siren's song in action.

His body twitches violently before his cum is milked sensually, desperately, methodically from his cradled and ravaged pelvis, and never in Steve's long life has he ever been so fucking spent.

He whimpers when your cunt releases him, only faintly aware that he's propped on your back by his elbows as you swim to the shallow end and let him 'stand' on his shaky legs.

The screeching hinge of the door startles him.

"Cap," the junior agent yells over your hiss from the bright light spraying in, "everything okay? I heard..."

Yeah, I couldn't describe it either, Steve thinks.

He spits water from his mouth. "Fine," he huffs back, "we were...singing, and I fell in."

"Oh. Alright. Sorry to disturb you, Miss G." The man nods his apology at your hand-covered eyes and leaves.

Steve can't help but laugh like an insane person, laying to properly float in the water, uncaring what you're up to until he gently hits the stairs leading out of the pool.

Your head rises out of the water hopefully, and he cups your cheeks, still chuckling. He has zero words to describe...anything at the moment, but he can show you a human tradition of affection in return.

Shifting as easily as a feather in the water, he pulls you two together and sweetly presses his salmon lips to your seaweed pout, letting your long locs fall over his own shoulders.

Soon, he's gasping for air again, yet just before you dunk below the surface, you grin and coo at him.

"Stevie sings lovely."

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

what...the hell have i done. *hits post before final two braincells protest*

@fandom-has-taken-me-hostage @leah2901 @blogbog710 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @jamneuromain

#dirty asks #ask game #sun salt and shield series #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfic #tw monsterfucking #deep sea mermaid #mermaid!reader #mermaid au #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #fantasy au #i do not have any idea how to properly tag this HALP

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haztory · 1 month

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[fairytales: fathoms below]

⤷ john price x f!reader; fairytales!au, mermaid!reader, no warnings!

⤷ summary: a series imagining each of the cod men in fantasy/fairytale settings.

(w.c: 3.2k)

captain john price - the little mermaid

Deep brown oak lays a steady foundation for the billowing ivory cotton. It is a formidable beast, splitting the current with a wicked ferocity that only further emboldens everything your sisters have said in the privacy of hidden corners and muttered breaths. This monster is a fearsome one, its force unparalleled. Something entirely different than what you have seen before.

Mind your distance, your eldest sister had spoken in between the echoing bellows of your father’s rampage as he raged and roared about the increased presence of the fiend in the seas. It is a frightening being.

Yet, as you peek above the waves to peer at its high fixtures and its grand weight gliding across the water, you’re less inclined to be scared of the vessel and more curious about who could have made such a thing. Your sister’s words and your father’s fear are quickly things of the past, rendered outdated almost instantaneously beneath its shadow.

What could they know about the intent of such a thing with certainty when they themselves have never been as close as this before? If they had, surely they’d feel the same as you do now.

The ship rocks with a force equal to the volume of the men steering it. They are of varying shapes and sizes, loud as they shout at one another along the choppy water. Words you can only catch on whispering winds, syllables and sounds that are completely foreign as you try to repeat them to yourself. A pulse echoes within you, a ferocious beating of your heart that begs you to get closer, to let the curiosity that surges within you seize its grand moment. If only just to see, just to hear.

It is one thing to see the ancestors of this magnificent watercraft on the seafloor—to play in its cracked beams and chase your sisters through the wreckage, imagining in secret what an image it would be were it fixed and afloat—but it is something entirely different to see the beast alive.

To see it be tamed, made nothing more than a tool to be beckoned— by him.

He stands commanding on the helm, the gruffness of his voice carrying on the winds, crossing the distances to you. The men follow his calls, responding in time to his orders and moving with preciseness on the vessel, not entirely unlike your father’s guards. They are seasoned, well learned, and they follow him without question. It is truly a sight to behold, but him, he trumps it all.

His figure is distinguishable even from afar. You’ve been able to make him out even as you trailed a couple hundred kilometers behind, curiosity consuming all reason as you followed the ship past neighboring reefs and exiting well beyond the boundaries of your father’s kingdom. He’s well cut and corded, muscle visible even if the white of his shirt didn’t stick to his skin—wet from the seawater.

