#it's these details that make this show so bloody great

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

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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@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #call of duty x you #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 2022 #john price cod #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod mw2 #cod john price #john price call of duty #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x you #x fem!reader #cod price #price x reader #john price x female reader #captain price x you #captain price x reader #cod x female reader

[cherrychilli]

18+

Eddie Munson x AFAB reader, established relationship, mentions of bodily injury and blood(not reader's), allusions to oral sex (f)

Let's just say that Eddie eats you out a little too well and suffers the consequences.

The bleeding's finally starting to stem you're relieved to notice, pulling back his bloodied bandana to peek at his swollen nose, all flushed red like crushed berries. Streaks of dry blood trail down to his chin in thin ribbons and you look at him sympathetically.

"I'm dellin' you bade, id loobs worse than id is", Eddie tries to assure you once more though you're not convinced because you can make out the beginnings of a black eye on his face too, a purple half moon starting to take shape below his left eye.

You'd apologized profusely when it happened, nearly brought to tears over how guilty you felt about the whole thing but all he did was grin proudly like he couldn't be happier about it, teeth stained pink with fresh blood.

"Bade"

"Yeah?"

"You're nod wearin' a bra"

You look down and realize he's right, your nipples hard and showing through your shirt because hospitals are such cold, sterile places. Now that you're looking at yourself you notice that your shirt's inside out too but of course he doesn't notice that detail because he's too busy staring at your tits.

"Oh. Yeah well, I kinda forgot in the rush to get here", you tell him, uncaring if anyone else notices because your priority right now is your boyfriend's wellbeing.

"No id's good. Helbs take my mind off the paib", he grinned again, raising his eyebrows at you suggestively.

Even with a broken nose and all that blood on his face and clothes he still manages to look handsome, still charming in that loveable dork kind of way that made you fall for him all those years ago, stirring something warm in your belly.

"Just let me do the talking, okay?", you stroke his cheek gently, placing a quick kiss there which makes his face turn pink in a way that's unrelated to his injury. You looked over the forms one of the nurses had handed you when you first came in, filling the blank spaces with Eddie's personal information.

Fell down the stairs. That's pretty believable, right? You continued to jot his details down, hoping the doctors and nurses will buy what you're selling because the last thing you wanted to divulge was that your boyfriend made you cum so hard while going down on you that you kicked him in the face on accident.

"Baaade"

"Eddie, don't talk you might start bleeding again"

"Jud one more ding", he nudges his shoulder against yours.

You look away from the paperwork then, catching a lilt to his tone that sounded serious. "What is it?", a tendril of worry winds up your spine. Had you concussed him? Oh shit, if he's got a concussion too then-

"Did you forbet your panties too?"

The tendril withers away unceremoniously.

"Eddie", you deadpanned. "This is not the damn time."

"Pleab jud answer the quedtion", he gives you the eyes, those wide, bottomless whiskey brown eyes and you crumble.

"Fine. I forgot, okay?", you duck your head and whisper in his ear. "You were bleeding so much- I just threw on whatever was closest."

He then eyes your skirt in that same way that got him in this situation in the first place, tongue swiping over his blood tinged bottom lip.

"Great becob I wad thinkin'. Round two in the van afder they patch me up?"

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things smut #eddie munson x reader

[whateveriwant]

Dressing the 141 up in a couples Halloween costume

Price

Is initially pretty lukewarm to the idea because he thinks he's too old to dress up for Halloween :(((

But with just the right amount of convincing + puppy dog eyes from you, he'll eventually go along with it

However, he's adamant that he's not going to shave. So you either have to give him a bearded character or resign yourself to seeing a mustachioed fairy

In the end, you think he makes quite a dashing Captain Hook (move over Jason Isaacs, there's a new captain in town)

If it's a party you're dressing up for, he'll go and have a great time (i.e. get absolutely sloshed and terrorize people with the fake hook)

Gaz

Is suuuuuuper into Halloween because it's his favorite holiday

He goes all out every year. Like, all out. Like, we're talking planning 6+ months in advance levels of obsession

In fact, you're not even the one who brings up the idea of doing a couples costume. He does, and he already has a theme in mind: Star Wars

He has a hyper-detailed Han Solo costume ready to go, complete with the blaster and boots and everything (yes, he made it himself, and yes, he's very proud of it)

You'll end up being 45 minutes late to the party because he won't stop taking pictures of you two posing in your outfits

Soap

Isn't opposed to the idea of dressing up, but there's a slight problem… He's already promised someone else that he'll match with them

You're like ??? when he tells you that, but end up chuckling once you learn who said person is: his four year old niece

He's the gallant knight to her glittery princess, and he's planning on taking his role very seriously

But he'll feel bad for leaving you hanging, so he'll run to the store and buy a pair of wings and a tail so you can tag along as a dragon or smth

You'll end up skipping the party so you can go trick-or-treating with them, and have much more fun that way anyway

Ghost

Is by far the least on board with the idea

He vehemently wants nothing to do with it – the party, the dressing up, nada

It'll take so much begging and bartering on your part to get him to finally cave in (the specifics of what you offer him, I'll leave up to your imagination ;))

No matter what costume you choose for him, he's gonna be snarky about it

"How the hell 'm I supposed to see with this bloody triangle on my head?" "It's a pyramid, Si." "Tha's what I said."

He'll stay at the party until he thinks you're satisfied with his attendance, and then he's Irish goodbye-ing it out of there without a second thought

Bonus - Full squad costume

If you're somehow able to convince the whole squad to dress up together, there's only one theme I see them doing: the Hundred Acre Woods

Price would be Kanga because there's no one else that accurately emits that fatherly motherly aura

Gaz would joke that he's going as Roo to accompany Price, but will change it last second and show up as Piglet

Soap would bounce on Tigger before anyone else could claim him (he's sooo Tigger-coded, I can't explain, he just is)

And lastly, for Ghost, I can think of no better fit than the king of brooding himself: Eeyore <3

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #simon riley #john price #kyle garrick #john mactavish #tf 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2

[organicxslime]

☆first date!☆ (gojo, nanami, toji, yuji, ino)

your first date with 「gojo」 will take place at an escape room. gojo’s a smart man - he’s keen on the small details, and because of his experience thinking fast on his feet, he believes this will be the perfect way to spend time one-on-one with you while also showing off his smarts. the problem is that when you decode part of the puzzle by yourself and turn to him with a grin so big it lights up your whole face, he melts, and he’s immediately using six eyes to poke through every crevice of the room to lead you in the right direction. watching how excited you get as you rush around believing you’ve connected the dots all of your own volition tugs on his heartstrings, and he’s beaming, matching your enthusiasm as he rushes around with you… until he accidentally lets slip something that you shouldn’t be able to figure out yet, and you catch on. you’re scolding him, smacking his shoulder with a prop as he sheepishly apologizes for his misdeeds when he holds up both hands in surrender. “okay, okay,” he says, admitting defeat. “i’ll stop cheating - if!” you tilt your head in confusion as a lopsided grin stretches taut across his cheeks, cerulean gaze meeting your own. “and only if, you agree to a second date.”

out of everyone on this list, 「nanami」 is the expert on stellar first dates. he’s pulling out all the stops - a nice suit, tailored to his exact specifications; a reservation at a gourmet rooftop restaurant at sundown in Tokyo; and a bottle of fine aged wine, steep in flavor (and, admittedly, in price.) he’s self assured, confident in a way nobody you’ve dated before has come close to, and he navigates the evening with ease, impossibly suave and polite while getting to know you better. “you look breathtaking,” he tells you, the chaste compliment betrayed by you noticing how his amber eyes roam your body. his gaze lingers a bit too long, however, as he’s pouring you another glass of wine and accidentally knocks the thin-stemmed crystal over, dumping cherry-red liquid directly onto your lap. he’s flustered, in utter disbelief that he could make such a terrible mistake as he hurriedly dabs his napkin on your drenched dress, and you can’t help but stifle a giggle - maybe it was the glass or two you already had in your system, but there was something funny (and a bit adorable) about your perfectly practiced date making such a big mistake. you catch each other’s eyes, holding a steady gaze in silence for only a moment before you begin to crack up. this puts nanami at ease - now that he knows he hasn’t ruined your night, he’s able to ease into the conversation more naturally and stops holding himself to such a rigid standard. despite your stained and damp dress, you both have a great time, and you’re quick to make plans with him again.

if you thought your first date with 「toji」 would be anything but casual, you’d be sorely mistaken. he doesn’t really have a plan, per se - just brings you along with him to hop from bar to bar, drinking at whatever establishment he hasn’t run up a massive tab at yet. you’re buzzed, almost dizzy from the alcohol coursing through your system, sitting alone while your date ‘takes a piss’ (as he so eloquently put it) when the human equivalent of an oil slick sidles up next to you at the bar, wrapping an unwanted arm around your shoulder. “hey baby,” the unknown man jeers, getting way too close for comfort. “you here with somebody?” his breath is hot on your neck, and you’re wildly uncomfortable. you turn your head to spit an insult at him, but before you can even fully open your mouth, toji has materialized out of nowhere and is gripping the sleazy man by his shirt. “yeah,” he says, pulling the man’s face so close to his own that they’re almost touching. “with me.” one brutal beatdown later, he’s sitting beside you once again, nursing a drink - this time with a possessive arm tucked around your waist, bloody knuckles warning any passersby not to bother his girl again.

「yuji」 wants his first date with you to be easygoing and fun, nothing too intimate or stuffy, so he takes you to an amusement park. he wants to do everything with you - he’s dragging you on every single rickety rollercoaster, trying all of the fried foods, and pulling you in every direction to make sure you get the most of the experience. at one point, you play one of those rigged games where you pop balloons with darts and inevitably end up losing, and yuji can’t stand to see the sad little pout on your face as you walk away from the big, plush stuffed toy you were trying to win. “you want that bear, right? I’ll win it for you!” he exclaims, immediately dumping a wad of cash onto the counter and picking up the darts. your date spends every last dollar in his pocket trying to win it for you despite his terrible aim, and finally the worker at the booth relents and hands him the bear. “told you!” he gloats, presenting it to you with a grin, and you hug the massive plush to your chest, your heart fluttering in your chest over his efforts. it’s way too big and he ends up carrying it for you for the rest of the night, but when you finally get it home, you bring it to bed with you and curl up with it - secretly wishing it was yuji pressed against you instead.

