#making magic expansion pack

[simstalgia]

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍꜱ: ᴍᴀᴋɪɴ' ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ

#ts1 #the sims1 #the sims #the sims original #the sims makin magic #making magic expansion pack #the sims 1 #nostalgia

[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

[philosimy]

Sul sul!

It's time to get nostalgic.

With this update of my Sims (2000) world, you can revisit every lot and every household from the Sims 1 in an open world experience in the Sims 3! This addition adds the Magic Town and Vacation Island area's, making this a complete Sims 1 world, that includes every Sims 1 neighborhood.

I apologize for the long delay in releases this update for this Sims 3 world. My real life has gotten very hectic, so it's been hard to make time for this project. I hope it was worth the wait and that you'll enjoy reliving the Sims 1 in this Sims 3 world.

Special thanks to @bunnybananasims @virtual-hugs @madraynesims @melisanne19 @thesims1master @ohrudi on Tumblr and @OhBeeel and @Andr3sL0K0 on Twitter for helping me with beta testing! And Martine and Simsimillian at MTS for providing lovely terrain paints <3

Get the world + save file here: SFS download

If you enjoy my work, you can support me on Ko-fi <3 Thanks!

This world was made with every Sims 3 expansion pack (except for Into The Future), in addition the the High End Loft and Town Life stuff packs. You can install the world even if you do not own all of these packs. But the save file (which includes all of the premade sims, ghosts and some fixes) can only be played if you have all of these packs installed.

To everyone who has installed and played the previous version of my Sims (2000) world: to install this version, you'll need to uninstall the old one. If you have an active save file with the previous (1st) version of this world, please backup any households and builds you want to save to your library. Because that save file will probably become unplayable after installing the updated world file.

I have one little request… If you know any other long time simmers, please share this project with them. I would love it if as many people as possible get a chance to enjoy this nostalgic experience <3

Also, if you enjoy setting up high quality screenshots, I'd love to see them and use them to promote this world.

#sims 1 #mycc #sims 3 worlds #sims nostalgia #Sims 1 to Sims 3 #s1tos3 #The Sims #sims 3 neighborhood #sims 3 caw

[splatattackz]

more sponsorship ideas from one of my friends:

- IKEA sponsorship in the style of the Sims IKEA expansion packs. Adding thousands of furniture models might crash most of the players but that's fine as long as they pay well.

- Doied Rat poison endorsement. Any brand works. Tease it as Roier lore, have Doied hunt down his brother in a cinematic. Doesn't have to succeed in killing him as long as we get the views

- Dunkin' Donuts. The Eggs have to be fed baked goods anyway, why not change the bakery into a Dunkin' Donuts shop? Eggs might grow up to hate donuts after only being fed them but at least they come in many different designs.

- Raid Shadow Legends. I'd write something else here if all the ads had actually taught me what this game is.

- NordVPNMart. Don't have to figure out how this would work if we just make Roier put up some pngs.

- Any brand of pet food. Cellbit might not agree initially but surely we can work something out.

- Duolingo. An event perhaps? Duo logs on to test everyone's language skills, losers are removed from the server forever.

- Twenty One Pilots. Trust me on this one, connecting the QSMP and tøp lore makes total sense and would be beneficial for all.

- Brazil.

- BadBoyHalo. He probably has at least 5 dollars, he should share.

- Mr. Clean. Fit's a janitor already anyway, why not get some cash by putting a brand name on his supplies? And they're both bald too! Limited edition magic erasers with his face on the box maybe? They can pay QSMP for using Fit's likeness, just make sure he doesn't ask any questions about why he's not the one getting the money.

#my friend is the funniest person ever btw #qsmp #qsmpattackz #splatattackz

[sky-kiss]

Raphael's plan to use the Crown of Karsus to magically conquer the hells is absolutely silly and oversimplistic. It covered none of the angles, didn't factor in that he's a silly lil' cambion, Asmodeus...god...anything.

But like. His dad also is the champion of dumbass hell conquering plots. For the youths out there who weren't around to experience the eyebleeding glory of Neverwinter Nights: Mephistopheles is a villain in its expansion pack.

His plan? Conquer the Prime Material. Make it Hell 10. 10 is higher than 9, so he's the Ultimate Devil by default. Asmodeus cannot argue with MATH.

Over the course of that journey, you beat his ass. Badly. But again, we truly have to focus on the fact that this dude thought he could bypass fighting Asmodeus by creating a 10th level of Hell.

So, let's be honest...stupid and shortsighted schemes run in the blood.

EDIT: I also forgot that one of the characters who is usually present to beat Mephistopheles seven ways to Sunday is a KOBOLD BARD. Who he is incapable of manipulating. Who helps to defeat him with the power of song and then writes a novel about it.

#bg3 raphael #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #mephistopheles #forgotten realms #like father like son #if at first you dont succeed #find a way to skip the work entirely #lie cheat and scheme #because youre not winning on your own merit you silly boys #raphael bg3

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; light smut; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: You are wide awake. 2340 words.

1986

Every day Eddie watched the jar. He watched how the moon water moved, alive and with a viscosity different from regular water. He watched the apple slices dry and the sprigs of lavender go stiff. He thought if he watched closely enough, he’d see the magic working, but he never caught a glimmer of craft.

When it was time, you let him plant the enchanted seed in the new coven neighbourhood. Your home would grow furthest out, close to the shade of the woods. A spell later, you were traveling back to Forest Hills to begin packing the trailer up.

It had been months since you’d moved in, therefore you had accumulated a lot of items.

“Do you need all of these?” Eddie asked, holding up one of five shoeboxes, all packed with feathers you had found. “And is this a normal amount of feathers to find? What is wrong with the birds in Hawkins?”

“Yes and no and a lot. I told you that if you are gonna help, you can’t question every single thing you pick up,”

“I’m doing no such thing,” he rebutted.

“Eddie, you told me to cull my jar collection,”

“I stand by it. There are too many. You can collect more,”

“I use them! Frequently! And I don’t just keep any jar. All the ones I have are, like, uniquely shaped or extra sturdy!” you whined. “Asking a witch to not collect jars is just…” You shook your head, not able to find the words to express the atrocity.

Eddie smiled at you softly. “Perhaps I am not the best helper,” he conceded. “Perhaps my time would be better spent doing something else,”

“Something else like use your vampire speed to clean the bathroom, or something else like turn into a bat and sleep?”

An hour later, Eddie was asleep in one of the boxes containing clothes, and you were wrapping more empty jars in bubble wrap.

…

A monument to witchcraft and love. That’s what Eddie thought when he saw the house. It had the glorious drama of Ev’s Victorian home and the softness of the other witches’ cottages. Expansive stained glass windows. Detailed architraves, the wood so dark it appeared black. Red brick. A single-story structure, but the dome of a conservatory was visible over the roof. It extended back into the woods, settling into the landscape as if it had always been there.

Eddie thought back to all the places he had lived in. The house his father’s rage felt the brunt of as much as he did. The farm he came into adulthood on. The colony caves. The cold and lonely hotel rooms. The trees above Forest Hills. He’d never had a home, apart from your arms, but there it was. Real and in front of him.

The sun was setting over the valley as Eddie stood before the house. You’d seen it early that day, doing your final checks before okaying the move. It was your magic the house grew from, so naturally you were less awestruck by it. The floorplan and aesthetic had been born in your mind. Still, it was a beautiful thing.

“Think it will do?” you asked Eddie, coming to stand beside him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. “It’s…” How many different words were there for ‘home,’ he wondered. What language could fully communicate the depth of emotion?

“Enchanted seeds create homes, not houses,” you told him as you walked towards the front door. “Come and see.”

Eddie followed, almost expecting something to happen as he crossed the front door threshold. Once inside, Eddie clenched his jaw. It was more perfect than he could have anticipated.

The furniture was plush and comfortable, an eclectic mix of antique pieces and modern amenities. Bookshelves stood tall and waiting, ready for the library to arrive. Potted ivy trailed up and around curtain railings and along the walls.

“You never got to see my place in the Catskills. A lot of the furniture comes from there. The rest comes from the seed… It’s the kind of magic that makes me wish we could study it, you know? I want to know the science of it. How does it work?”

“It seems to me that part of the power of magic is in the unknowing,” Eddie replied, as wise as any of the Witches Who Came Before.

“It does appear to be the case,” you agreed.

For a while, you let Eddie wander aimlessly through the house.

He marvelled at the bath, huge and round, like a pond and definitely big enough for two. A huge wardrobe door that opened into a secret library. The conservatory full of thriving plants, flowers, herbs, and other living things Eddie did not have a word for. Every window a different shape but never square. Strange detailing like cat shaped doorknobs and pink quartz basins.