He’s wide in the shoulders, tall and lean, before it tapers down to a narrow waist; His bottom half is obscured by a dark fabric, which must be the object of your father’s frequent cursing. Legs. You’ve never seen them before, much less two of them.

Still, his… abnormality hardly detracts from the verboten truth—your eye is caught. It hardly deviates from his powerful stance; Your gaze can wander across the bridge of the ship to the working crew, but it ends up inevitably circling back to him. Drawn into the vortex of him, water rushing, pulling and pushing, and the pang of longing that you have long held quiet finds its strength.

It tastes of wonder and the desperation to escape; To leave behind the home that you know, all that has created you, for the realization that there’s more.

You leave behind the ship before you risk the chance of it seeing you, but the appetite of fascination is hardly appeased. It becomes the bad habit. The ships are wondrous things, but you find out rather quickly that when he is at the helm, that is truly when your heart leaps and you trail even closer to its hull, eager for a sight.

It goes this way for forty rises and sets, your eyes held on the horizon for the familiar sight of the wooden ship’s sigil and its master.

Today, he is seen on the day of the great storm.

The sky sits in a violent gray, lightning spreading its branches as they flare across the clouds. The air smells of the impending storm as the seas grow rougher and with it the ship rocks unsteadily—the waves beating against wood, climbing up its ridges higher each time it strikes against its side, as if it were begging to climb aboard. Despite the mayhem, he stays sharp, pointing direction from the helm and eventually leaving it to the charge of someone else when he decides to help directly. Grabbing rope and throwing it around the masts, clapping others on the back, Keep going, boys! shouting from his mouth.

You see it before they do. A crack that widens in the undercarriage of the ship, beaten open as the waves ram against it, water rushing in. You want to shout, tell them to look, but they realize it soon enough. One of the shipmates peers over the edge of the ship before turning back and shouting,

“She’s goin’ to sink, Captain!”

The Captain—finally a name to the face, one that you roll around in your mind as your eyes track his every movement; Captain, captain, captain.— moves quickly, foregoing the lugging of a rope and saying something that forces all men to divert attention elsewhere. It’s a flurry of movement from there, the men gathering supplies, hauling smaller wooden vessels by rope and filling them in a quick frenzy. Abandoning the ship.

It’s difficult as wind and rain pellet them, obscuring vision and keeping them unsteady as they attempt to save themselves. The first lifeboat hits the sea viciously, the waves almost capsizing the vessel as they meet its surface. You don’t mean to interfere—you know you shouldn’t— but they’re terrified, and risk drowning, and you’re much more worried about them dying than you are yourself, so you swim to them; Grab the bottom of the boat and pull with as much strength as your arms and tail can muster and haul them away from the immediate danger of the turbulent waves split by the sinking ship.

The pulley breaks when the next boat tries to descend, hitting the surface unceremoniously, but the men make it to the water. Two wooden boats buoy a safe distance away from the main ship and the crew sits, thankfully, unharmed as they look towards their Captain, beckoning him to jump. He stands at the edge of the great being, a monolith of a man overseeing the wreckage of his great accomplishment. He must be bidding it goodbye, because he then turns, ready to jump, fortified in that decision as he realizes that all of his men are safe and it is now his turn.

Wind turns threatening and the air ignites with a charge that speaks of impending doom. It is then that lightning strikes the mast, sparking a loud blast. It singes the wooden pillar, immediately exploding it into a shattering of pieces. The detonation’s impact pushes him off the edge, the Captain’s body hurdling over one-hundred feet.

Your scream is hidden by the shouts of his own men. His body hits the surface of the water, plunging into the depths as the violent waves hurtle him below.

There is no hesitation, a choice made without conscious thought. You curl beneath the cresting of a wave and immediately sink into the depth in search for him. It is significantly easier to swim beneath the hurtling waves than atop of them, pressure equalizing against your body. You glide within the water, pushing straightforwardly to the spot where his body met water.

Your heart pounds in fear. Even if you reach him—no, when you reach him— there is no guarantee of his survival. There must be some kind of injury from falling that kind of distance, or so you would imagine. Being sucked into vortexes does all kinds of damage to merfolk, it must be of equal balance for humans. And even if by some miracle he does survive impact, humans cannot breathe under the water like you can. He must have swallowed some water, is that dangerous for him? How much can he swallow? What do you do if he has swallowed too much?