「ino」 is trying to show you what he’s into but also give you a good time, so you’ll find yourself at an underground metal concert on your first date. it’s a tiny venue with liquor-soaked floorboards that stick to your sneakers with every step, the air humid from the shoulder to shoulder crowd and the smoke machines running continuously on stage. the pair of you decide to get drinks, himself a beer and something fruity for you, and as you step up with your credit card to pay for your own ino shakes his head, giving you a big grin. “i’m not makin’ my lady pay for her own drink!” he says. the concert is a banger - you both mosh with the crowd, and occasionally he’ll bump into you, little touches here and there to remind you that he’s right there with you. near the end, when you’re both hammered and buzzing with the energy of the crowd, he’ll feel enough bravado to lean in and kiss you hard in the glow of the stage lights. after the concert, he wants to make sure you get home safe, so he rides the train with you to your stop and walks you home, only turning to leave when your door closes and he hears the lock click into place.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk headcanons #yuji x reader #yuji itadori #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #ino takuma #ino x reader

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

I GOT THE GOOD OMENS BOOK EHFNIWEUHW TIME FOR MORE TEARS

HELLO *waves frantically* HI MAGGOTS good omens mascot here and it is day four of the grieving process over season 2, so naturally now is the time to read the good omens book and cry even more over the antichrist and how crowley is an optimist I make such great decisions can I get a wahoo? Have some updates:

Okay when I entered this fandom I remember everyone yelling about how Neil will not pay for your therapy. But consider this: what if therapy will not help because your therapist is a die-hard Neil Gaiman fan.

Yeah so I went to therapy today and after detailing the good omens saga, my therapist was pretty much ready to pass out and cry. Because they've been a fan of Neil's for years and though they haven't seen the show, apparently they have an entire collection of all his books, and have annotated the Sandman comics with diary entries.

They joined tumblr because Neil is on tumblr and didn't follow Neil because they felt unworthy to follow him.

So you know. Just. Just give up, maggots, and let's wait for S3. Even the therapists are crying over Neil and his genius. @neil-gaiman you are not only in our falafel, but in our hospitals.

THE BOOK GOIEJTUGIOHEIUGHEIUTGHEITHGEITHGE I CANNOT WAIT TO READ IT.

Also the brainrot is worsening. I see Crowley everywhere. The most random songs from Swift's 1989 album remind me of him and Aziraphale. Every time dancing or cars or polaroids are mentioned I think of them. Also today I happened to wear fitted black trousers and my black boots to go to the said therapist, and all I could bloody think about was Crowley.

Here have the book (EEEEEEEEEEEEE) as well as the trouser-boots thing. I'm doomed I mostly wear only black clothes outdoors I'll be reminded of Crowley throughout the day every day.

#good omens mascot #good omens #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #good omens fandom #maggots #crowley #lgbtqia #aziraphale #neil gaiman #gnu terry pratchett #aziracrow #good omens book #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #good omens 2 #final fifteen #south downs cottage #we're depending on you #ineffable idiots #ineffable fandom #the nice and accurate prophecies of agnes nutter

[sashi-ya]

𝑵𝑶𝑩𝑳𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑴𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝐊𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐲𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐲𝐚 𝐱 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞! 𝐟! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⤹˚ synopsis. a noble woman like you have been invited to the anual christmas dinner, this time organized by the Kuchiki clan... But you aren't new to those lands, and Byakuya is a little bit weak when it comes to you ~

tw: mndi. smut. penetration. masturbation. semi public. cream pie. wc: 1,5k

Noble, refined, rich. Status. All of the things you didn’t need. Because you already have them. As equally as Mr. Kuchiki.

Your red dress, sexier than any of the rest, but still elegant caught the attention of everyone in the room. But you could only care for one just pair of dark blue eyes; Kuchiki Byakuya’s eyes.

Soft hand placed on his, sliding in glamourous style and still so full of lust.

“Welcome Miss (Name)” Byakuya salutes you, taking the back of your hand to his lips. Such action, causes little gasps around. Byakuya Kuchiki kissing a woman’s hand? What is this?

But not even him, a self-control freak, could resist the enchantment of you.

“Thank you, Kuchiki-san. I am glad this year it was you who were in charge of organizing the Christmas Noble Night” you whisper, coming closer to his face… oh so dangerously close, with bold bloody lips tinted in carmine hues.

Byakuya swallows. His motions seem to become slow, slower. Nothing but your seductiveness occupies his mind, fogging his judgement, making him extremely sensitive.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here” “The pleasure is mine…”

You walk past him, letting your hair play like a hypnotizing pendulum barely covering your exposed back. Byakuya’s eyes fix on the small of it, already imagining a thousand ways of kissing your skin.

After you have successfully asserted dominance over every little noble, it’s time to sit down at a fine, and full of food, table.

You sit in your spot, especially chosen to be right in front of the host and wait for Byakuya to arrive at the dining room.

Every low-grade noble woman awaits for his presence with great enthusiasm, even if they know he is a man of a single woman. However, every rule has always a certain exception…

As he enters everybody shuts up. His formal attire, a dark green kimono with gold details, flashes before the eyes of hungry singles. His hair, as always so silky and beautiful, flows with every step he takes, properly fixed into his Kenseikan. And his eyes, as always looking like a dark spring night, scan quickly the room before falling upon your imagery.

“Thank you all for coming tonight, I hope you enjoy” he announces, as always short and to the point. Byakuya will never rumble, Byakuya will never speak a single word more than what it should be pronounced.

He sits down and as he does, you cross your legs in such way that the high cut of your dress slides enough to let him see everything he was hoping for you to show.

Byakuya’s gaze changes from a severe to a troubled one; his gloved hands slide down his lap… there is probably something he needs to make sure it isn’t showing.

However, the seductive dance of courtship isn’t over. In fact, it is barely starting.

The first plate is served, on extremely fine tableware on top of silver plates. A assorted pieces of Sashimi await to be devoured. Like you wait to devour him, soon. Quick… faster.

You notice the noble man constantly -and rather notoriously- peaking at you, trying to know of every single thing you do. And as the long tradition in Japanese cuisine marks, you use your own hands to eat the pieces of Sushi. The juiciest one, sexily kisses your lips with salty taste. A little drop of sauce pulling on the middle of your lower lip, inviting a voyeuristic Byakuya to fix his gaze in them.

Ginrei-sama, Byakuya’s grand father and ex head clan, notices how lost in lust his grandson looks and decides it’s time to wake him up.

“Byakuya, pay a visit to the rest room. You are making a bad impression. You are visibly flustered, kid” Ginrei whispers, breaking Byakuya’s fantasy.

He immediately widens his eyes; now the embarrassment is too high for him. He debates himself whether to deny the allegations; to assert his dominance by mentioning he is the head of the clan now… but he choses to stay silent; his grandfather is right.

You notice, smirking ever so softly. There is something so beautiful about a needy man unable to control his own desires…

He excuses himself and stands up. Visibly annoyed, but still acting to supress any type of emotions he turns around and disappears into an endless hall of the Kuchiki manor.

Of course, it wouldn’t be proper to stand up and go behind him immediately… even if you would love to show the rest who has more rights over him than anyone else in there.

By the time the dessert is served and finished, Byakuya hasn’t came back. And that could only mean two things; either he is not willing to get tempted in public again, or he is waiting for you. In any case, both only lead to one single solution…

When everybody is a little bit dizzy from alcohol and good food, you quickly escape the place. You don’t need nobody telling you how to find him, you know the place very well.

And right where you knew he would be, you find him. Byakuya’s nose points to a snowy moon, with his body bent over the railing of his room’s balcony. You can’t see him, as he is facing the vast gardens of now wintery dried cherry blossoms and endless pristine snow.

You walk slowly towards him, taking your heels out before stepping into the deck of his balcony. You can subtly hear soft pants coming from his beautiful lips.

“Just as I thought, you can’t resist yourself no more… right, Bya-kun?” you ask, whispering and surrounding his body from behind towards his waist.

In between his delicate hands, his hard sex. Dripping precum, desperate to be touched, to be relieved. Warm skin you reach that contrasts with the cold breeze of a silent night.

He can’t speak. In his eyes, aside from lust is relief… you have arrived, his helper, the woman that brought back his masculinity is there for him.

You kiss his shoulder, surrounding his shaft with delicacy and yet very firmly.

“Were you waiting for me, Bya-kun?” you ask, sliding your free hand up his cold belly. “For how long have you been this hard?”

“Si-since you arrived… no, even before” he stutters; how strange it is to see this facet of such a serious man. So needy…

You begin to pump his dick, jacking off to drain every drop of seed out of his impassioned body. His legs quiver just a little, one of his hands grab the one you have on his lower belly, and his lips separate enough to let low grunts escape.

“You are so hard already, how would you like to cum… Bya-kun?” you ask, biting the lobe of his ear.

He shivers, letting his body succumb to blinding passion for just a little bit before ripping the kenseikan holding his hair up… Byakuya has lost control, and he is allowed now to do so.

The metallic piece falls into the deck, with such strength that reverberates and creates echoes on the now -hopefully- empty garden underneath.

He turns around, dominantly stopping your masturbating hands.

“Inside. Of. You.” He assures, lifting you by your legs and sitting you over the railing of his balcony.

You let a soft gasp out; even now, when you think you have control… you were so absolutely wrong.

His lips crash against yours, kissing you so concupiscently. Giving you the right to shut up and get violated by a tongue desperate to taste yours.

Byakuya rips the red fabrics of your dress; the sound of the sewing stretching gets covered by panting and whining. Long slender fingers, as soft as silk, discover with great surprise there are no panties covering your wet sex.

“Always so slutty, aren’t you? Always ready for me to fuck you” he murmurs, muzzled by your desirable trembling lips.

“Always, Bya-kun… ngh…” you whine, as he doesn’t wait much time and you immediately get impaled by his hardness.

Pulling from his lower lip, you let him destroy you with heavy thrusts and unmatched technique.

An exquisite increasing rhythm, and your legs snaked around his waist. Pants, whines, and grunts devoured by each other’s mouths. Curled toes, hair flowing on the edge of glory, mounting such a spectacle that can be seen by anyone who decides to pay a visit to the Kuchiki gardens…

The icy cold of Christmas does nothing to your body, the warm embrace of the captain of the sixth division keeps you hot enough. His teeth that sometimes travel to your hard nipples, biting on them, sucking on them.

Your head thrown back, your hands caressing and sometimes pulling form his beautiful onyx hair. To see his eyes fixing in yours while he pounds you, while he pull from your nipples… what a Christmas miracle, what a good present to receive on such a holly night.

Byakuya’s hand reach for the small of your back, once and for all. Pressing against his crotch, he has you trapped. With your back a little bent towards the abbys, and his mouth on your neck, you can feel against your walls the throbbing sensation of his sex. Your spasming walls, milking it harder, reaching climax, aching to be bathed by the Kuchiki descendance.

“Here, now… here is where I wanna cum… Inside you… now, and fo-forever” Byakuya growls. “Forever, you say? Please, do… Bya-kun. Merry Christmas, sweetheart~”

#byakuya kuchiki x reader #kuchiki byakuya x reader #byakuya x reader #byakuya kuchiki imagine #byakuya x you #kuchiki byakuya #byakuya kuchiki x you #kuchiki byakuya x you #byakuya #kuchiki byakuya imagine #byakuya kuchiki #bleach #bleach headcanons #bleach imagines #bleach byakuya #bleach x reader #bleach anime #bleach fanart

[asha-mage]

Since it's my birthday my friends got me the amazing gift of 'watching the Wheel of Time show while occasionally stopping to discuss/let me loose my mind' for which I am incredibly grateful. A few random observations from this time through, as I attempted to view it through the lens of the entirely WoT uninitiated (as my friends are)-

The group shots, where the camera passes from one of the Emond's Field 5 to another, do this clever trick where Rand is never actually standing on his own. He's always standing beside or behind someone in one of these shots, so the camera doesn't actually have to cut or pan away from someone else to get to him. This serves the purpose of highlighting him in contrast to his friends, but also to subtlety downplay his presence to the audience, and build up to the Dragon reveal in episode 7 very effectively.