Eventually, Eddie sat on the end of the huge bed, its four posts grand and its linen crisp. He looked over at you and held out his hands.

“Come.”

You walked to him, taking his hands, and standing between his legs. Eddie looked up at you with those sparkling brown eyes, the adoration radiating from him.

“It’s an irrational idea, this fear I have that I’m dreaming. That I am still cursed, haunting this town until the end of time. But a vampire cannot dream. The cursed cannot dream. But still…”

Gently, you let go of Eddie’s hands and leaned into him, snaking your fingers into his hair as he pressed himself into your body, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“You are wide awake. Alive… kind of… But definitely here. With me. In our home. Soon-to-be, with our friends. Our family. And just in time for Halloween.”

He purred a happy sound, nodding into you. “A witch’s favourite holiday?” he hazarded a guess.

“Hmm, not all of us. Most of the witches I’ve known tended to find more obscure holidays to worship at the altar of. New Years is a big one, too. Alas, I am but a cliché All Hallows witch,”

“With much respect, I see that,” Eddie said. You laughed, shrugged. He looked up at you again. “You did fall in love with a vampire, after all.”

…

Far away from the rest of the world, you and Eddie spent almost a week settling into the new house. Grimoires were catalogued into one of the three library rooms. Dandelion puffs were jarred and shelved. Every trinket found its home.

Eddie tested the rainbow light that flooded the rooms, discovering that in the magic there was safety. Sunlight that filtered through the windows did not burn him. He could be free and at ease.

You explained to Eddie the importance of representing the elements within the home. Earth in the plants, wooden carpentry, and the grounding crystals. Fire in the candles, ever-burning incense, and roaring fireplaces that only ever emitted the exact level of heat you wanted.  (“In summer, the flames burn cold,” you told Eddie and watched his smile grow.) Water in the mirrors, seashells, and small fountains found in the glasshouse room. Lastly, air in the wind chimes, feathers, and windows that could remain open without upsetting the temperature inside.

During the day, you began work on your garden, creating flower beds in the shape of pentagrams and sewing seeds. Borage for the butterflies and bees, primrose – I can’t live without you; angelica in case you need to break any future hexes; and yarrow, amaryllis, and polypodies.

One evening, just before sunset, you found Eddie rummaging through the apothecary pantry. As you entered the room, his manic smile told you he’d had an idea.

“What’s the story, morning glory?” you asked him, perching on a stool.

Eddie sunk to his knees and shrugged. “The fires are out… The Shire is no longer burning,”

“The Shire being… Hawkins?”

“Yes. And us. We’ve sailed to the Undying Lands,”

“You’re really making Tolkien your whole personality, huh?” you joked.

Eddie smiled up at you. “Until the next book… But what I’m saying is, now that we do not have a battle to prepare for. No conflict upon the horizon. What do we do with all of eternity?”

“Oh… My plan was to eat a lot of Meg’s cinnamon rolls… Try to get Steve Harrington to stop haunting Mel… Maybe work on a spell to make myself teeny tiny so I can ride around on you when you’re a bat…”

“Wait, seriously?”

You gave him a sly smile. “Maybe,”

“Well, I would love that… But, I was thinking a little more introspectively. Back to things we have thought about before. Like, why I am the way that I am… What that means…” He ran a finger along the leaves of the mimosa pudica plant beside him. The leaves felt his touch, curled inwards on themselves. It was one of Eddie’s favourites, the way it reacted to the world around it.

“Any new insights?” you asked softy.

“No… But… If I believe in you and in your magic and the way you make sense of the world… then I… I have to do something,”

“Do something?”

“We get back what we give, right?”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It’s not always obvious or direct. Or timely. Or even equally fair… But, yeah… There is definitely something like the concept of karma at play. And even if there isn’t, living as if there is can only be a good thing,”

“Then I must show more grace… and gratitude… Even if I am a monster, maybe especially because I am… I can give goodness too.”

Without thinking, you slid off the stool and joined Eddie on the floor. “You already do. You don’t owe the world anything.”

Eddie smiled, first a small soft thing, almost sad, but then it twisted into something else. Ear-to-ear and full of teeth. “I owe it more than one life,”

“But if we count all the lives you have saved. Both by killing what plagued this town, and by preventing deaths at the hands of bad people-”

“Morality cannot be simple addition and subtraction. There is no math that can quantify goodness or righteousness. You know that,” Eddie cut in. He watched your face, saw the pensiveness blossom across it. “Don’t worry, my little witch, my plan is not as life-or-death as this all makes it seem… I just want to do something good for your friends,”

“Your friends,” you corrected quickly. “They’ll be your friends too. Your family. You’re part of this coven.”

Eddie reached out to cup your face in his hands. “Your coven is yours. But I will take the friendship. I have years of loneliness to make up for,”

“Then what-”

He cut you off again, this time with a kiss. You brought your hands up to his shoulders, draping your arms around his neck. Eddie pulled you into his lap and you curled into him like the leaves of the mimosa.

His mouth kissed and sucked at your neck between sentence fragments. “I’m-” kiss “going-” kiss “to plant-” lick “them-” kiss “flowers.” His punctuation a kiss that wanted to be a bite.

You were hardly listening to his words. His words and ideas and introspective musings could all wait.

Eddie laid you down on the floor, the smell of the oak still new. You arched your back and pulled him down by his collar.

“Bed,” you mumbled into his mouth.

“Why build a house if we’re not gonna use it,” he answered.

One hand splayed next to your head to keep him up, the other tickling its way under the hem of your skirt and up your thigh.

“Besides,” Eddie said. “Doesn’t feel like you can wait.” He was sliding your underwear off, throwing them across the room. He rested a hand on you, sliding an index finger through your slickness.

“I can’t,” you agreed, breathy and impatient. “Now. I want you now.”

Eddie didn’t have to be asked twice. With his pants still hanging from an ankle, he was fast to set up and slow on approach. You felt the tip of him follow the path made by his hand, gathering wetness, and shooting electricity through your body.

You melted into jelly beneath him, bliss written all over your face. Eddie loved you like this, pliable and prone to tears of ecstasy.

He held himself back, keeping his pace slow and steady. His vampire muscles screamed to go faster, to rail you into next week, but he liked pulling you apart. Liked how you unconsciously uttered strings of words like ‘full’ and ‘please’ and ‘can’t.’ Liked when you clawed at him to come closer, bit down on his shoulder.

“I love you,” he told you, mouth on your ear, tongue licking. “So. Fucking. Much.”

There was a seemingly endless amount of ways Eddie had learned could make you cum. Talking to you was a favourite for you both.

“You’re so perfect, so perfect… You feel so perfect… You’re so warm and soft and I… I want to eat you whole…”

Your response was in the pooling tears and the nodding and the slack jaw. The begging, “Please. Please.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” It was all it took. Your orgasm exploded moments before his. Eddie’s thrusting getting harder and faster for the few seconds he took to follow you. He had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from ripping into your neck.

You kept your eyes closed, not aware of your surroundings. When you felt Eddie’s arms slide beneath you, you smiled and hummed. He carried you to your new bed, cleaning your skin with a warm washcloth before curling himself in behind you.

With the last of your day’s energy, you tangled your fingers through his, falling asleep happily.

As Eddie listened to your breathing find its mellow night rhythm, he saw a vision of you in his mind. Hands full of flowers and foliage. A coven of audience. Glorious and beaming. 

End Note: I made a small Pinterest board with inspo for their house - click here to view.

I hope you are all as well as any of us can be at a time like this. I hope this story continues to provide comfort, escapism, and fuel for daydreams. xo Rhi

Fic Taglist:  @paranoidmunson  @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03 @moviefreak1205 @pastel-pillows

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner

#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Bat!Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You

[demifiendrsa]

FINAL FANTASY VII REBIRTH - Release Date Announce Trailer

Japanese version

Final Fantasy VII Rebirth, the second game in the Final Fantasy VII remake trilogy, will launch for PlayStation 5 on February 29, 2024.

The game will be available in the following editions:

Physical – Across two game discs; includes a reversible cover, and the preorder incentive of the digital “Midgar Bangle Mk. II” armor at participating retailers

Standard Edition ($69.99)

Deluxe Edition ($99.99) – Includes Mini-soundtrack CD, artbook, and SteelBook case.