Thoughts hurtle and tumble in fast succession, but your body moves faster. Crossing the distance between your position next to the lifeboats to the spot of impact at a speed that has never before been demanded of you. Your lungs burning, your mind aching, your heart hurting with worry for a man that you do not yet know. A man that, for all you have been told, could kill you. A man whose kind has hunted yours down for sport, strung your people up for decoration.

You should not care for this man, have been warned not to, and yet the relief you feel when you find him are the blessings from the forces of the heavens and earth.

He’s sinking, unconsciously. His eyes closed, body suspended to the whims of the tides as they pull him down. Nearing him reveals that he is much larger than you had anticipated but it means nothing in the rapid pump of adrenaline. Hooking your arms underneath his, his back to your chest, you haul with great might. Lugging his weight with a grunt to the surface, just to get him to breathe again.

Breaching the surface exposes you to the pellets of the ferocious rain, but it matters not. Your eyes set for direction, your head turning frantically in search of a marker, a sight, something to reveal where you are— where you can take him for safety. The lifeboats have been taken far away by the tumbling tides and the ship that was once so marvelous now roars with a fire aboard its surface.

You have no idea where to go. You have no idea what to do.

But the Captain is held tightly in your arms, his head rolling lifelessly on your shoulder. A quick placement of your fingers on his neck reveals a pulsing heart and while it hardly solves any of your problems, it’s all you need to do as you have always done and swim. Somewhere, anywhere.

So, you do.

South, in search of sanctuary.

It comes faster than you had thought it would. The shallowing of waters after an hour long haul of both he and you bleeds a hope in your soul that pushed you forward until it came into sight. A cove. Away from the large strip of land that surrounds it, remote enough to deposit him without being seen, but close enough to civilization for him to find a way home. Wherever home may be for him.

Your body is exhausted, the muscles in your tail cramping and spasming from the sheer burden of his weight on yours but you don’t stop. Even as you can touch sand with your hands, even as the movement of waves can carry you the distance to the shore— you don’t stop until he is safe. On land.

Hauling him out of the water and onto the flattening surface of the beach is surely the worst part. Dragging him a safe distance from the water that was able to ease the pressure of his full weight on you to now being on the surface where his body seems to weigh even more, your arms trembling from trying to pull him further up on the coast, is misery. But you do it, with some herculean effort that has never been introduced to you before.

He lays on land, supine on his back, finally safe. The rain has stopped, the sky turning from the harsh gray of before to a smattering of thickened clouds that finally allow the sun to bleed through.

You fall beside him in exhaustion. Ragged breaths heaving your chest, your tail grateful for the much needed rest. The swim home will be significantly easier (and faster) without the man in your arms, but such a trek is daunting when physical debility renders you useless.

But you must go, before he sees you. You have done what you needed to, you have brought him to land, and while you don’t know how to save him, or if you need to, you know his heart still beats. And that is enough to make a job well done. Rather, it should be enough to grant you dismissal.

And yet, you linger. Unable to part, waiting. Watching. You shouldn’t, and still you cannot help yourself.

You sit up and lean over him, curious to spare him another look.

Laid beneath you, the truth repeats like a broken mantra in your head. It is a sin of the highest offense to touch him. Being near him like this is a crime itself. But, there is an ache in your fingers that urges you forward and the desire to know eats away at you, until you blink and suddenly, your fingers are tracing the length of his strong nose.

A straight bridge, freckled with color. Your fingers move in a fixed trance, trailing across the soft of his cheek until it reaches the jagged meeting line where skin becomes obscured with hair. You feel the coarseness of his beard, trace the pads of your fingertips down the thick and long hairs. The men at home have hair on their faces, your own father does, but it doesn’t feel like this. So coarse, so rough, prickling against the tips of your fingers. Not made silk by the submergence in water, but thick and apparent.

You don’t dislike it. At least, you don’t think you do, your fingers smoothing down the expanse of his cheek. Up and down, over and over. Feeling the vitality of this human life.