The cinematography in general is so exceedingly rich and delicious- the stark white of the Whitecloak camp contrasted with the bloody reality of their actions. The bright primary colors used to make the Aes Sedai visually pop and feel magical and strange, even as they are dressed (for the most part) practically for their traveling (a complaint I had about the Witcher, aside from everything being brown and grey all the time, is that the mages show up to battles dressed in ballroom dresses instead of you know, clothing that would make sense). The subtle use of lighting and camera angle to create a sense of vast isolation of Shadar Logoth, fear and danger in the Ways, and cramp sweltering heat in the Blight.

Moiraine's opening narration in episode 1 is essentially a summary of the information we get from one of the epigraphs at the ending of the Eye of the World prologue, to whit:

"And the Shadow fell upon the land, and the world was riven, stone from stone. The oceans fled and the mountains where swallowed up. and the nations where scattered to the eight corners of the world. The moon was blood and the sun was as ashes. The seas boiled, and the living envied the dead. All was shattered, and all but memory lost, and one memory above all others, of him who brought the shadow, and the Breaking of the World. And him they named Dragon." - Aleth nin Tearin alta Camora, The Breaking of the World, author unknown, the Fourth Age "The world is broken. Many many years ago men who where born with great power attempted to cage darkness itself. The arrogance. When they failed, the seas boiled, mountains where swallowed up, cities burned, and the women of the Aes Sedai where left to pick up the pieces. These women remembered one thing above all else, the man who brought the Breaking of the World. And him, they. named Dragon." - Moiraine

This makes me suspect their was an earlier version of the script that actually used the epigraph (maybe even both of them). I have mixed on feeling on this, as the epigraphs are one of my favorite artistic choices of Jordan's and really help emphasize the history and depth of his world, but I think filtering it through Moiriane and making it slightly less opaque was a smart choice to convey the information to the audience. I also think this works on a character level as well- here is Moiraine's understanding of this information, shaped by her biases.

Every re-watch also makes me more and more comfortable in my 'the show is a future/past turning of the wheel from the books, the broad events and truths being the same, but seen in one of those endless variations we hear about' interpretation of the series. The heart of the story and characters is the same, and the broad strokes and framework are the same, but it's in the details where things emerge as different. This interpretation has the benefit of fitting really really well with the meta-narrative stuff Jordan always liked to pull, and in freeing I think the show expectations of being a one-to-one recreation.

That said I defiantly felt the cracks in the final two episodes as a result of the Covid shutter and loosing Barney Harris more strongly this time- some of that being that this is my first re watching of season 1 since I've seen season 2. You can practically see the things they wanted/planned to do that had to re-worked because of circumstances beyond their control. Mat's absence in the group argument scene (and the 'I am so tired of you two fighting over her' line that was clearly meant to be Mat's), as well as the lack of bigger/more cohesive battle scene in Tarwin's Gap. You can also tell they hadn't quite figured out how they where going to re-work season 2 yet given that the ending for season 1 had to be changed last minute (for example, their is no reason for Moiraine to just outright admit that she released Lan's bond unless they hadn't yet decided that was where their arc was going yet).

I think the show does an exceedingly good job of structuring it's exposition to the un-intiatited, trying to stagger it so that audience is largely learning new things in pace with the characters. I know people where frustrated that things like the War of Power have yet to come up in earnest even in the Latra and Lews scene, but I think the slow and steady reveal of things matches both the core idea of 'their is always more you don't know', and trying not to overwhelm the audience. My friends had no trouble following what was going and picking up the bigger implications/subtext that underpins a lot of information. 'But why did the Dragon try to cage the Dark One? It doesn't seem like it was that simple.' came up a few times especially.

The detail that what jump-starts Perrin's wolf brother connection is having his wound healed/cleaned by the wolves in that scene from episode 2 is so incredibly clever, and a good twist on the traditional 'werewolf bite' mythology.

I love the deliberate choice to incorporate so many random ruins and remnants of things in the background of shots. Not just the 'dilapidated stone buildings' that the characters camp in, but things like the trio of carved faces that Egwene and Perrin run past while fleeing the Whitecloaks, or the boundary stones Mat and Rand pass on the road, or even just the small carvings and pillars scattered about the cave where they are holding Logain. It all helps to make you feel that ancientness, that brokenness of this world more effectively.

The reoccurring use of the Dragon's Fang to symbolize violence and destruction: the Trollocs using it as a scare tactics, it appearing in the blood in the pool after Nynaeve kills the Trolloc, being burned into Siuan's ruined childhood home....and the way that contrasts with it's use in the finale episode, when we see it whole and unbroken in the seal/yin yang symbol for the first time was really really clever. One of my friends actually gasped out loud and went 'oh' at the first shot of the whole seal when it clicked.

The show does an exceedingly good job of maintaining that core idea of the series that it's about our relationship to violence- violence never being casual or simple or easy, but always raw, hard and bloody and a little bit ugly. EVen subtle things like the way the show depicts Moraine hurling stones at the Trollocs with uncomfortable frankness, trying to literalize what in most fantasy media would be an abstract. Take it from I cast stone 2, to I inflict horrible blunt force trauma on another creature. And of course everything re: Perrin and his ax.

I have more thoughts, but I think I'll save some of them for after we watch season 1, because they relate strongly to stuff from there.

#WoT #Wheel of Time #Wot On PRime #Wheel of Time on Prime #WoT s1 #WoT Meta #Wheel of time Meta #WoT Musing #Rand al'Thor #Moiraine Damodred #Perrin Aybara #Egwene al'Vere

[pupkou]

✧ Blood and Darkness ✧

✦ Zagreus (Hades 2018) x Gender Neutral Reader. ✦ Warnings: slight mentions of gore (no details; in the game, Zagreus is killed over and over and is often covered in blood), head injury (reader is hurt, non-fatally, and is knocked out by hitting their head), mentions of Zagreus’ sexual escapades (no descriptions), reader is a servant of the house of Hades and is described as a shade, no smut (😞)... yet (😏). ✦ Word Count: 2.2K. ✦ Read on AO3. ✦ Part 1 / ?

You've heard rumors about Hades' son.

They say he's not in possession of a particularly impressive stature; he's of average height, with dark hair, and he's quite thin, really, for a God. That's what he is, after all, just a God of the Underworld. One of many. And one who looks like he's not indulging himself in ambrosia and nectar as much as he should be at that, it almost seems like he's ungrateful for all the blessings and curses that come along with being the Prince of the Underworld.

They describe him as far smaller and more pathetic than Achilles, their blush showing on their ghostly complexions as they describe how his hair is cropped close to his neck and black and unflowing, not at all like the golden locks that fall around Achilles' nape.

Oh, Achilles, why must you torture us with your divine beauty and arrogant sneer? We know our ghastly, hellish faces are unworthy of your gaze, but a small, simple kindness-- in the form of a smile from your handsome face-- would satisfy us for eternities to come. By Achilles, by Thetis, and by Zeus, please let him stroll by and be pleased by something enough to smile for us, even if his pleasure comes from our misery. Surely, one of us can think of something to poke fun at Hector... much like the spear of Achilles' poked at his neck... surely so, surely so...

They... say a lot of things, but they always call him Zagreus, which means 'great hunter'. But by the rumors you've heard, it... doesn't seem like Zagreus' name fits him very well. In Tartarus' maze, everything becomes prey to those that inhabit the different levels of death and despair that come before you feel the sun's warm embrace, or so you've heard. You've never actually felt the sun, but you have heard Achilles brag about it to Hades, reminding the king of his very eventful life on earth. The sun doesn't reach this far down, though, and is unable to illuminate the depths of Hades' realm or comfort those who call it home. Here, predators lurk around every moss-covered turn, under every magma-concealing rock, behind every skullified hero's dug-up grave, and even amongst the distinguished guests that frequent the house of Hades.

From the whispers you've strained to hear, it seems like Zagreus wants out of this place-- the Underworld, that is. The shades, your main source of information on Zagreus and the other residents of the house, love to gossip, and they say he's still not been successful in escaping the darkness that has consumed him since he was born. Some root for him, hoping that one day his laurels will know what it feels like to soak in the blazing sun like the blessed olive trees they were harvested from, while others laugh at his failure, joining Hypnos' chorus of dramatic mocking, when they see him rise from the blood once again.

He's always covered in it, head to toe, deep red and maroon coating his limbs and soaking from his limbs as if it were his own. Much of it is, considering the amount of times he's died, but that doesn't make it any less pitiful to see the Prince rise from the fluid of life (and death), unrelenting in his attempts to escape his home. He'd hardly call it that, of course, as you've heard him say as he climbs the marble steps leading from the pool of blood, wiping his glowing feet on the carpet that you think was one of Arachne's (hence its purpose being for Zagreus to wipe his bloody feet on.)

The thing about marble-- what the house of Hades is made out of-- is that it doesn't absorb sound in the slightest. It's a curse for embarrassed shades trying to quietly explain how they arrived in Tartarus early because their pet goat rammed them in the stomach, but a blessing for beings like you who get most of their daily excitement from the things that they hear refracted off of the cool stone walls.

Marble also doesn't quickly absorb any liquid poured onto its surface, despite being a porous stone, which means that you, one of the poor shades tasked with cleaning, have a lot of work to do. Guests in the house get rowdy at the kitchen bar sometimes, drinking too much ambrosia and leaving various liquids behind. Sometimes water from the river Styx drips from cracks in the ceiling, pooling and causing problems for anyone whose flesh comes in contact with the liquid. And on the worst days, the most stubborn of fluid comes in contact with the objects you're in charge of keeping tidy.

One of Cerberus' heads is a particularly messy eater, which means that sometimes droplets of blood from a cut of meat (or carcass) he's eating are flung onto precious objects. Another guest, who is said to be armed with a barbed whip, has been said to make her victims cry blood on occasion, staining the good dinner napkins and frustrating you profusely. But by far, the being who makes the worst, bloody messes, is Zagreus himself.

Despite him wiping his feet on the carpet and despite your polite suggestion to him-- a sheet for him to dry off with laid over the marble railing, Zagreus continuously trails blood all over the house. And it doesn't help that the Prince behaves like a dog, prodding at his ears when they're clogged with blood and scratching at his head to dislodge it from his scalp. He's even shook like a filthy mutt before, letting drops of blood fly from his dark hair and unknowingly creating hours of cleanup for you. You've always been forgiving, though, considering that for one, you don't have much of a choice, and two, that you've never actually spoken to Zagreus in all of your years working for the house. You've heard his name boomed in anger from Hades' decision chamber, whispered by a loose-lipped shade with an audience to entertain, and uttered during more private affairs when you shouldn't have been pressing an ear to the dark wood of his bedchamber.