Collector’s Edition ($349.99) – Includes large, highly detailed collectible statue of Sephiroth, Deluxe Edition contents, along with digital DLC items including downloadable content “Summoning Materia,” allowing players to summon the Moogle Trio, and the “Magic Pot,” along with equipment, like the “Reclaimant Choker” accessory and the “Orchid Bracelet” armor. The Collector’s Edition will be available to pre-order in limited quantities from the Square Enix Store.

Digital – Includes the downloadable content “Moogle Trio Summoning Materia.”

Standard Edition ($69.99)

Digital Deluxe Edition ($89.99) – Includes digital Mini-soundtrack, digital artbook, and digital downloadable content items including the “Magic Pot” Summoning Materia, “Reclaimant Choker” accessory, and the “Orchid Bracelet” armor.

Digital Deluxe Edition Upgrade ($20) – Can be purchased to upgrade previously purchased Standard Edition, adding Digital Deluxe Edition contents*

Final Fantasy VII Remake and Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Twin Pack ($99.99) – Offering great value during the pre-order phase, the Twin Pack includes Final Fantasy VII Rebirth, available at launch, and the full game download of Final Fantasy VII Remake Intergrade which will be available to play as soon as the Twin Pack is pre-ordered.

Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Digital Deluxe Twin Pack ($119.99) – Includes Final Fantasy VII Remake Intergrade full game download plus all Digital Deluxe Edition contents.

■ About

Final Fantasy VII Rebirth is the highly anticipated new story in the Final Fantasy VII remake project, a reimagining of the iconic original game into three standalone titles by its original creators. In this game, players will enjoy various new elements as the story unfolds, culminating in the party’s journey to “The Forgotten Capital” from the original Final Fantasy VII.

After escaping from the dystopian city of Midgar, Cloud and his friends set out on a journey across the planet. New adventures await in a vibrant and vast world – sprint across grassy plains on a Chocobo and explore expansive environments.

An Expansive World

As the party searches for Sephiroth, you will explore the beautiful, expansive regions of the world and open up new areas to discover. Dig deeper into the world of Final Fantasy VII with rewarding side content and mini-games, plus various unique forms of transportation to navigate the world.

An Evolved Battle System

Combine strategic thinking with thrilling action combat alongside your comrades, including newly added characters. Deepen their relationships to unleash powerful team-based combos.

Beyond the Walls of Fate

In this standalone adventure for fans and newcomers, Cloud and his comrades venture across the planet, their fates unwritten, making each step outside the dystopian city of Midgar fresh and mysterious.

■ Story

For years now, the Shinra Electric Power Company has been providing the world with energy at the expense of the lifestream, the “river” whence all life flows and whither it returns.

After storming the company’s headquarters and engaging in a series of battles for the ages, Cloud and his companions leave Midgar behind and set out for the wider world. Once in the grasslands, they hop aboard chocobos and embark on a journey with an unknown destination.

Meanwhile, Zack—beaten and battered from his fight against an army of troopers—hobbles across the wastelands into Midgar with a mako-poisoned Cloud on his shoulder. Though he has managed to escape death for now, the ominous rift in the sky gives him little reason to rejoice.

That is hardly the only threat facing the world, however. The Shinra Resistance Committee, backed by Wutai’s interim government, declares war on the company; figures shrouded in black robes carry with them the corpse of Jenova, a veritable calamity from another world; and the Weapons—fierce and monstrous guardians of the planet—have recently awakened.

Amid this chaos, Sephiroth has set his plan in motion, thus ensuring myriad fates intertwine and are birthed anew.

■ Characters

Cloud Strife (voiced by Cody Christian in English, Takahiro Sakurai in Japanese)

“There’s no point in wasting our time worrying about fate if we can’t change it.”

An ex-SOLDIER: first class, Cloud came to Midgar to start a new chapter of his life as a mercenary. At the invitation of his childhood friend, Tifa, he accepts a job with Avalanche. Together, they confront Shinra, ultimately leaving Midgar behind in pursuit of Sephiroth and the truth─a quest which will lead them to defy destiny itself.

—Weapon: Sword

He fights by switching between modes specializing in mobility and offense. A single swipe of his huge sword can knock several foes off their feet at once. Some of his abilities also allow him to take the fight to the air.

Barret Wallace (voiced by John Eric Bentley in English, Masato Funaki in Japanese)

“This is the planet we’re talkin’ about! Y’all know she’s gonna pour her heart and soul into this fight!”

The leader of an independent Avalanche cell, Barret spearheads an operation to take down Shinra’s mako reactors. He pays a hefty price for this, however, when the company retaliates, and his comrades die in the crossfire. Armed with the memories of his lost friends and the newfound knowledge of Sephiroth’s plans, he departs Midgar in hope of saving the planet and safeguarding a future for his daughter Marlene.

—Weapon: Gunarm

What he lacks in speed, he makes up for in both sturdiness and strength, converting his anger toward Shinra into raw firepower. He employs a variety of ranged attacks, from rapid-fire salvos to powerful explosions, which allow him to strike foes high in the air or across the battlefield.

Tifa Lockhart (voiced by Britt Baron in English, Ayumi Ito in Japanese)

“Ever wish you could just snap your fingers and forget the worst stuff?”

Though a loyal member of Avalanche—an underground organization that opposes Shinra—Tifa nevertheless questions the group’s extremist tactics, struggling to reconcile her cause with her conscience. This internal conflict reaches a fever pitch when her group’s actions effectively lead to the fall of the Sector 7 plate. Racked with guilt, she leaves Midgar in search of a new path to tread.

—Weapon: Gloves

She strings together swift combos while utilizing a variety of martial art techniques. Her ATB fills quickly, allowing for the use of multiple abilities in rapid succession. She also boasts several skills that deal more damage to airborne or staggered foes.

Aerith Gainsborough (voiced by Briana White in English, Maaya Sakamoto in Japanese)

“Just look at it all… A living, breathing planet. Even after everything we’ve done to it, it’s still going strong.”

A flower seller who lives in the Sector 5 undercity and the last remaining descendant of the Cetra, a people known for communing with the planet. Shinra takes her prisoner in their efforts to reach the Cetra’s foretold “promised land,” but Cloud and company come to her rescue. She escapes Midgar and embarks on a journey into the outside world of which she has long dreamed.

—Weapon: Staff

Utilizing the power of magic, she casts spells from a safe distance and launches attacks that home in on her foes. She can also conjure beneficial wards and warp between them, as well as restore the party’s HP with her limit break.

Red XIII (voiced by Max Mittelman in English, Kappei Yamaguchi in Japanese)

“I may be clad in fur…but that doesn’t mean I’ll purr.”

Red XIII is a beast with a flaming tail, crimson fur, deadly claws, and the ability to speak. Cloud and company help him escape Professor Hojo’s clutches, and he decides to join them on their journey. His species is known for their long life spans, and he is no exception. As this Cosmo Canyon native is the eldest member of the party, he offers its members words of wisdom from time to time.

—Weapon: Collar

He sets upon foes with an unrelenting assault, laying into them with a beastly ferocity. Guarding against incoming attacks will feed his Vengeance gauge. Once it is full, he can unleash his inner beast, but sufficient skill is required to maximize its potential.

Yuffie Kisaragi (voiced by Suzie Yeung in English, Yumi Kakazu in Japanese)

“If I win, you get the honor of serving yours truly!”

A member of Wutai’s elite corps of ninja operatives, Yuffie infiltrates Midgar on a mission to steal the “ultimate materia” from Shinra. Her plan ends in disaster, as she fails to claim the materia and loses her partner Sonon in the struggle. Just as working alone begins to take its toll on her, however, Cloud’s group comes into the picture.

—Weapon: Throwing Star

Using her throwing star and ninja skills, she excels at both long- and close-range combat. Elemental ninjutsu allows her to exploit enemies’ weaknesses without relying on spells. She also keeps opponents on their toes with a variety of aerial attacks and tricky techniques.

Cait Sith (voiced by Paul Tinto in English, Hideo Ishikawa in Japanese)

“Alright, everyone! By popular request: a fortune or two to steer you true!”

A wisecracking, feline-shaped robot often seen poised atop his big moogle pal. One of the Gold Saucer’s most popular mascots, he is well loved for his fortune telling—a service he also offers to Cloud and friends. His adorable appearance also belies access to a surprising amount of insider intel on Shinra.

Sephiroth (voiced by Tyler Hoechlin in English, Toshiyuki Morikawa in Japanese)

“Don’t be afraid. It’s not death—it’s a homecoming.”

A former SOLDIER: 1st class of legendary renown, he is said to have died in the line of duty in Nibelheim five years ago. This is proven untrue when he appears at the Shinra Building and absconds with a research specimen known as “Jenova.” He now toys with Cloud at every opportunity, seeking to change the course of destiny and rule the planet.