You don’t feel the same repulsion that your father does whenever mention of the humans is made near him, nor do you feel the same fear that your sisters have at the mere thought of them. You’re drawn closer, if anything. Curious to know more.

Wondering what would happen if he opened his eyes.

He has a nose, two ears, and a gentle prodding of his lips reveals a full set of teeth. They’re not sharpened in fangs ready to rip your throat (a rumor circulating through the schools of children) nor are they laid in multiple jagged rows (a preach hailed truth by your father). Instead, just a set of hard bones, the same as yours. He has two eyes that you don’t dare try and see the color of, and a full head of thick brown hair.

For all intents and purposes, he looks like you. The same features, the same design.

Your fingers trail downward, below the thick of his beard and down the column of his strong neck. His shirt is soaked and stuck to his skin, stretched to reveal even more tufts of thick hair on his chest. That is new to you. The men at home don’t have hair on their chest much less a kind so thick. They’re smooth, and if you thread your fingers through it in wonder, it will be a secret you take back to the sea with you.

Maybe the gods made you more similar than different. From where you sit beside him, the only obvious difference lies below. Two long limbs that hold flat appendages at the end. Feet, separated with what you can only imagine are toes. Ten of them on each one.

Maybe in his creation there was an image of you. A curiosity that was sated by the division of a tail into legs, but otherwise remains the same. Two beings sent to their respective homes and yet destined to intertwine. It must be, otherwise these unexplainable feelings that brew within you have no source other than sheer madness.

A kind of madness that finds you sitting beside him, staring in lingering awe at the marvels of danger.

You don’t know how long you stay there for, trailing your fingers over him. Finding them studying the feel of his skin and somehow always returning back to his neck, feeling the pulsing of his heart as reassurance. But, a long look to the horizon reveals that the sun is beginning to set and you know then that much time has passed. The sky turns to a burnt orange and the warning to return home beats within your mind. It is unwanted, but you know that you can no longer stay here with the man. Soon your father will suspect something amiss and send guards to find you. While you don’t doubt the capabilities of the human, there’s no guarantee he will be able to defend himself against the royal guards of the palace, especially in his weakened state. (There is no telling what he could do to you if he awakens in this state.)

So you will leave him with the hope that he will wake soon, that he will recuperate enough to pull himself from the sand and walk the short distance back to the mainland. That your efforts were timely and he is able to make his way home.

You will leave him and hope that maybe, he will come back to the cove in search of you. You will leave him and hope that maybe he will see you waiting for him in the water.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to his face. To look at him once more before you go.

Eyes as blue as the sea you pulled him from, meet yours. You gasp, jolting backwards in shock and he—the Captain, alive and awake— blinks slowly.

“You’re real.” He croaks, his voice hoarse. It still holds the same gruffness that you heard on the ship, the commandeering tone and hefty weight, but in the closeness it is twinged with gentleness. No longer addressing men at his command, but you. A softness mirrored in tone and gaze as he, for the first time, sees you.

His hand reaches up and you hold still in fear. The conditioning of your father’s paranoia rears its head; Is this where his strength is exhibited? In the calloused palm of his that is larger

than your own? Is this where he decides to lay waste to you in a manner your father is so convinced that humans possess?

Instead, his hand raises to your face, fingertips slowly brushing a fallen strand of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch is light on your skin, brushing against the curve of your ear before trailing downward and across your cheek. Warm and soft, he stares a seriousness into you as though the only thing he intends to do in that moment is commit you to memory.

You fall into his touch with little convincing. His skin melding to your own, as though it were meant to be there.

“I thought you a dream.”

You shake your head slightly. His eyes dart across your face before moving downward. Surveying you before spotting the obvious truth.

“Mermaid.” He chokes out, in reverence. His stare does not falter and his face does not scrunch upward in disgust. He looks at you much like you have always looked at him.

Adoration disguised in the innocence of curiosity.

“You saved me,” He says. “Thank you.”

a.n: i blame my visit to disney world for this idea. the thoughts of john price soaking wet is irresistible, and i aint sorry for it!!

simon is next :)

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #cod angst #fairytale au #cw: mermaids #cod fluff #my writing #irda writes

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