But things happen. And you've never met him, so you don't feel too bad or worry too much about ever being in his presence. He's always gone anyway, wooing an undead maiden when he's not fighting to flee the house, you presume. So when you enter his bedroom dust off his belongings and collect his blood and gut soiled robes, you pay little attention to your surroundings.

You've been in his sleeping chambers many times since you've been trusted with entry, something the other cleaning shades consider a privilege. You scoff at the idea that cleaning up the Prince's dirty laundry, various collected knickknacks, and... bodily fluids is at all a privilege, but you do as you're told anyway because admittedly, it is interesting to be provided with such an intimate view of someone you've never met. There's so much to be told by someone's bedroom, or in Zagreus' case, the state of someone's sheets (his always are in various stages of disarray from his frequent activities held within the bedchamber), and you don't at all mind the exclusive perspective on the Prince.

You do, however, mind that he tracks blood everywhere. Usually, you're more aware of it, considering how much of your life you spend cleaning it up, but this time, you're not so lucky as to notice its presence. Abnormally, the carpet that cushions the foot of Zagreus' bed is kicked up in one spot so that when you move to straighten the books on his bookshelf, not only do you trip on the carpet, but you slip in a pool of blood, streaking it across the tile as you fall hard onto the floor. The force with which your head hits the hard, stone floor would surely have killed you had you not died ages ago, but in this extended lifetime, all it does is send the lower half of your body into the bookshelf's feet, knocking books, scrolls, and what are surely precious artifacts from Zagreus' journeys flying to the floor in a great crash that shakes and echoes through the room.

Although you're thoroughly disoriented and on the verge of passing out, you still hear a gravelly, skeletal voice in the distance say, "Maybe you'd better investigate that, boyo. Unless you don't got the guts! I sure don't! Ha ha ha!" before your eyes close and your mind descends to darkness.

✧✧✧

Rest, even when injury is involved, is rare for a servant of Hades like you, and it feels like only a moment has passed before your eyes are opening again, drowsy and weak as the lids flutter open. While you can't quite understand why yet, you notice that you're lying on a bed softer than a cloud and warmer than the sun (as you imagine it), and that soft voices are speaking in hushed tones nearby. One is older than the other, and commands the other to be more quiet as he worries, as though he's fretting about you.

Your sight comes back to you gradually, and you see that a red blanket with golden lining is draped over your legs and midsection comfortably, keeping you warm and still as the shocks of the pain from your head pulse through your body. Your neck hurts too, but it retains just enough of its strength that you're able to lift your hurting head and see the two forms hovering at the bedside, far enough to indicate that they were worried you might spring up like an undead warrior looking for revenge, but concerned enough that they needed to stay close.

The one on the left, who's farther from you, is a reanimated human's skeleton. A Bloodless, as they're called, was once a mortal warrior that did not receive a proper burial, and is now forced to roam the Underworld aimlessly, looking for a fight that might bring them eternal peace. It's a foolish game to play, of course, as all wise men know that no war will ever bring peace. This Bloodless doesn't seem mindless like the others though, and is able to make eye contact with his bright red irises, although he seems uncomfortable doing so. He looks at his partner when you meet his gaze.

His partner stands closer to you, his face full of concern as it points at you, studying you. He's not very tall, but he's muscular as if he uses his body more than the average God trapped in Tartarus for all of eternity, and the half of his torso that's revealed lacks scarring-- in the dimness of the room, it's almost like his skin is glowing faintly. His face is kind and handsome, unlike anyone you've ever seen before. On top of his short, dark hair rests a loop of multi-colored laurels whose crimson color fades into red, which fades into copper, which fades into gold.

It sits on his head like a crown, much like the dark-haired child in the portrait of Cerberus that hangs in the great hall wore, you think. Identical to it, even. You've never actually stopped to read the plaque that hangs beneath the masterpiece, so you're not sure who the child or his companions are or what their names could be-- you just know that he is of the utmost importance to Hades considering he is the center of a few artistic representations, which Hades isn't often fond of. But before you can begin your quest to discover the identity of the child in the portrait, he speaks.

"Hello, dear friend," he says softly. "Can you hear me?"

You swallow, hoping your voice still works, and say, "Yes."

"Woah! This one's got no respect for royalty! They just employ any- body these days! Ha!" the Bloodless jokes, elbowing his partner in the ribs humorously. Unfortunately for him, his partner doesn't laugh, he just keeps his attention steady on you, his heterochromatic eyes caring as they watch you. In any other case, he would push the Bloodless over and reduce him (temporarily) to a scattered pile of bones, but there are things more important to worry about than someone’s mistimed joke. 

At the skeleton’s words, your stomach drops as all the blood rushes to your head all at once, and your heart starts beating so hard you can hear it in your ears, a pounding rhythm usually reserved for life-or-death situations. Suddenly, the room becomes familiar again-- the picture frames you've dusted and the knickknacks you've arranged and the blankets you've straightened thousands of times become clear to you.

You're in Zagreus' bedroom.

Prince Zagreus' bedroom.

And you're lying in his bed.

And the man, who was once a baby with a crown of laurels forced (by magic) to sit still for a portrait, is right in front of you.

The one person in the house of Hades who you've never come in contact with is standing at your bedside because you slipped in his blood.

You are so extremely damned. Somehow, even more than the first time you got damned to Tartarus for all eternity.

Blood and darkness.

✧✧✧

tagging people I think might like this <3

@vampireloverz @allright @transchainsawman @moonsong1027 <3

#zagreus x reader #zagreus x gn reader #zagreus x gender neutral reader #hades game x reader #hades x reader #zagreus hades game x reader

[arc-misadventures]

The Beach: Y

Jaune: (Shudder) Ugh… That was disturbing…

Yang: Hey, Jaune! Uhh… Everything okay?

Jaune: Hey, Yang… (Whistle~!) Wow. You look really good in that bikini. Really… shows you off…

Yang: Thanks, it’s nice to let the girls breath every now, and then. But, still, you okay; You look spooked?

Jaune: Oh… I asked, Ruby why she brought, Crescent Rose to the beach… Her responses were… Unnerving…

Yang: What did she say?

Jaune: Not to go into great detail… T-Tentacle porn…

Yang: Oh… She’s still into that shit?

Jaune: Wait, you knew?

Yang: Yeah… She left her scroll open, and I saw it… She can have her kinks, but seriously; Tentacles?! Pick something plausible. But, you could probably find some rubbery bands, or something, and tie her up. Then you could have your way with her. That way she can live out both of her kinks.

Jaune: Wait… Are you telling me to actually do that to her?!

Yang: Yeah, why not?

Jaune: Aren’t you the same over protective sister, Yang Xiao Long who threatened to castrate any man, and/or woman who dare lay a finger on your precious little sister?

Yang: The one, and only~!

Jaune: And, you’re saying that I’m allowed do that to her?!

Yang: Well, you’re not just anyone; You’re, Jaune Arc sweet, reliable, courageous, handsome, good old, Lover Boy~! You’re the only guy our there that I trust with my sister. So if you want to bone my sister go right ahead, and have at her.

Jaune: Thanks… I think…?

Yang: Listen, she’s old enough, she can… have sex now if she wants to. So relax. If it makes it any better my fantasies are a hell of lot tamer than hers, but still pretty hot~!

Jaune: Okay…?

Yang: I mean, I like to imagine I’m the older sister who caught her naughty little brother pleasuring himself on some porn site, and I decided to ‘punish’ him.

Jaune: Excuse me?

Yang: Or, my little brother wants to know what it’s like to kiss a girl, so he comes to me thinking I’ve kissed loads of people, when in fact I haven’t. So we secretly share out first kiss, but it’s so intoxicating that it devolves into a steamy hot sex on my bed where we both take each others first time!

Jaune: Y-Y-You can stop now!

Yang: Or, I was super horny so I snuck into his bed, and blew him in his sleep! Then he wakes up, a-and catches me, and then he take me there, and… Mph?!

Jaune’s hand shot out, and covered, Yang’s mouth. A fierce blush spread across his face, as he had to suffer hearing, Yang’s fetish, and the way she started rubbing her thighs certainly wasn’t helping.

Jaune: Okay…

Jaune: …

Jaune: Let’s just take… a moment… to calm down… and, stop talking. Because, I don’t want to know what your bloody kink is!

Yang: Okay…

Jaune: Thank you… Now how about we…

Yang: But, you’re too big, and muscular to be a little brother anymore…

Jaune: Little brother? Wait! You’ve been talking about doing this to me the whole time?!

Yang: Oh! I know! I can be the younger sister! And, you catch me dressing like a slut! Then you decide to punish me like the horny little slut I am! Pinning me to the ground, grabbing my hair! Like, really getting a good grip! And, pulling it hard! Then you strip me, and roughly shove your…?! Mph?!

Jaune one again covered, Yang’s mouth as his face was flushed red after hearing out about her… particular fantasy.

Jaune: …

Jaune: S-Shut up… J-Just shut up! Please shut up. Okay…?

Yang nods her head then, Jaune removes her hand.

Jaune: Thank you… Now can we…?!

Yang: How about a threesome with, you, me, and Ruby, big bro~!

Jaune: AHHHHH!!! You’re even worse than, Ruby!

Yang: Ahhh~! Oh you don’t even know the half of it… Big. Bro~!

#rwby #jaune arc #yang xiao long #ruby rose #jaune x yang #yang x jaune #ruby x jaune #jaune x ruby #rwby dragonslayer #rwby lancaster #rwby colourguard

[gabessquishytum]

Throws this at you

So…Hob is a pretty fair known streamer, mostly he talks about history and related stuff, but the most relevant segment of his career is debunking those rituals you often see on the internet (like the bloody Mary etc. etc. etc.) so he basically put himself in reckless situations, since he likes to do them in secluded areas or abandoned places “for the spooky factor”, adding a bit of urban exploration into the mix for the stream to be more lively.

His followers send him rituals from all over the world and he does them, most clearly end up being him chatting all night, with nothing paranormal happening (maybe an encounter with strange people on the buildings he is in or some wild animals but never ghosts, demons or something beyond)

One of those days, he receives a mail with a very detailed one, it´s a bit more complex in the prep /materials it needs, but as per usual, he just goes with it.

After all, they are not even real! (What´s a few drops of blood now and then to fill a tiny flask before going to bed, or collecting stuff like sand in a very specific time of the day…)

Anyways, the day comes, this time he does it in his home, since in the text it was written it needed to be done in the place he goes to rest.

When he is finished with all steps…nothing happens, zero.

So, he calls it another win for him! and after an hour or two online he says his goodbyes and cuts the stream.

Stuff begins to get weird the moment he doesn’t upload or do streams in the next following weeks, the normal thing is to think that maybe he is busy with life, so he is going to prioritize that first, but it´s so uncharacteristic of him, because it´s not only the streaming that ceased, it´s also the social media, and Hob LOVES showing all the stuff he is making or just interacting with people in general (always the social butterfly)

By the time there is a ping of an impromptu stream on his channel, some months had already passed.

From the look of it, he seems like trotting in the middle of the night in an unknown location, the camera is just a blurry mess, mostly it´s just the footage of the pavement and the movement of his feet.  The moment he sees the stream is still working his face lights up.