Zack Fair (voiced by Caleb Piece in English, Kenichi Suzumura in Japanese)

“I dunno—hopes? Dreams, maybe? Something like that! So long as we’ve got those—and hold on tight and never let go.”

Zack may have worked with Sephiroth as a SOLDIER: 1st class, but he trained under a different operator, and it is from this man that he both learned to take pride in his work and received his iconic buster sword. After a grueling battle in which he overcomes the odds and cheats death, Zack returns to Midgar—where he hopes to see his love Aerith—with a mako-poisoned Cloud in tow.

■ System

The Evolved World of Final Fantasy VII

In this game, players can freely roam across lush grasslands and rugged wildernesses, all while enjoying a wide variety of quests and mini-games. Face off against the threats that await you by teaming up with your comrades and unleashing powerful new synergy abilities.

Combat

Action and strategy combine in thrilling combat, now made even more exciting thanks to the addition of new team-based abilities.

From flashy, action-packed fights to slower, strategic battles, this game offers ways for players of all persuasions to enjoy combat.

World

The world is divided into several regions, with each one offering different environments to explore and experience. Where you go and how you get there is up to you.

■ Combat: Basic Systems

Fighting

Press [□] to perform a normal attack. Dealing damage will also fill the ATB gauge needed to use abilities and spells.

Commands

Open the command menu with [x] to enter Tactical Mode, which slows down the passage of time. Devise your strategies in the moment or register commands as shortcuts and use them as your intuition deems fit.

Abilities

Equipping weapons and setting materia will grant access to a wide range of abilities. Using these abilities requires you to expend charges from the ATB gauge, which fills as time passes or whenever you deal damage.

Magic

Magic materia can be set in weapons and armor to enable the use of spells such as Fire and Cure. Casting spells consumes both ATB charges as well as MP.

Unique Abilities

Press [△] to activate a character’s unique ability. Some of these abilities do not require ATB, but instead take time to charge.

…And More

■ Combat: Summons

Summons

Setting summoning materia will grant access to the power of the gods. A conjured deity will follow the player’s lead and fight enemies automatically, but you can also instruct them to use special abilities. Before they depart the battlefield, summons will unleash one final attack powerful enough to wipe out any foe.

Odin

A horse-riding swordsman who brandishes an enormous blade known as Zantetsuken. He gallops toward foes and sends them flying with a single, sweeping slash.

Alexander

An enormous, armor-plated weapon that towers over even other summons. No ordinary foe could possibly withstand an assault from its entire arsenal.

■ Combat: New Systems

Synergy Abilities

Powerful attacks in which two characters team up to turn the tide of battle. More abilities will unlock as you increase the party level—a numerical expression of how closely-knit your team is—and deepen the affinity between party members. Fill the synergy gauge by using unique abilities and prepare to unleash a synchronized assault!

Cloud / Sephiroth: “Double Helix”

Sephiroth unleashes an elegant flurry of strikes, and Cloud does his best to follow suit.

Aerith / Cait Sith: “Kitty Cannonade”

Aerith imbues Cait Sith’s moogle with magical energy and unleashes a ranged attack.

Yuffie / Barret: “Ninja Carbine”

More Barret and Yuffie lean into their shared prowess and unleash a ranged attack.

…And More

■ World: Chocobos

Chocobos are the adorable feathered friends of the Final Fantasy series. In this game, once you catch a chocobo in the wild, you can call it at any time in that region, and it will offer you special assistance in traversing its home terrain. You can also customize your chocobo’s equipment to create a steed that’s suited just for you.

Chocobo

Hop aboard your chocobo to explore the world with ease. Try sprinting if you’re in a hurry to reach your next destination.

Mountain Chocobos

Using their mighty talons, these chocobos can climb up and down steep slopes that bear special markings. Even if a destination seems inaccessible by foot, you might be able to get there on chocoback.

Sky Chocobos

These chocobos can take flight from gliding ranges and soar across peaks and valleys. Take to the skies and nothing will stand in your way.

■ World: New Forms of Transportation

In addition to chocobos, this game features many ways to get from one place to another. Take your friends on a buggy ride through the wastelands or do some seaside sightseeing aboard a wheelie… Put these various vehicles to use as you explore the world!

Buggy

The buggy, which can be ridden across sandy terrain, can also drive through shallow water and travel faster than chocobos. Buckle up and take the party on a wild ride through the vast desert.

Wheelie

In the seaside resort of Costa del Sol, you can ride around on a wheelie, a two-wheeled self-balancing vehicle. Tour the town at your own pace, all while taking in the beautiful scenery of this land of eternal summer.

■ World: Minigames

Not only stories and battles, but all kinds of unique elements of fun await players.

Enjoy the numerous minigames available across the game’s world.

G-Bike

The “Spinning Slash,” which uses a large sword to reap enemies, and the super-accelerating “Nitrous Boost” are just a few of the many things you can do in this bike game. Fight off the relentless gun-shooting participants and win the battle that goes beyond just speed.

Chocobo Races

A fierce race to test your chocobo riding skills. Break the balloons that appear along the way to use various techniques. Deepen the bond with your chocobo and aim for first place.

3D Brawler

Manipulate 3D polygons and take on your opponent in a one-on-one match. Avoid your opponent’s attacks and deliver a powerful punch. If you have powerful limit moves that you can unleash by continuing to land hits, victory will surely be yours.

■ Messages from the Development Staff

Yoshinori Kitase, Producer

“Final Fantasy VII Rebirth has been set for release on February 29, 2024. This second installment of the Final Fantasy VII remake project will feature elements from the previous game, as well as greatly enhanced features such as the vast world map to explore and synergy abilities with party members. The story will unfold more dramatically than ever before, with a rapid pace of major twists and turns. We know fans are dying to see one scene in particular…

“Final Fantasy VII Rebirth can be enjoyed on its own as a standalone adventure, with the party leaving Midgar to explore the wide world beyond. But for those wishing to deepen their understanding of the story, a recap of the previous game will also be provided.

“We hope that both fans and those who have never played Final Fantasy before will enjoy this game.”

Naoki Hamaguchi, Director

“We are finally able to announce the release date to all of you! We have been working tirelessly on Final Fantasy VII Rebirth since the release of Final Fantasy VII Remake, and we can’t wait for you to experience our labor of love. In this title, Cloud and his friends, who have fled Midgar, will be setting out on an adventure across an expansive world of untold adventure in pursuit of Sephiroth.

“While the main storyline is bigger and more ambitious than the previous game’s narrative, Final Fantasy VII Rebirth also embraces the concept of ‘free exploration,’ with compelling stories, fun mini-games, powerful monsters and so much more to find throughout the world map. We hope you will explore this world in great detail, as nearly 100 hours of adventure awaits.

“We hope you will take this new Final Fantasy game experience in your own hands to enjoy.”

Tetsuya Nomura, Creative Director

“This is the second title of a trilogy, and covers between the start of the journey outside Midgar to the midpoint of the original Final Fantasy VII. If Final Fantasy VII Remake was an introduction to the world and a preparation for this journey, Final Fantasy VII Rebirth serves as an illustration of the incidents that started the journey, an exploration of the people tied to it, and the journey itself, heading toward its climax. Many elements were carefully selected for this title and because this is a series, we have the unique opportunity to review and incorporate feedback from the previous title, such as by increasing the number of characters. I am sure that the bar for the next work will be raised even higher now that we have included so many spectacular elements in this work, but even so, the entire team continues to work diligently and without compromise on its development.

“There is also the looming question of what fate awaits. Whether you have experienced the original title or will embark on this adventure with fresh eyes, we hope you will face the ending of this work on your own terms.”

#Final Fantasy VII Rebirth #FFVII Rebirth #Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth #FF7 Rebirth #Final Fantasy VII Remake #FFVIIR #Final Fantasy 7 Remake #FF7R #Final Fantasy VII #FFVII #Final Fantasy 7 #FF7 #Final Fantasy #Square Enix #video game #PS5 #State of Play #long post

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I am... fully obsessed with the magic doll story you wrote. Is there any possibility one day getting an expansion (heh) that included other aspects of the ask, like getting Bucky drunk or making him horny and cum from a distance?? Sorry, I had no idea I would like it that much 👀

This magic doll

I'm not sure how much this expands on the original idea, but... I just blacked out and came back with this, so 🤷🏻‍♂️ have it 😂😂

(Also, tagging @bnb-atnite because she went feral for that story 👀)

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink. Mostly rapid and magical weight gain, some vague dubious concent vibes but not really, etc.

I’d like to think that Steve likes to take his boy toy out on the town, showing him off, the media thinks they’re dating, but they don’t know that this pretty, young twink is Steve’s toy. Paid for and still pampered by Steve’s wealth.

As a result of Steve taking him out to the most lavish, expensive dinners, showing him off, alongside Steve’s need to keep his reputation (relatively) controversy-free… Steve has to unstuff the magic doll when they go out for the aforementioned high society vanity and practical reasons. For vanity, paparazzi would ruin them (as hot as it would get Steve) if Bucky waddled out of their building, thighs not only rubbing together but spilling out against each other, all that fat jiggling and forcing his legs further apart than they normally would be when he walks, turning his smooth walk into a wide-legged, ponderous staggering. The whole time he would need Steve to hold onto, his balance so fickle when he’s that fucking big. Steve’s arm fighting to make it all the way around his thick, soft waist and getting lost in between those heavy, overflowing rolls; Bucky’s chubby hand tight on his muscular forearm, clinging to him, complete contrast; Bucky huffing and puffing, his chubby cheeks red and misted with sweat, pure exertion from all that weight packed onto his frame and being forced to walk the short distance from the elevator to the lobby to their waiting, chauffeured car where he needs Steve to help stuff him into the backseat, fighting all his blubber, it’s a good thing that they don’t buckle up in the back because even with an extender… Bucky wouldn’t fit, meanwhile, Steve isn’t out of breath at all, not a hair out of place, nothing but a cocky smile on his lips, after all, with his workout regime he could skip the elevator down from their top floor penthouse, run the flights of stairs, down, up, then down again, and still be fine. But not Bucky. Bucky’s overburdened frame, overflowing with this soft, luxurious blubber, would cause quite the media frenzy, feeding off of him. And God knows there’s enough to feed off of. Steve would get off on it, but he doesn’t do it. For practicality, they can’t leave the penthouse with the magic doll, and subsequently with Bucky so round and heavy, because Bucky can’t move very well when his body is stuffed with fat. When the magic doll - always in Steve’s pocket, ready to be manipulated and played with whenever Steve feels like it - nearly bursting at the seams with so much fiberfill, Bucky can hardly maneuver around the penthouse, much less the outside world. In the penthouse, he knocks stuff over with his shelf-ass, he gets stuck in doorways (and even in Steve’s impressive, huge shower stall), he finds it difficult to waddle more than a few inches before becoming exhausted, he complains about having to use his arms because when he does his heavy, big tits get in the way, and, just, anything that isn’t sitting on his ass, mounding out underneath him like a thick cushion, is hard. So, when he’s so huge, he sits and lets himself be pampered. However Steve wants him, so long as it’s resting, he’s good.

However, as much as it makes Bucky pout when he’s unstuffed, returning to that little twink he was when Steve first bought him, it’s totally worth it once they’re done with their little date and he gets to experience being supersized all over again. There’s nothing like a public dinner date filled with foreplay, knowing that the real fun begins when they get home where Steve can have him to himself and mold his body into whatever form he wants, all for him to play with him. Touch him, fatten him, grope him, spank him, fuck him, even fuck his rolls. Whatever he wants. It’s about what he wants. Bucky is a toy, his needs don’t matter, he’s just here to be Steve’s. And Steve’s going to play with him. Roughly or softly, he’ll play however he wants.

So, their date is foreplay in the form of Steve buying courses and courses and courses of expensive, fancy food that come in tiny portions that Bucky always swears will never fill him up, only to sing (pant, really) a different tune in an hour when the plates are still coming and he’s not so sure he has any more room. If not for Steve demanding that he keep eating - he paid for it, didn’t he? Bucky isn’t sure if he’s talking about the food or Bucky himself. Jesus Christ, that’s hot. - claiming he wants to have to hold him close to his side when they leave so the cameras don’t catch that Bucky’s popped at least one button off of his shirt, the pressure of his swollen belly just too much for the expensive cloth and thread. And if he doesn’t pop a button, if he doesn’t finish all his food, well, maybe he’ll have to go to bed without an orgasm and without all the fat he so desperately wants to be packed back onto him, addicted to how soft he’s grown (ha) used to being under Steve’s pampering care.

So.

Bucky eats.

He eats and eats and eats, always moaning at the rich tastes of the decadent foods, easily letting Steve continue to fill his wine glass until he’s satisfied with Bucky making a pig of himself in public. Stuffing his face. The evidence is clear on his body - his belly distended into a tight, pregnant-looking globe.

In the bathroom before they leave, Steve slaps his tender gut a handful of times, weakening Bucky’s knees until he’s leaning against Steve’s chest, panting hard, his eyes rolling to the back of his head with a whimper as he feels all the food inside him shift and churn, he’s so full and Steve’s being so mean. The burn of his slaps is barely diffused by his tight, tight shirt. The smacks are just to make him focus, though, Steve knows how dumb his spoiled toy gets, and he needs a reminder to suck in as much as he can while they walk to the car. Keep up the reputation. Then, once they’re inside, he can let his greedy belly bloat back out. Nearly moaning into his collar, practically drooling on him, Bucky nods and struggles to right himself.

They stumble through camera flashes into the car to go home.

Bucky whines and moans through the car ride, Steve’s heavy, hot palm resting possessively on his starter belly for the night, the bulk of his body close, leaning into him. His lips are pressed close to Bucky’s ear, whispering about how he can’t wait to watch this chubby belly swell into a real fat gut and… hmm, y’know, maybe he can’t wait. Maybe he’ll pull out the magic doll in the interior pocket of his suit jacket and start puffing him up right here. Wouldn’t that be fun? He could give Bucky huge, big tits again and then force him to walk from the car to the doors of their building with them wobbling and spilling out of his shirt. Wouldn’t the gossip rags have fun with that? Talking about how this tiny little twink went and got himself big, mommy milkers… or maybe, maybe he should stuff his ass, make it huge and give everyone in the city, hell, with Steve’s business being a household name, everyone in the country something to jerk off to. That big, fat ass.

Bucky is panting. Forget foreplay, this is… it’s midplay? Just play? It’s so much more than simple foreplay to get him riled up. He's past riled.

His belly is stuffed to the point that he might burst and he’s so hard in his slacks, his belt biting into his waist, that he’s achy. He wants Steve to play with his dick right now. He doesn’t care that he’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t do any of that, and he’s just talking. He doesn’t know 100%. And he could. Bucky is his to play with. He could do whatever he wanted to him. If he wanted he could take his clothes and make him do the walk of shame up to their building, streaking with his stuffed, glutted middle bulging out in front of him like Steve’s fucked him so good, so often, that he’s defied the laws of biology and impregnated him despite his lack of uterus.

Steve caresses his tender middle, dragging his fingertips just hard enough over him, that he shudders. A soft, “please,” comes out in a whine.

Steve just nips his ear, hushing him.

Bucky swears that he nearly dies, his heart pounding so hard in his chest, on the way back to the penthouse. He’s too turned on. He’s gonna explode. Anticipation and fullness are so overwhelming together.

Once they’re behind the heavy, solid wood door of the penthouse Steve stops dragging him along, possessive but also reasonable because Bucky’s not sure how he’s still walking, he’s not even that heavy, he’s just too turned on, there’s nothing going on in his head. So, Bucky stops in his tracks, Steve goes to the kitchen for… something, meanwhile, he sticks to the door, leaning against the cool surface, trying to catch his breath.

It doesn’t hit Bucky that it’s intentional on Steve’s part until, oh, God -

He’s squirming in pleasure with the tingling, stretching feeling of his body expanding. It’s magical. Literally. But it feels magical, too. It’s so much better, after a break of being back in his “normal” body, he’s fucking dying here, feeling himself balloon right back up. It will never get old. It’s tight and tingly, his skin fighting to keep up with the pure lard that’s exponentially filling him, almost like the sensation of pins and needles. So, so intense. It’s hot like fire spreading through him. It’s such a stretch that it takes his breath away, he feels like an inflatable parade balloon. Fuck, he’s about to be the size of one, too.

Bucky moans, tortured by the sensation and by the fact that he can hear Steve, his footsteps on the wooden floor, chuckling as he waltzes out of the kitchen and further away from Bucky - it sounds like he’s heading for the bedroom, which, fuck yeah, but Bucky can’t move! He’s still expanding!

Heavier and heavier, wider and wider.