To keep it short, only thing he missed that day was going to sleep for the ritual to be fulfilled, he says.

After that, things went south quickly.

At the beginning the typical light flickering or total blackouts, then it came the weird sounds whenever he was alone, which, he thought it was because of lack of sleep that made him see things, he adds that he hasn´t be able to get some rest since the day he did the ritual, hence the lack of social presence for the first few weeks. He continues saying that he truly believed to be that…until he saw it…or him…he is not quite sure how to catalogue THAT.

At this point people are just speculating it´s just one of those ARG´S.

So, the moment Hob begins to describe the being and babbles about investigating who send him that email with the ritual and saying how he wasn´t able to communicate to anybody until now, the stream cuts abruptly and the chat is 100% convinced it´s an ARG.

But…is it truly?

-🪀

Hob’s followers: I can't believe he pranked us all this time hehe

Hob, actually being haunted by an ancient sleep demon entity: P̷̨̡̢̢̢̢̛̬̲̲̠̬̼͔̖͇̞͙̼͍͉̘̤̠͎̥̉̌̈́̅̆̀̿̿̍͊̔̏̒̽́͂́̾̐̆̾́͘͜͜͝͝ļ̶̢͚͓͇͔̣̣̩̪͔͍̼̼̱̭̼̦͔̖̝͛̊̔͛́̀͛̇̊̒́ͅe̴̡̙̖̪̖͉̺̰͉͛ͅa̴̛̛̜̳̱͖͖̳̤͌̇͋̇̍̾̈́́̈́̉̑̈́̀̾̓͋̀̀͐͌̄̊͘ͅs̷̢̧̡̗̳̖͙̘̫̣͖̩̞̞̰̗͇̤̙̜͍͍̔̏̿̇̿͛͌͜ĕ̷̢̢͈̬̫̗̻̭̞̙̥̜̜̰̺͈̠̗͘ ̶̢̛̮̟̝̒̾̍̍͒̌͑̑̓͒̐̎̂͊́͗͑͘̕̚͘̕̕͠h̶̢͍̠͖̟͍̻̻͉̹̥̳̮̝̭̟̲̖̖̗̬̙̙̿̇͊̀̅͗̌̒̔̆͆͗̿͐̂̿͜͠ͅͅͅe̴̢̧̗͇̫̬̲͗̕l̴̛͙̭̱̳̮̅̓̉̊̕p̷̧̡̢̛͕͔̠̹̳̫͓̺̫̙̭͍̝͉̲̥͍̞̽̂̓͛̆̀̐̈́̽̋̀̎̈́͐̈́̉̆̍̊̆̚͝͝ ̵͔̬͕͈̈́̏́m̷̧͔̟͇̣̮̞̓̈́̈́̓̓͌̌̓́̀͌̌̽͆̂̑́̚͝͠e̸̛̝̩̪̟̟͚͎̱̗͊̈́̀̽̈͛̚̕͝ͅ

This is so great though. Hob summons this... thing and has a minor heart attack because the ritual actually WORKED and now there's this 8ft tall... guy? In his bedroom. And when Hob blows out the candles and stuff the guy is still there, and he's kind of flickery and staticy and Hob can't quite look at him properly because he feels like his eyes are going to start bleeding any minute.

So he goes out of the room hoping that this is all just a bad dream. and the guy/thing follows him. He just flickers into existence in Hob’s kitchen and stares at him expectantly. And at this point, Hob figures that he's definitely fucked up here and meddled with something real.

Meanwhile Dream is just waiting for the guy who summoned him to tell him what he wants. It doesn't really happen much but sometimes humans do ask him for a boon, but Hob is just shakily making a cup of tea and doesn't even seem to know what Dream is.

Which is pretty funny, as far as Dream is concerned. He decides he might hang around, take a little vacation here.

And he proceeds to break ALL of Hob’s recording equipment with his presence alone. The camera shatters very spectacularly. Hob is very much at the "what are you doing in my house????" stage while Dream looms in the corner like "I. Want. Waffles fries." He's having a great time winding Hob up. Teasing him. Flirting with him?

Anyway. Hob’s life is very weird, now.

#🪀 anon #the sandman #dreamling

[issdisgrace]

Hiya it’s my birthday in about three days and I was wondering if u could write a fic of Otis and his family celebrating readers birthday (preferable reader is dating Otis) I wanna know if they’d have any fun firefly traditions :3 (he/they pronouns for readerpls)

CELEBRATING YOUR BIRTHDAY WITH THE FIREFLY FAMILY

WARNINGS: Murder, mayhem, the usual Firefly family antics, little nsfw

A/N: This was intended to be a fic but I didnt quite know how to put my thoughts into a coherent fic. Also I’m trying to get out of writers block so sorry if it kinda lacking. But HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! I hope you have a good birthday.

There are two things that a certain when celebrating anything in the Firefly family, those being alcohol and murder.

But the whole day isn't spent partaking in those things.

The morning starts off with Otis waking you up for breakfast and you two getting a little hot and heavy before heading down for food. Both of you getting teased for your slightly disheveled appearance.

Otis told them to fuck off that it was your birthday so you got to enjoy yourself. You agreed and the family moved on from it.

You guys then had a nice breakfast before all piling into the living room to watch something of your choice. You guys ended watching tv for a couple hours before it was time for your first gift.

Your first gift was from Baby who got you a young married couple to play with and make pretty. You appreciated the gift and spent the next couple of hours playing with and making them pretty in crimson until they both unfortunately died.

But what was not unfortunate was by the time you were done and cleaned up a little lunch was done. They made all your favorite foods which was nice and very delicious but that could have also been the fact that Spaulding was the one that cooked everything with only some help from the others.

Anyway after lunch the family gave your gifts that weren’t people.

Spaulding got you a taxidermy racoon and possum cuddling because why not. Also he said that it reminded him of you and Otis. You being the racoon reminded and Otis being the possum.

Mama, Tiny, and RJ got you some movies and tv shows that they thought you would like and enjoy.

Baby got you a nice blanket and made you a voodoo doll of Otis so you could prick it when he made you mad or annoyed you. Which Otis grumbled about saying that he wasn’t that bad and a voodoo doll of him wasn’t needed.

Then Otis, your love, your man. He painted the two of you using god knows who blood. But it was very well done, very detailed, and very pretty. You were already thinking of where you were going to hang it up. So you could see the master piece everyday.

But I digress after lunch and gifts, you and Otis spent a little one on one time in your guys room fooling around. Otis offering his whole self to you to do whatever you pleased with him.

And all the while you guys were having fun the rest of the family was setting up the main event of the night. They got a shit ton of alcohol, set up a big bonfire to burn, and got the bunnies ready for the night.

Once it was dark the family came and got you and Otis. You got the honors as the birthday boy to light the bonfire. You also got to hunt the first bunny of the night before the others got to hunt theirs.

Anyway you all got plastered, had fun, played a couple of games, joked around, got bloody, and you snuck off once or twice with Otis but that’s beside the point.

You had an overall great birthday, got some nice gifts, had a nice time, and you couldn’t wait for your next birthday.

#otis driftwood #baby firefly #mama firefly #rj firefly #tiny firefly #captain spaulding #firefly family #slashers #otis driftwood x male reader #otis driftwood x reader #firefly family x male reader #firefly family x reader #slashers x male reader #slashers x reader

[marley-manson]

Peace on Us is SO good

All the little details I loved this time around in point form:

-- Charles spending the episode deriding Hawkeye for his anger, calling him holier than thou, and later when he's at the peace talks essentially saying it's pointless and dumb and grousing about Hawkeye ruining his day off by making him take his place in the OR, only to then tell him he's a great human being when he gets super drunk at the party <3

-- Hawkeye taping the little decorative fringe he points out as an example of cheery red to his fatigues <3

-- Potter orders everyone to shave and change into clean clothes, and in the next scene in the Swamp BJ has shaved and changed and shows off his smooth jawline to Hawkeye lol, while Hawkeye's still in bloody scrubs <3

-- Also the way Hawkeye spends the whole episode in the scrubs feels very appropriate <3

-- Margaret dragging a reluctant Potter away from the phone to talk about her marriage problems, then when BJ interrupts to tell him that Panmunjom picked up the phone Potter tells him to just wait a second while he finishes helping Margaret. Not often Potter gets a <3 from me but he gets one here <3

-- Hawkeye and Margaret yelling over each other about their current sources of despair, and Hawkeye the first one to drop his tirade to emotionally support Margaret. "We'll be here forever! We'll be here longer than forever! ...What do you mean he ran out on you?" <333

-- Hawkeye of course doesn't stop the war, but getting the chance to yell at everyone at the peace talks still makes him feel better and satisfies him for a while <3 Also the relaxed posture as he drives back, arm stretched out on the passenger seat back, leg up on the dash <3

-- Mulcahy's dyed collar <3

-- Margaret automatically bodily putting herself between the MP and Hawkeye. And this exchange between her and Hawkeye as she does: "He's innocent and you're not taking him no place." "Margaret -" "You stay out of this and shut up." <3

-- Hawkeye is the type of person who will get in a jeep and bluff his way into a hugely restricted area without missing a beat and without a drop of regret or second guessing before during or after, just to speak his mind <333

#mash #marley on mash #mash s7 #i love this episode so much

[yournowheregirl]

remember when i said this was gonna be 5 parts? psych! it’s gonna be six parts of the secret-dolly-parton-fan eddie munson saga (thanks again for all the love on this fic & a special thanks to @gothbat99 and @legitcookie for listening to my rambling about this part 🥰)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 5] [part 6 + complete on ao3]

part 4: i will always love you

Eddie never thought himself to be an overthinker. 

In fact, during the majority of his life a lot of people assumed he didn't think at all considering the way he flunked senior year twice (He got there in the end, though). But lately - well, actually ever since Pat swore up and down Steve isn’t as straight as Eddie originally thought - Eddie’s brain has been running at a hundred miles an hour.

More specifically, Pat’s words have been echoing through his mind, haunting him, torturing him, every time he hangs out with Steve.

“Hey man, that shirt looks really great on you.” Steve says one day when Eddie shows up at Family Video wearing a red henley. It’s an old shirt he found earlier that week when Wayne forced him to clean out his closet, a little tight but it still fit so Eddie decided to keep it.

“What, this old thing?” Eddie scoffs, playing with the frayed hem of the shirt.

“Yeah, it’s… it suits you. Looks nice.” Steve smiles. 

“Thanks.” Eddie replies. His smile is tight, in the hopes that he doesn’t give away the swarm of butterflies currently residing in his stomach.

But are ya sure that boy’s straight?

“Wait, what’s happening again?” Steve asks one night during Will’s latest Hellfire campaign. 

It’s the first time in literal years that Eddie’s been playing a character instead of DM’ing and so far, he’s been very impressed with Will replacing him. Though his story lines can be a little too detailed at times, which makes it hard for Steve - who hasn’t been there during every D&D night - to keep up. 

So, Eddie explains it to him. He’s patient, keeping his voice low so the others won’t overhear and carefully watches Steve connect the dots. Watches how that cute little frown in between his eyebrows slowly fades away and is replaced with a soft smile. 