It feels like he’s swelling to fill the whole door frame. Like he’s gonna get stuck again! He moans loudly at the thought, there’s really nothing as sexy as Steve coming up behind him to unstick him, teasing him for “letting” himself get so big (as if he has any choice with the power Steve has over him), and then getting his hands all over his body, sinking into his soft, plush fat, grunting with the effort of shoving and shoving, making the parts of his body that aren’t wedged in tight jiggle and wobble in waves until he stumbles forward, dazed from how turned on it all makes him.

Bucky’s still swelling.

What’s better or worse-? Getting fattened in the blink of an eye, suddenly woomph, hugely obese and incredibly off-balance and so aroused, or having it accumulate just fast enough for him to feel his body struggling to keep up, his heart pounding as he knows what’s coming.

“Buck?” Steve calls, beckoning him forward.

He struggles through a few steps, his new weight making his muscles tremble while his mind weakens. He’s shaking. He’s already so close to begging out loud. He just wants more already. He wants it fast. He wants it now! Fatten meeee! Swell me!

Bucky uses the walls and furniture along the way to the bedroom to steady himself, fighting to keep walking when he really just wants to fall to his knees to enjoy the sensation that’s overtaking his whole body.

Swelling.

Filling out.

Inflating.

Bloating.

Shit, it’s so good.

By the time he gets to the end of the hall that leads back to the master bedroom and bathroom, he’s sweating. Steve is standing there, leaning against the door frame, smirking at him, eyes dark as he watches his struggles. He’s holding that fucking doll and a mass wad of stuffing. Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat, his dick twitching like an excitable pet hearing the word “dinner.”

Then -

“OH!”

Steve forces all of the huge mass of stuffing into the little magic doll, making it bulge.

At first, it all settles right into the doll’s belly, the biggest open space available. It’s so much that Bucky stumbles and falls onto his suddenly massively, massively round gut. The thump sound of his impact would be laughable if it weren’t so fucking obscene. He is so excessive. SO fat. The air is knocked out of him. His head is spinning. He’s so fucking turned on. He could come like this. He could. He’s on top of his gut, his legs forced to spread so wide around the massive shape of his gut, and -

A whole long moan that’s almost more like a wail leaves Bucky, emptying his lungs of all oxygen as Steve takes the ungodly huge chunk of stuffing straining the doll’s limits in its tummy and massages it. He smooths the big ball of fiberfill out, distributing it more evenly throughout Bucky’s frame. Bucky can’t breathe. It feels like there are hands all over him, touching him, touching him, touching him, squishing, squeezing, and groping his fat. He feels like a pillow being fluffed. But a heavy pillow. It's so heavy that he doesn’t think he’s ever going to walk again. Guh. How does he ever get used to this feeling between their public outings? It’s mind-melting. With Steve touching him without touching him, his belly shrinks, but the whole rest of his body thickens, evening out, leaving Bucky much chunkier, but on all-fours rather than resting on top of his gut.

Of course, once he’s done massaging him, Steve stuffs him more. Filling the freed-up space.

More.

He makes his body so thick, his arms and legs blubbery and his belly nearly sagging to the floor while he trembles on his hands and knees. To deal with the weight, Bucky arches his back, but it doesn’t help him deal with how turned on he is - if anything, it makes him hornier because he can feel how his thick ass jiggles and pops out more. He could get fucked like this; if he’s not too fat for Steve’s dick to reach his hole yet, he could get fucked like this; he wants to be fucked like this. So bad. He wants Steve to fuck him, grope him, jiggle him, and fatten him.

More.

He’s so fucking spoiled. Weakly, plaintively whining, begging without words as his arms and legs slide farther apart under the still-increasing weight of his body. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck meee. If Steve keeps pushing him he’s gonna be laying on top of his fat rather than crawling on all fours soon. He’s too soft and weak! Absolutely spoiled.

“Buck, honey-”

Steve’s voice makes Bucky stretch his head up, blearily looking at him through the haze of arousal.

His voice has softened “-quit playing around and come to bed, baby. I know your tummy hurts after dinner, c’mere and I’ll rub your belly in bed, don’t you want me to make it better?” he’s too good at playing the doting, innocent husband of an overdue wife considering that he’s the one doing this to Bucky, fattening him, driving him insane with too much and not enough pleasure.

With a whimper Bucky tries to crawl forward again, wobbling, his body fighting so hard to do something so simple that’s so hard when he’s so fucking heavy. He can’t make it and he opens his mouth to beg for help, he can’t do it! He’s too big! When -

A truly shameless, obscene sound comes out of Bucky. Before he knows what’s happened and why he’s suddenly so hot and so sweaty and so close to coming, Bucky is going down. He’s suddenly crumbling onto the floor face first, putting his weight on his tender gut and belching through another desperate moan. He can’t take it. He can’t -

Steve.

Fucking! Steve! So mean!

Just barely, Bucky can make out that Steve is holding the doll, not passively stuffing whisps of fiberfill into its body but now rubbing it. He’s rubbing the, the…

Oh, Jesus, just looking at what he’s doing to the doll, and thus doing to Bucky, makes embarrassment riot inside him. It’s so dirty!

He’s rubbing the crotch of the magic doll. He’s pleasuring it! Pleasuring Bucky!

His eyes roll to the back of his head, going limp in stunned arousal.

It fucking feels like he’s pouring pleasure straight into his body through his dick. It’s like being jerked off and sucked off and humping his own fat all at the same time. It’s like nothing else, he’s never felt something so good. It’s melting his mind. It’s ruining him for any other pleasure that doesn’t come from being so gluttonous and out of control.

Bucky can feel himself quivering on top of the cushion of his squished, fat belly. He can feel his dick, trapped where he can’t reach it under all his heavy, thick blubber twitching and leaking. He’s sweating so much, running the hottest fever. He’s wailing, voice breaking, when without fucking touching him Steve jerks him off to orgasm. It’s hot and wet against his own skin but Bucky can’t see it, the dirty evidence is hidden by his swollen body. The whole time, Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes on him, focused and burning, as captivated with him as a cat that’s just spotted an impressively fat mouse, deepened with the sadism of a predator whose only pleasure is unraveling its prey like a spool of thread. And just to make it worse, dragging him through the last twitches of his orgasm, Steve pinches the doll’s belly, undeniably delighted to hear how Bucky’s moans change tune.

It hurts to be groped so hard - his belly is under so much pressure already with him on top of it, and adding to it is… it’s, it’s unbearable. It feels so good. All he wants is to be touched and he is being touched but he wants Steve to actually touch him, he doesn’t want magic, he wants it to be real, and he’s already aching for more. Spoiled. He wants to be hefted into bed and turned over, rolled onto his back where he’s pinned and made into a bloated, swollen playground for Steve to touch, grope, hump, and climb all over. He wants Steve on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his thick blubber, jiggling it, and grinding into it, getting red in the face as he reaches his own high, getting off on what he’s done to Bucky. How he’s ruined and perverted him. How he owns him. He can do anything he wants to him, and Bucky will lick it up and beg for more like the greedy boy toy he is.

Me rn:

Did I realize AFTER I wrote this whole thing that I neglected to talk about Bucky's clothes tearing off of him as he got fatter? Yes. Is that evidence of my brain being horny scrambled? You bet your ass it is 😂

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #magic weight gain #magical weight gain #rapid weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #fat bucky #stucky #immobility #button pop

[globalrebrand]

Living with Them

Warnings: Post-grad, married boys, fluff, slight not sfw.

Vil

My personal headcanon is that Vil buys a beautiful estate with massive amounts of land. It's 500 acres and something absurd like 12 bedrooms 15 bathrooms, including the expansive guest house(s).

It's outside the city to offer you both more privacy. Likely when you were dating, Vil lived in a gorgeous penthouse in the city that he moved you into but as a married man he wants to keep you far away from any would be prying eyes. Especially after paparazzi in a helicopter caught him fucking you on the balcony.

It sits right on a beautiful lake with ample grounds and historical features. It even has a orangery filled with poisonous varieties of plants and a little pond!

It has all the amenities he could want in house. Pool, massage room, sauna, home gym (you have side by side treadmills for when it gets too cold to run outside on the beautifully landscaped trail that runs around the property) A massive kitchen with every appliance hidden conveniently away.

Your home is certainly excessive, but incredibly stylish and environmentally sustainable! It's featured in several architectural magazines across TW. The style is eclectic modernist rococo. Which sounds crazy in theory but works sooooo well. Vil (with your input) mixed a bunch of high quality old and new piece that seemingly wouldn't go together but actually look amazing in the space.

Vil looks forward to picnicking in the private gardens with you. Vil loves coming home to you preparing him lunches midday.