“Which brings us here, to the Rotting Grove and now we gotta wait until Dustin’s character makes a decision.” Eddie says finally, but Steve stays quiet. He’s still looking at Eddie, eyes wide with wonder, maybe he still doesn’t understand the plot just yet. “Sorry, did I go too fast? You want me to start again?”

“No, no, I got it.” Steve shakes his head, smiling. “Thanks for explaining it, though. You’re a great story teller, Eddie.” He says, bumping their shoulders together but never pulling away.

Steve stays glued to Eddie’s side throughout the rest of the night, whispering the occasional question or snarky comment in his ear, sending a chill down Eddie’s spine every time he feels Steve’s lips brush against his skin.

But are ya sure that boy’s straight?

“You really gotta be more careful.” Steve says sternly one afternoon, after Eddie has fallen face-first onto the ground during one of Max’ skateboarding lessons, leaving him with a nasty graze on his cheek. 

“I was being- fucking Christ, Steve.” Eddie hisses as Steve dabs a washcloth against Eddie’s bloodied cheek. “Will you stop that? That hurts like hell.”

Steve ignores his protests, rolling his eyes. “An infection hurts even more, so just stay still, will you?”

His hand, big and warm, finds Eddie’s hip, holding him still against the bathroom counter, as Eddie tries to think of literally anything that’ll stop his blood from going south because this not the place or time to pop a boner right now. Which somehow results in him being particularly mopey to Steve.

“I can take care of myself y’know? Been doin’ it all my life.” He grunts when Steve slowly removes the washcloth. 

“I know you can.” Steve replies softly. “But sometimes it’s nice to have someone taking care of you for a change.”

He runs his thumb over Eddie’s cheek, wiping away the last of the blood before placing his his hand on Eddie’s jaw, turning his face to see if there are any wounds to be taken care of. When Steve nods, obviously proud of his work, Eddie almost wants to go out there and trip another time, just to feel Steve’s hands on his skin again. 

“Besides, you need someone around here who actually knows first aid. God forbid something happens to that pretty face of yours.” Steve smirks, before patting Eddie’s chest and walking out of the bathroom, leaving Eddie speechless for the first time in his life.

But are ya sure that boy’s straight?

Pat’s words keep getting louder and louder in his mind to the point that it’s the only thing Eddie can think about. He overanalyzes every single one of Steve’s movements, every word that rolls off his tongue, every glance sent his way, to the point that he swears he’s going insane.

Because the more he starts thinking about it, the more Pat might actually be right and isn’t that the most terrifying thing in the wold?

-xxx-

“Dude, will you stop that?”

Eddie looks up from where he was mindlessly staring out the window and glares at Dustin, who glares right back at him. “What?”

“Your leg.” Dustin pokes him in said leg, the one that’s been bouncing uncontrollably for the past few minutes. “It’s fucking annoying.”

Dustin’s been at the Munson trailer since early afternoon, figuring out the perfect songs to  put on the mixtape he’s mailing Suzie for their anniversary. Eddie had felt honored that Dustin came to him, rather than the so-called leading expert on romance (Steve) but now his patience is wearing thin. 

Don’t get him wrong, he loves the squirt with all his heart, but Dustin’s been contemplating between two very similar songs for thirty minutes now and his indecisiveness is starting to get on Eddie’s nerves.

“Maybe if you hurried the fuck up, my leg wouldn’t be shakin’ Henderson.” Eddie retorts. “C’mon, hurry up, will ya? I got places to go, people to meet.”

Dustin snorts. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“You know, going out to the woods to deal doesn’t exactly count as Friday evening plans.” Dustin says.

“Hey!” Eddie protests. “You know I don’t do that shit anymore, not with those shady government assholes watching my every move.” He sighs, fiddling with the rings on his fingers. “But if you must know, me and Steve are having a movie night at his place and you know how huffy he gets when I’m late.”

That’s not entirely true. Sure, Eddie’s going over to the Harrington house tonight and sure they’re gonna watch a movie, but it’s also the night that Eddie decided to finally make a move on Steve. And maybe, if everything goes right, tonight will be the night that he finds the guts to Steve how he feels.

Which is why Dustin needs to get a move on because he really needs those extra few hours to contemplate his existence, have a panic attack, talk himself down from said panic attack and figure out what he’s going to wear.

“Okay, now I know you’re lying.” Dustin says, looking anything but impressed with Eddie.

“What? I ain’t lying, Henderson.” Eddie frowns. He grabs the VHS tape from the coffee table and waves it in Dustin’s face. “See, I got the movie and everything.”

“Yeah, well, you must have gotten the days mixed up.” Dustin shrugs. “Steve’s got a date tonight.”

“Yeah, right.” Eddie says, rolling his eyes at Dustin and ignoring the way his heart is starting to beat a little faster out of sheer panic. “Steve hasn’t been on a date since he broke up with Emily. And even if he has a date, I doubt he would’ve planned it at the same time as our movie night.”

“Well sorry to burst your bubble, but I know for a fact that Steve’s got a date tonight because he told me.” Dustin’s tone is bordering on condescending but Eddie doesn’t even have energy to tell him off right now because what the fuck? What does Dustin mean by that? And maybe more importantly, why did Steve leave Eddie in the dark about all this?

A heavy feeling settles down in his stomach, but he can’t let Dustin see his inner turmoil so he goes with indifference instead. “Pff, sure he did.”

“I saw him buy roses, Eddie! They were red too and that’s like, a dead giveaway for romance!” Dustin declares. “And when I talked to him about it he got this… weird, mushy look in his eye, which by the way gross, and said something about making tonight special and shit. Which again, gross, but if that doesn’t scream romantic evening to me, then I don’t know what is!”

Slowly, as Dustin’s words are starting to sink in, the heavy feeling grows stronger and stronger until Eddie feels his stomach drop.

Steve’s going on a date. 

Steve’s going on a date and just ditches Eddie without saying a word.

Steve’s going on a date with someone who isn’t Eddie.

Steve’s going on a date which means Pat was wrong.

“Get out.” Eddie says, voice on edge.

“Geez, didn’t know you’d get so upset. It’s just a cancelled movie night, I’m sure Steve-”

“Out!” Eddie exclaims, his tone way harsher than it needs to be. It obviously affects Dustin, who flinches at his words, but Eddie doesn’t care. Well, he does but he’ll apologize to Dustin later, once he starts to feel normal about all of this. 

Dustin quietly packs his stuff, mumbling something under his breath as Eddie just stands there, frozen. Eyes glued to the coffee stain on the carpet, mind reeling with thoughts of Steve ditching him for some date he didn’t even tell him about. 

He hears Dustin say a quiet goodbye but he stays there for a good few minutes before he finally snaps out of his trance and grabs the keys to the van from the kitchen counter. He doesn’t even see the dark clouds forming in the sky, he just gets in the van and drives. 

-xxx-

Rain is still pouring down when Eddie arrives at the Off-Road. Not that he really cares about the weather right now, he’s got other things on his mind. He pulls his leather jacket over his head and jogs over to the entrance, only to find the door closed and the lights off.

Great. Like his day couldn’t get any worse.

Eddie slumps down on the porch in front of the bar, not caring that he’s sitting on wet wood or that the wind is blowing the raindrops right in his face. The rain is actually pretty nice right now, hiding the tears that are slowly rolling down his cheek.

Crying over Steve motherfuckin’ Harrington. That’s a new low, even for him.

And the thing is, any other time Eddie could’ve dealt with Steve getting another date. Yeah, it’d probably hurt like a bitch and Eddie would’ve been sulking for a day or two, but he would’ve been fine. It would’ve been just another Emily situation, just another reminder that Steve would never been his.

But Steve keeping him in the dark about his date, Steve just flat-out cancelling their movie night without even telling him, after weeks of, let’s be honest, low-key flirting? That somehow hurts even more. It just feels like Steve doesn’t really care about him, like Steve’s using him like a fucking Kleenex - use once, then throw away when it’s no longer useful.

The thoughts in his head are so loud, so overwhelming, that he doesn’t even hear a pick-up truck stopping a few steps from him. Doesn’t hear the hushed voices or the wet sounds of footsteps through the mud.

“Ed? Whatcha doin’ here kid?”

Eddie looks up from where he had been staring at his feet, only to find Pat and Tish standing in front of him, huddled together underneath an umbrella. The worried looks on both their faces makes Eddie just cry even harder.

“Oh honey.” Tish says softly. “Let��s get you inside, okay?”

Pat and Tish lead him inside and up the stairs that lead to the apartment above the bar. It’s small, but cozy and feels like a home, with little trinkets and old photos scattered just about everywhere. Pat firmly plants Eddie down at the kitchen table and hands him a couple of towels as his tears slowly start to fade. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was until Pat throws a woolen blanket over his shoulders and Tish puts down a pot of hot chamomile tea.

“So…” Pat says as she sits down across from him at the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Eddie sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s stupid.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.” Pat says sternly, though her eyes are soft. “Now tell us what happened.”

And Eddie just spills everything. How Pat’s advice has been haunting him, how he’s been overanalyzing every of Steve’s moves, how he was so sure that Steve liked him back, only to be tossed aside without a care. He tears up again a few times and it’s so embarrassing he wants to be buried alive, even with Pat and Tish just listening and telling him it’s okay.

Once he’s done, he just feels empty - no more tears to cry, no more words to say, just an empty, hollow feeling where his heart used to be. 

“Eddie, I’m so sorry, honey.” Tish sighs as she pours him another cup of tea. He’s not usually a tea drinker but he’s had two cups already - he swears Tish put some kind of crack in it, rather than sugar cubes. “For what it’s worth, he doesn’t deserve you. Not if he treats like you like, pardon my French, dogshit.”

Hearing Tish swear, while she’s generally so prim and proper, makes Eddie laugh, even through his dried-up tears. “Thanks, Tish.” He sighs, slouches down in his chair and looks up at the wooden ceiling. “But I guess this was good, in some twisted, fucked up way. Just the slap in the face I needed.”

“What’d you mean?” Pat frowns.

“It’s just… I been running after him like some lovesick puppy even though I know he’ll never feel the same.” Eddie says. “And it’s not doing me any good, now is it? Guess this is a sign that it’s time for me to move on.”

He knows he said that before, back when Steve started dating Emily, and even though it clearly didn’t work out the way he wanted to, Eddie has to make it work now. He has to say goodbye to Steve because he’s not so sure his poor heart’ll survive if he doesn’t.

And he knows exactly how he’s going to do just that.

Eddie jumps up from the table and races downstairs, ignoring Pat and Tish’s confused noises as they follow him. He fumbles with the lights for a moment but as soon as the lights are partially on, Eddie walks up to the podium, grabs the guitar off the wall and sits down on the stool that has become so familiar to him.

The bar is silent because of course it is and for a second Eddie just wants to laugh at how weird this whole situation - singing in a bar just to process his dumb feelings, even with no audience around (well, there’s an audience if you count Pat, Tish and the wind howling outside). But he has to do this, needs to do this, audience be damned. 

His hands are shaking, hesitating to play the first few chords. It’s not like he doesn’t know the song, in fact he knows it by heart and played it plenty of times, But he never actually sang the words, too scared what’ll mean if he’ll say them out loud. 

“If I, should stay… I would only be in your way. So, I’ll go but I’ll know, I’ll think of you each step of the way.” Eddie sing softly, voice already wavering because he was right for not singing this song before - it fucking hurts. “And I… will always love you.”

Eddie’s voice echoes through the empty bar, causing to sound more hollow than it already is. A shiver runs up his spine when he feels a cool breeze of wind - the wind must’ve flung the door open. Eddie doesn’t look up, closes his eyes instead and lets the music take him.

“Bittersweet memories, that’s all I’m taking with me.” He hears Pat and Tish whispering to another, can’t really see them from where they’re standing in the dark but their hushed voices sound tense. Not that Eddie’s really listening, it’s all background noise as he continues strumming his guitar. 

“Goodbye, please don’t cry. We both know…” Eddie chokes on his on voice, the words hitting a little too close to home. He takes a deep breath and tries again, refusing to shed anymore tears. “We both know that I’m not what you need.”

“Eddie?”

Someone’s calling out his name. A familiar voice. A way too familiar voice. 

Steve’s voice.

But that can’t be. Steve’s doesn’t knows he’s here. Steve’s too busy wooing his goddamn date with those goddamn roses.

It’s just in his head. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him. He just needs to finish this song and then this fake Steve will disappear and-

“And I… will always love you. I will always-” 

“Eddie, please.”

Eddie stops playing as a shadow washes over him, a figure blocking the spotlight. He squints, trying to identify whether it’s Pat or Tish who interrupted him, only to find that it’s neither of them

Because there, with floppy wet hair plastered to his face and a thoroughly soaked pink button-down and blue jeans, stands the one person Eddie had run away from in the first place.

Steve.

tag list (there are so many of you now omg ily):

@cheatghost @henderdads @unclewaynemunson @goblin-eddie @trikigirl271 @alienace @fandomcartographer @stevethehairington @blank1eboi @this-earlobe-is-naked @fruitandbubbles @courtjestermunson @steveisabicon @stereoteleversion @wrenisflying @spectrum-spectre @hotluncheddie @punkharringtxn @remislupinsthevoiceofgod @panicatthediaz @thegingervulcan @sharkruption @goodolefashionedloverboi @thelastwalkingsoul @undreamingscatworld @starrystevie @magipemuseum @mightbeasleep @corrodedcoughin @linkydinky06 @hardboiledeggs @gamerdano @limpingpenguin @blackpanzy @piningapple @teelagurl558 @theokatz @moonlightmirrorball @milf-harrington @raisedbylibrarians @eddiemunsonswife @catateme9 @stranger-poets-society

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things #i wanna say i'm sorry for the cliffhanger but i'm not #stay patient friends!! it'll all be good soon #alice's writing adventures

[gemini-sensei]

Ghostface!Miguel Diaz x Ghostface!Reader Headcanons

Chubby!Fem!Reader ○ Ghostface AU

CW: gore, blood, murder, beyond canon typical violence, some NSFW, ngl this one is a tad bit messed up so read at your own risk (unedited).

👻Miguel had no idea his girlfriend was a killer until she showed up on his doorstep one night in need of help. She said she didn't know where else to go and that she was seeing double, her last victim putting up a pretty good fight before she got the upper hand - also meaning she had to do some cleaning up before she could leave the scene. He asked no questions and brought her in, happy his family wasn't home that night to see her that way.

👻It was only after cleaning her up and putting a bag of frozen vegetables on her swelling eye that he asked her what happened.

"That was way too much blood for a little fight..." he said, looking at her.

👻Only after making him swear not to tell anyone does she admited that she was the one that's been killing people. That was only her second victim, so he caught on pretty early.

👻However, instead of being scared of her or thinking about turning her in, all he could think was, "She shouldn't be doing this on her own. Look at how she got hurt."

👻He's so in love with Reader that he didn't see what was wrong with the situation. I mean, he knew it was wrong to kill people, obviously, but she had to have a reason to do it, right?

👻She fell asleep in his bed and he watched over her the whole night to make sure she wasn't concussed. He brought her water and little snacks throughout the night.

👻In the morning, he went to make her breakfast and found his mom and Yaya watching the news; apparently a killer had struck again late last night, but they didn't kill just anyone. They killed Terry Fucking Silver and burned his house to the ground before they left, leaving little to no evidence behind. And according to law enforcement, that case and the last stabbing murder have no correlation as far as they can tell.

👻Miguel stares at the screen, knowing he has the killer in his room as they sit there in shock and awe.

👻His mom hugs him, so worried for his safety. But all he's worried about is Reader.

👻That's how he found himself being the one doing the killing 🔪 because he doesn't want Reader getting hurt again.

👻So she sits back and plans out the attack, does her research and stakes out the house where it'll happen. She makes the calls while Miguel sits outside in the shadows, waiting for her text to tell him it's go time.

👻If he comes back bloody, she cleans him up.

👻Every time he comes back from a kill, he tells her everything down to the fine details. While they fuck. She rides him and tells him how great a job he did, which just gets him going. Her praise means everything to him, so he'll share every bloody detail with her while balls deep in her fat pussy. She squeezes his cock with every word and he gets to watch her eyes roll up.

👻He once came back all bloody and she dragged him into the shower after tossing his clothes in the wash. He fucked her against the tile wall while the blood just ran down the drain and he told her the gory details of it all, rearranging her guts while he tells her about how he spilled someone else's.

👻Breathy I Love You's after they fuck and sweet kisses, as if he didn't just get her off to the whole thought of him murdering someone for her. Not even a thought, the truth of it all.

👻He has no conscious, just devotion to his love.

👻They give off this sweet couple vibe. She sits in his lap when out and about with their friend and he holds her close. Of anyone brings up the Ghostface killer, he tightens his grip around her and every just thinks he's being protective of her because it Freaks everyone out.

👻However, he's actually worried they might figure it out and she has to hug him to assure him that it's okay. She's the mastermind and has every figured out, and he knows that. He trusts her.

👻she kisses his cheek and pets his fluffy hair, which eases his mind and he just lays his head on her chest. He listens to her heartbeat and it gets him riled up to the next kill that he knows she has planned. It's thrilling, it's exciting, and he can't wait to make her proud.

#ghostface au #ghostface!miguel #ghostface!reader #miguel diaz x reader #miguel diaz x chubby reader #miguel diaz smut #miguel diaz headcanons #miguel diaz #cobra kai #cobra kai headcanons #cobra kai smut #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai x chubby reader #cobra kai x plus size reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #gemini sensei

[atarathegreat]

Souya Kawata

"No, no, no! Because Y/n here has been with both twins!" Yuzuha laughs, her alcohol spilling slightly as she jumped, her usually careful hands becoming sloppy with her drunkenness, "You gotta tell us who's better in bed! You have to!" Hina, Emma, and you laughed with her as she stumbled sideways, demanding that you give her all the inside details. "Okay! Okay! Sit down before you fall and I'll tell you!" You helped her back into her seat and sat next to her, "Honestly, it's hard to say. In terms of straight-out sex, they're both very similar. I think Hoya is great if you're looking for something crazy, but Souya is perfect for a more tame sex life." Hina groaned at the statement, sliding you a beer, "C'mon, that's not what we want to hear? Who do you like more!"

You face went red as you realized you would have to tell them about what you liked privately. Which normally wouldn't be a bad thing, but the three of you were in such a crowded space. "I don't know if I should say anything here, Hinata. There are a ton of people here." You wrung your hands under the table, hoping they would drop it. Yuzuha grabbed your soft face and came close, her breath wreaking of the Bloody Maries she'd been swallowing all night, "Are you afraid that you'll tell us it's Nahoya? Or that Souya will find out it isn't him? Do you still love Nahoya?" You shoved her back into her chair to get her from your face. "That's not it at all! We're in public and I don't want to say such things out loud!" You hissed, downing the last bit of your beer, ordering a vodka straight.

You loved going out on girls' night, hanging out with the three girls, and getting drunk, but sometimes Yuzuha just put you in uncomfortable situations and you often got drunk to avoid answering her. Once you were feeling tipsy, you left. Yeah, you could've texted your boyfriend to pick you up, but your skin was hot and it felt like you needed the fresh air during the walk home. And, according to Emmas' brother Mikey, who was with you all at the bar and also Souyas' boss, Souya was going to be busy until early morning. A sigh clouded the air in front of you, showing just how cold it was getting at night. The hoody you wore was too baggy to keep the blistering wind from crawling up the bottom and freezing you to the core, not even folding your arms in the pocket was helping. Rocks got kicked if they were in the way, you couldn't be bothered to step over them in your hurry to get home, and dirt flew up onto your socks.

The door to the apartment was unlocked, making you wary as it opened to the fully lit living room. Souya was sat on the couch, a book in his hands. Relieved, you sighed and closed the front door, and slipped free from the hoody, "Hey, SouSou, I didn't think you were gonna be home." There was no reply, even as you took your shoes off, leading to another statement, "Mikey said you were gonna be busy all night with work stuff. Did you finish early?"

"No."

Pausing at his harsh tone, you turned, jumping at how close he'd gotten so silently. "Souya, don't scare me like that, yeah? Making my head spin..." You reached up and rubbed at your temple as he crossed his arms. "Where were you?" His anger was evident in his tone, emphasized by the dangerous way he leaned over you. You sheepishly pointed to the door, thinking it was obvious, "I was out with the girls. We-we were safe, Mikey was there to watch us this time...I mean, I did walk home but I walked fast and-"

Souya slammed a hand on the wall next to you, making you jump at his outburst, "What did you say tonight?" He was intimidating when he wanted to be, and right then, he wanted to be. The way his arm settled right next to your neck, or the proximity of his face to yours as he growled out each sentence, his warm breath was once comforting. "What did you say tonight with the girls?" Souya asked again, bending his elbow to get closer, his head forcing yours back into the wall. "What do you mean, Sou?" You placed your palms against his chest, hoping to calm him even a little bit. He turned, bumping your head in the process, and pulled out his phone to show you a video. It was you and Yuzuha, clearly taken from across the bar, Neither of you hadn't realized you were that loud. It picked up you talking about the twins during sex, and you made eye contact with Souya and sighed. "They asked a question, and I answered as honestly as I could in a public setting."

There was a small space for you to wedge past Souya, making your way to your fridge and looking for anything to snack on before bed. Souya grabbed the back of your neck and hauled you toward the countertop, leaning painfully on your back, "Do you miss being with Nahoya? Tell me!" His rage got out of his control, "Do you want my brother?" You wiggled sideways, rolling onto the floor and getting the pain out of your back, "What are you talking about?"

Staying out of his reach wasn't easy, but you just had to. Souya was a man who scared his enemies based on proximity and strength, and it never ended well. "Souya! Stop! Tell me what you're talking about!" You slowly backed away from him, matching each of his steps, "Why would you think I want to be with Nahoya?"