The neighborhood is full of other celebrities from the Shaftlands and for whatever fucking reason Neige lives two manors over which would piss him off immensely if you weren't there to kiss and coo over him after every time Neige stopped by for an extended chat.

Jack

A nice modern house in the burbs.

He's busting out of his button downs for his upstanding job in a magical ministry. Likely one pertaining to botany or the environment.

He wouldn't be one for the hustle and bustle of the city all the time, so you likely live in a posh city suburb. Ironically near Vil even thought your house is considerably more modest.

It's likely you both work to achieve a nice life style, but Jack reminds you all the time that you can quit and he'd just take care of you. He likes being a provider for his spouse.

The house winds up being a nice blend of your personal style if not masculine leaning. Jack would be the partner who you'd expect to let you do what you want with decor but then all of a sudden he’s putting his foot down about the velvet yellow sofa you chose for some long sharp looking leather sofa.

Jack makes sure the house has room for you to grow. It’s likely not your forever home. But there are 3-4 bedrooms that Jack sees as potential offices/guest rooms or nurseries.

Jack is on the neighborhood committee regarding landscaping. Takes his duties very seriously. Is the right hand of Sylvia the committee chair and resident 95 year old woman on the block.

In the summers he can frequently be seen out front watering the plants in your lawn shirtless while the stay at home spouses in the neighborhood ogle him from their windows.

Ruggie

A nice apartment in a neighborhood that Ruggie swears is gentrifying. He loves to tell you that once the neighborhood turns the corner your property will skyrocket in value. But you're convinced that change is at least a good ten if not twenty years away.

Ruggie packs your lunch for work with a canister of pepper spray. Doesn't let you leave home with out it, but also won't agree to move neighborhoods until your home can turn a substantial profit on the market. Especially considering that the apartment was a fixer upper and needed way too much work to be livable. You almost divorced him multiple times through the renovation process.

But if you're being honest, you're pretty happy with how it turned out. Ruggie has great taste. It's a spacious apartment with ample bedrooms and multiple living areas. It gets great light and even has a balcony, even has a nice rooftop. You and Ruggie are in agreement that in any other part of this city the unit would have gone for several hundred thousand thurmarks over what you paid for it.

...But the sounds of blastcycle racing, random spells going off, swearing and the realization that you're contributing to the gentrification of the area makes you remember why it's kind of terrible.

Chances are he invited some of his family members to live in the guest bedrooms so it's an intergenerational household. His grandma lives there, his siblings who are still in school crash at your place during the holidays. Since back home isn’t as nice.

So whenever you and Ruggie have the house truly to yourselves you both walk around naked and get frisky on the couch since its such a rarity.

Cater

A house so chic and trendy! Likely a modern townhouse But...it's a little impractical for the sake of aesthetics. His parent's helped with the down payment so you get to live in a house way above your paygrades.

Cater was wayyy too fixated on getting every inch of the apartment to have good lighting. But to his credit every inch of the home has lush and warm light that is very magicamable.

Likes cooking with you! He’s ok at the actual cooking but he really thrives on plating. And if we're being honest you both order out most nights.

Uses his clones to do household chores.

Your home is definitely cozy, but slightly edgy. Wanted to make sure every surface was comfy enough for him to rail you against. Bright and bold colors fill every corner, but the interior designer his mom hired for you made sure that everything still looks nice and cohesive.

He probably skateboards to his high paying office job.

You probably live in the Shaftlands since staying close to Cater's parents was the only way they'd pay for your sweet pad. Which means they visit often. On multiple occasions you and Cater have had to turn the lights off and duck behind the sofa when his mom and sisters make impromptu visits.

But that means when the old boys from school come for a visit they crash at your place.

Cater loves hosting parties, every other weekend your home is hosting some type of event with your mutual friends.

#vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #ruggie x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie bucci x reader #cater diamond #cater x reader #cater diamond x reader #jack howl #jack x reader #jack howl x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst wonderland #twst x reader

[rottingfern]

all the wine is all for me || a Bad Omens fanfic

Summary: Noah’s just admiring his gains. Perhaps he’s a little more proud of his progress than the average guy. There’s definitely not a secret third reason for why he’s spending so much time in front of the mirror…

Pairing: Noah x himself lol

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: unbeta'd trash. masturbation. narcissism in the greek mythology way not the psychology way

A/N: I drank a lot of wine (what else is new) and also @throughwoodsanddirt showed me that one panel from the comics that made me cackle so hard because damn Noah just really thinks he's hot as fuck huh and then I cackled until I wrote this fic

Brainrot Club: @familiarscarsxelectrichearts @throughwoodsanddirt @cowpokeomens

Masterlist here.

Title taken from All the Wine by The National; banner made by me (using Caravaggio's Narcissus); dividers by @saradika

Noah’s reflection is smiling at him. 

That, of course, is explainable by the fact that he himself is smiling; grinning, in fact, because he just looks so damn good. His gains this month were frankly goddamn impressive. Already he can see the widening of his chest to form an inverted triangle of his torso, the definition building in his bicep when he flexes.

What worries him, though, is the naughty glint in his reflection’s eye, the too-sharp canines, the raise of a single eyebrow that he definitely is not capable of reproducing. Never has been. 

He knows this look. Once, he had a fling with this girl who was an absolute freak, gets him half-hard even just remembering half the things she got up to between the sheets. And the fucking cherry on top: she loved making movies. Editing those for her unfailingly devolved into multiple-hours long dates between him and his hand. The face he’s making - his reflection is making - is the one that painted his face in the movies when she, pointing her phone to get his reaction, would ask him for the nastiest shit he’d thought only a fantasy in porn. 

So it makes no sense that he’s looking at his reflection like this, because it’s not like he’s into himself. 

His hand beelines south down the expanse of his strong (so goddamn strong, he’ll have definition in his six-pack any day now) stomach. That’s definitely not something he’s doing of his own volition. He’s not that self-absorbed. 

Well, that’s a lie. He’s not gay (unless you count the exploratory hand stuff him and Nick did as teens), but if he could, he’d totally fuck himself. 

It takes a bit of effort to shuck the grey sweats he’d worn down his hips with one hand, distracted as he is with the shapes his other arm makes as it continues to flex in the mirror. These used to be pretty loose, just crossing the line of oversized on him. Now, they’re filled by thick thighs and marble-cut hip flexors. With a single finger, he traces the vee framing trimmed pubic hair. These used to show just a hint of the magic underneath. Now, his hardness bulges a vulgar display. 

Dropping the band even just an inch springs the tip of his cock, leaking and ready to play. It’s the only part of his body he’s never been self-conscious of, because God or whoever else decided he at least deserved a win in that department when they decided to make him a skinny bitch with weak lungs. Gives the girls who settle for him a nice reward. 

Except, he never gets this hard for all the pretty girls he bags. This - the red, burning tip, the feeling like if he touches it he’ll cum in just a few strokes, the pain of wanting to draw the pleasure out as long as he can - is reserved only for the times he’s fucking his hand. 

There’s a quiet battle of wills that follows between giving up inspecting his gains and giving into his own touch. He cups his balls through his sweats, head kicking back tugged by an invisible hand at the squeeze. Noah’s sure the column of his throat looks positively delicious like this, has seen enough photos of himself in this devout escape onstage, and thinks he’s no better than all the commenters saying they’d like to lick it. He’d do it instantly, and he knows it’d feel good.

In the end, the sweats come down his thighs. He’s never denied himself pleasure so heavily mounted, not when paraded before him so, not when the boundaries are inexistent. He won’t let himself be fucking tease.

The drag of the calluses on his fingers against the tenderhot flesh of his cock sends gooseflesh up his arms. 

His toes numb for a moment as he finally takes himself in hand at the base, breath hitching wetly as he watches his hand wrap against himself. He’s heavy in his hand even to himself, so thick and veiny and so hard. A drop of precum splashes his thigh before he even has a chance to run his hand up the length. He collects it with his pinky when he reaches the tip, not daring let it go to waste. 

Thunder thighs has always been a confusing insult to him. Thighs are the strength in legs, the support to a body, the place you put your hand to hint your desire to a lover. Thighs are his handles when buried in a lover - the cradle to what every person wants most from another. Years of touring and running out of underwear have made him accustomed to going commando, but since his thighs filled out - though he now can afford to just buy a five-pack Hanes on a whim - he prefers it. There’s never a better cradle for a commando cock than a thick set of thighs. 

The overeager spit bubbles as it mingles with the precum on his palm, glistening in the mid-afternoon sun. The way they rapidly deflate feels like a countdown, one he’s determined to beat, and so finally, finally, he takes himself in hand earnestly. 