"You are on video saying that Nahoya is great! Saying that our sex life is boring! Do you know how humiliating that is?" Souya rushed forward and you allowed him to capture you, trapping you in the shared bedroom, "Do you love Nahoya still?" The sadness in his eyes was contrasting with his anger, but he didn't know how else to show his anxiety. You could tell he was afraid that you didn't love him, that he wasn't enough for you, and that you missed how crazy Nahoya was. But you didn't, you needed Souya's calm demeanor. So you allowed him to force you back onto the bed and hover over you, his lips claiming any free space he could find. "Do you miss this? Being thrown around? Being bent in painful ways?" Souya pulled your knee up next to your shoulder, ripping your pant leg and painfully stretching the muscles. He ripped your pants all the way around until they were simply rags on the floor, exposing your underwear and legs to him, "Do you want me to be rough with you? Or do you want me to call Nahoya so he can fuck you just the way you like?"

"Souya, wait-" You tried to keep him from ripping your shirt open but spoke too late and your shirt was discarded with the pants, nothing more than tomorrow's trash. His fingers dug into your sides, his teeth following soon after and leaving perfect indents. You hissed at each bite and squeeze, wishing he would be gentle with you, like always. "Do you enjoy me hurting you like this? Hmm? You like being bruised?" Souya growled in your ear, wrapping his fingers around your throat and tightening it until you couldn't breathe. He kicked his pants off, leaning down to bite and bruise your neck, there was no way for you to get away from him. "Sou, no..." You were able to rasp out, losing your underwear quickly to him and his anger. "What? You don't like this because it's me?" Souya released your throat as he thrust painfully into you, no doubt causing some bleeding, "You'd rather be with Nahoya?"

You reached up and jerked his body tightly against yours, "Souya, please, be gentle with me... this hurts too much." His eyes widened at your begging, but you could feel some of the tension leaving him, could see his face softening at the new tears rushing down your face. "Be gentle with me, I can't take the brutality." Souya paused for a brief moment, his hands flying to your face to cradle it gently. "Please, Souya. I want your gentleness."

Souya moved slowly, the pain quickly subsiding as he kissed your jaw, "Explain yourself, my love. Or I'll be rough again. Do you still want Nahoya like this?" You chuckled, a slight moan slipping from between your lips, "I don't like how rough he is, Souya. Every aspect of him is, I crave your gentle nature. There is no one but you, Souya, you're perfect for me."

He pulled out of you, tears forming in his eyes as he examined the damage he'd done. "Souya," You gained his attention easily, "finish what you started. Prove to yourself that you know your better than Nahoya." Souya buried himself back into your core, peppering soft kisses around your eyes and lips, your moans lingering between each one. He knew all the perfect moves to get you closer to your release, resting his head on your neck as he neared his own. "Souya..." You breathed, tangling your hands in his hair as your middle began to tighten, "Souya, I love you." His left-hand trails to hold your head as he placed his forehead against yours, "I'm sorry, for hurting you, love. Can you forgive me?" Souya's voice was strained as he tried to keep a slower pace than usual to avoid agitating your earlier injuries. "Of course, I can, SouSou." You smiled, arching your back at his fastened movements.

"Then allow me to work for it."

#souya kawata #souya kawata x reader #souya x reader #angry #angry x reader #nahoya kawata #nahoya #smiley #x reader #x female reader #female reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x reader #anime #manga #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff

[aeor-is-for-reccing]

AMVs/PMVs: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have AMVs and PMVs! This week's format is slightly different so check under the cut for 15 fan videos that are focused on Caleb, Essek or Shadowgast ; and don't forget to comment and leave a like if you like them!

Fire on Fire [A Tribute to Shadowgast] by Lilith KB (1:29, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Beautiful art of affection and desire between the two wizards set to a song about these very things.

Reccer says: The art is beautiful and so is the song.

Home To Me {Critical Role Shadowgast PMV} by ShadowedKing and Sinister Suns (0:55, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek comes home to Caleb and drops his disguise. They embrace happily.

Reccer says: It's short, but incredibly sweet. It acknowledges the fact that there's still plenty of danger in their lives, but shows them in a sweet and happy moment together. It's also colourful in a way that matches the exuberance of the song and the scene.

A GOOD MAN - Complete Essek Thelyss PMV MAP by MAP hosted by Fieldtowns (name of channel: field) (4:27, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: cartoony depictions of blood and violence (2:03-06), cartoony mutated Lucien and blood (2:34-38), bloody sword and wounded Caleb (3:11-26)

The PMV follows the story of Essek, from his initial crimes, through his inner conflict upon meeting Caleb and the Nein and their tribulations, to his happy ending with Caleb and a group of friends.

Reccer says: There are lots of beautiful pieces of art in the PMV (some focused on Shadowgast, some on Essek himself or on Essek with the Nein) and the song fits Essek's story very well.

Essek Love Like You - Shadowgast Animatic (SPOILERS up to Critical Role C2E97) by Skye Blu (0:26, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek realizes the error of his ways when he meets Caleb and falls for him. He struggles to understand the forgiveness he is offered.

Reccer says: The style is so incredibly cute, it's unreal - the way chibi Essek yoinks the beacon, the way he and chibi Caleb (chibleb?) look at each other, the forehead smooch - it's just the cutest little animatic. I also love, love, LOVE the choice of song - it's a perfect description of how Essek might think of himself and of Caleb.

HOW TO BE A HEARTBREAKER - A CALEB WIDOGAST PMV by FatalDebonaire (3:40, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: Slight flash warning

A beautifully drawn exploration of Caleb throughout CR canon and the people that he loves/loved and that loved him.

Reccer says: The art is beautiful and evocative, with small details hidden throughout. The expressions and the timing with the song are so well thought-out.

i don't know how to love him by nobody _ (3:56, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek has himself a little crisis about having feelings for Caleb. Turns out that - uh, oh - so does Caleb - but at least he has a kitty for moral support. Unresolved pining and conflicted feelings.

Reccer says: The style of the animatic is simple, but cute, especially Caleb's freckles (and his cat!). It's a great song for these two - Essek has indeed been "changed, yes really changed", Caleb at the point where this animatic seems to be taking place probably "just wouldn't cope" if Essek confessed his feelings, and they both scare each other, love each other, want each other. It's a sweet idea altogether.

I Wouldn't Change a Thing by MAP hosted by ShadowedKing (3:50, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: few and far between depictions of blood

Starting with some parallels between the two wizards, the PMV takes us on a tour of all the highlights of their journey together, culminating in a series of art pieces imagining their future together with such fanon staples as gardening, cats and a disguised Essek visiting Caleb's classes.

Reccer says: The choice of song is inspired and the song itself is cute and upbeat. The PMV makes ample use of the song's lyrics, often juxtaposing them with truly hilarious - or tragic (or both) - events. My favourite has to be "even when I'm at your mothers" being juxtaposed first with the fight against Trent, then with the visit at the Ermendruds' grave. Talk about a variety of feelings one video can make you feel! The variety of art styles, from cartoony to very much out there (/positive) styles, means everyone will find something for themselves, and the artists simply must be commended on the effort they clearly put into the illustrations, from gorgeous portraits of the two main characters, through other characters, to the backgrounds ranging from cosy wizardly offices to Aeorian caves and starry skies. It features a breathtakingly gorgeous depiction of the forehead kiss, and perhaps the cutest greying aging Cartoonleb I've ever seen.

critical Role AMV: Essek's Promicedland (sketch version) by Isabel Silva (2:57, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Esseks growth from before the campaign up to him teaming up w the group for Aeor

Reccer says: Wonderful take on Essek's journey, A+ song choice

Critical Role- Curses by Starry Paw prints Art (3:49, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

a Caleb-centric PMV set to Curses by the Crane Wives

Reccer says: Really captures the feeling of Caleb's character journey from traumatized hobo wizard to person capable of accepting love and confronting his past. One note: I think the artist began work on this before C2 ended, so nothing post Vergessen is covered.

Ares - A Caleb Widogast Critical Role Animatic by 42paintbrushes (3:33, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb Widogast's arc from backstory to epilogue set to Ares by Winter's Island

Reccer says: It hits story beats with song beats like they were made for each other

Essek Thelyss - Liar Animatic by Cal (3:29, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek across the duration of the series, from the start of his betrayal up to and including Aeor

Reccer 1 says: Absolutely perfect song choice for Essek Reccer 2 says: This song is quite fitting for Essek and the art is very expressive

The following two videos each had two recs:

Lovely Night (shadowgast animatic) by Mystery Animator (1:58, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek and Caleb flirt under a starry sky, claiming not to have feelings for each other, but - of course - kissing in the end.

Reccer 1 says: The teasing tone of the song is a cool choice for the two wizards. I love their flirty looks and body language - it's incredibly cute, and my favourite has got to be Essek pulling Caleb by the scarf on the "I know you look so cute in your polyester suit" (and the blush on Essek's face when they inevitably kiss). The sky and the dancing lights are a pretty and romantic background and the frame of other members of the M9 spying on them from the bushes is hilarious. Reccer 2 says: Wonderfully choreographed and overall amazing

All Time Low | Shadowgast Animatic/AMV | Critical Role Campaign 2 by TJ Makes (3:28, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: Some blood as Caleb is attacked by the Volstrucker prisoner

A depiction of Caleb and Essek's coming together and thier individual "all time lows", times in thier lives where they were at their lowest, and later, how they pull each other up and thier connection makes them better.

Reccer 1 says: I like the evocative art frames, the scenes the artist chose to depict and the story told through that. Reccer 2 says: I really love the style and particularly Essek's design. The animatic imagines some additional scenes that are quite touching and shows canonical ones is very expressive ways. It's wonderful how much emotion can be shown with subtle changes in their eyes, eyebrows, gentle smiles. The creator chose to show the scenes in non-chronological order, and managed to create a sequence which matches the swells and silences of the song.

This video received three recs!

Would That I by aeli.tan.art (2:40, Not Rated) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes, blood, mostly symbolic, all violence merely implied

a depiction of the Caleb and Essek's first meeting, their infatuation and inner turmoils about their pasts, and their choice to embrace happiness.

Reccer 1 says: I adore the art, the expressions are on point and each frame is very evocative, telling the story of coming together in a beautiful way. Reccer 2 says: Wonderful Reccer 3 says: The choice of song is amazing. I love the world building - Essek's ears, his non-human pupils, the Kryn jewellery (which will come back later in the video to punch you in the heart, I warned you), the way spells look. The imagery in the video - when Caleb stops Essek from running, but it's not aggressive, it's almost like a dance pose, the ash left on Essek's cheek, the bloodied chains, the crash into the light, and again, the return of jewellery to mean something beautiful. And lastly, but not least, the emotion behind it - the pure joy in Caleb's smile as he masters a spell, the fondness in Essek's eyes, and speaking of eyes - how expressive they are when they're often the only part of Essek visible on the screen! Amazing. By far my favourite Shadowgast animatic of all time.

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with hidden gems (less than 150 kudos)!

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #cr fic recs #fan fiction rec list #aeor is for lovers #critical role fan fiction #cr fic #cr fics