He can’t help the strangled hiss that escapes.

Noah’s usually pretty quiet in bed. Doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with voicing his pleasure, with sharing the secret of how easy to please he is with a partner. But, fuck, does he love talking himself through it. “C’mon, baby,” he chants to his hand as it increases speed. “So fucking good,” he groans through gritted teeth. 

His voice is so fucking smooth. So fucking deep when he speaks through his chest. Just the perfect amount of grit that, if he shuts his eyes, he can feel reverberate through his nape and scalp and bang against the back of his nose as the sound waves travel to his cochlea. 

He won’t shut his eyes now. Never - not when he’s looking like that with his brow furrowed, gaze hard and nearly icy, nostrils flared and jaw clenched tight. 

He clenches it tighter, raises his chin just so to create the illusion of that perfect jawline. 

“Noah,” he moans, “god, Noah, fuck.” It echoes in his ear, and it is his voice, but he swears he didn’t feel his lips move as he watches them round around each syllable in his reflection. 

His name sounds so good rolling off his own tongue. 

Release hits Noah not like a full-speed bullet train, but the way it feels when you pulled your first tooth: slow, painful, and with each tug more builds up until it just pops out. Only after does he register the relief, the shoot of tension up his spine to burst behind his eyes and temples, the numbness in his fingers as he struggles to jerk himself through. 

Just those few final caresses. His cum blinds him with exploding stars and broken breaths. It paints the mirror in sloppy strokes of seminal goo, but he supposes that’s what Windex is for. 

Before he registers the signal from brain to limb he kneels, the rough of his wall-to-wall carpet digging into his knees as he releases his eager tongue. The spend is saltybitter when it coats the bed of his taste buds, slimy as it runs down the ramp of his throat. Noah makes sure to collect every single drop. 

He doesn’t feel shame when his eyes meet his own in the wet, distorted reflection once he’s done savoring himself. “You did so well, baby,” he says. “Such a good baby.”

His reflection nods eagerly, eyelids fluttering blissfully, head dropping as Noah’s neck stays stiff and still, eyes wide open. 

God damn, he is a sight to be seen.

#noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #crackfic #noah x noah #fern words

[crystallizedtwilight]

After going through your sketches of the newly renovated LSB treehouse, I updated and booted up my old sims 4 (and even bought some spooky expansions just for this moment) and drafted out the treehouse! Just wanted to let you know, the designs you made are totally functional in the layout you intended!

Only difference I had to make was add a tiny kitchen on the main floor of the tree house. Bathroom with the tub went on the second floor. (Also I think it was the paranormal pack, but it had a little cauldron that is PERFECT for Shock’s room on her desk!)

Also there is an actual cauldron Shock can use for potions (from the magic realm pack) and…

I can confirm…

they can make mac and cheese in the cauldron. Which my sims of your LSB have done a few times (it’s a lot of Mac and cheese… lots of leftovers)

Sorry for the long message, just wanted to let you know your layout plans are valid and functional! 😆 in the sims!

!!!!!!!! THAT IS SO COOL!! 🤩

[gabessquishytum]

So I think I will turn that 70s music AU into it's own thing, but never fear! I will not leave anyone Goth Dreamless.

So two ideas about Goth Dream. The first one is that he's the local weirdo dad to Orpheus, a bright and friendly student. He's always wearing black on black with nail polish and hair so weird it'd put Robert Smith to shame. But he's known for being one of the kinder, more caring parents. He hand makes special treats for Orpheus's youth league football team. He organizes expansive birthday parties for his son's whole class and don't even get started on their Halloween party. He has the biggest house on the block and turns it into a veritable Halloween amusement park with giant skeletons and an elaborate haunted house. Doesn't help that he has real taxidermied bats hanging from his ceiling. All in all, while he's weird, he's a good father.

Robyn goes to the same school on scholarship and Hob works multiple jobs to keep Robyn in this posh private school. Him and Orpheus became fast friends when Orpheus invited him over while they waited for Hob to get off his second job. Unfortunately they forgot to mention that to Robyn's dad. Which led to Hob frantically calling his son, then showing up to Dream's house furious that Robyn forgot to mention his little excursion to a stranger's house. Fortunately Dream, in his black silk pyjama pants and well-worn and holey Bauhaus shirt, sufficiently charmed Hob enough to invite the two over for dinner. Then when the boys tired themselves out running around the property and fell asleep in Orpheus's room, Hob got to tire himself out on Dream's prick.

The second idea I had when browsing some memes and saw a Goth Girl Simp starter pack which is totally Hob. Not that he simps over Goth guys and gals specifically, just that he has a crush.

Dream is everything he isn't. He's tall, thin, and so fair it's almost like he's a fairy. He's effortlessly cool and mysterious, never deigning to speak more than a few words with most people. He's a regular at Hob's pub but doesn't do more than drink merlot alone in a corner booth. Occasionally he brings a date, but he's seen those relationships come and go. The last girl, Thessaly, got so mad at his lack of attention that she splashed her drink in his face and stormed out. Hob comped her drinks and Dream left shortly after paying for his wine.

Joanna laughs at the whole situation. In her experience, lots of people want a goth partner, but the magic fades when they take off their make-up and walk around and their pillows are stained with black hair dye. Hob is not deterred! He wants that stranger carnally. But how is he going to relate to him? The hardest album he has in his whole flat is a copy of Diva classics covered by some punk band. He didn't spend much time with the punks or metalheads in school and couldn't tell a Christan Death song from Sisters of Mercy. Jo laughs at him the entire way through as she helps him spike his hair and paint his nails.

Then comes show time. Dream comes in every day around 7:30-8. He comes around dressed to the Gothic nines with two glasses of red wine. He had Jo put some Stone Roses on the jukebox. He casually sits in the booth and tells him drinks are free if he cares to give a little of his time. Dream bursts out laughing. That horrid, donkey bray of a laugh deflates Hob's ego terribly. He gets up to leave, but Dream grabs his hand. He's never had someone try so hard to cater to his fashion sense. It's not needed as Dream had a crush on Hob, and well, a full night full of fucking wine drinking wasn't on anyone's to do list before tonight, but Hob can't complain!

🎸

I dearly, dearly love the idea of Hob simping for goth Dream in literally any scenario. It just brings me so much joy. Like, the image of Hob laying on the bed watching as Dream goes through the process of making himself up: litres of white foundation, powder, yards of black eyeliner in complex patterns, shining black lipstick, dozens of items of carefully selected silver jewellery, half a can of hairspray. Hob is obsessed with the entire process. And of course Dream is a lucky bastard who doesn't need to dye his hair, but can you imagine the day he finds his first greys? He's locking himself in the bathroom patching up every single spot of hair that isn't absolutely pitch black. Hob diligently helps and doesn't even complain about the fact that they'll never get the stains off the sink. He assures Dream that no, he won't have to shave it all off like Andrew Eldritch. It's fine, no one will even see which bits are dyed.

And Hob is just as much as a simp on the days where Dream’s hair is sticking out at all angles completely unstyled, and he's still in his pyjamas at 2pm. Hob still takes his job as Goth Boyfriend Appreciator very seriously, thanks very much. Arguably Dream is at his MOST goth when he's wearing Hob’s tracksuit down to the local tesco and having a silent battle with someone's grandmother over the last Danish pastry.

Also!! Goth dad Dream has captured my heart because!!!! Goth baby/child Orpheus!!!! In his little black outfits and spikey hair listening to Siouxsie and the banshees on Dream’s ancient ipod!!!! I am weak for it. And of course he's besties with Robyn, who has inherited his dad's love of Clannad and Fairport Convention. A match made in musical heaven, bless them <3

#🎸 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft

[forgotten-elves]

Enduring Roots Legacy Challenge

A seven generation Sims 4 legacy challenge based on some of the plants found in the base game. Focus on gardening and some supernatural gameplay.

Required Packs: None

Optional Packs (for some alternate aspirations/traits & optional goals): Cats & Dogs, City Living, Cottage Living, Crystal Creations, Discover University, Eco Lifestyle, For Rent, Get Famous, Get Together, Get to Work, High School Years, Horse Ranch, Island Living, Journey to Batuu, Jungle Adventure, Outdoor Retreat, Paranormal, Realm of Magic, Romantic Garden, Seasons, Snowy Escape, Spa Day, Strangerville, Vampires, Werewolves

Getting started: Aging can be set to whatever you prefer, including being turned off entirely. Gen 1 can be created alone, or with a spouse, sibling, parents, etc., and can be of any age. The listed aspiration does not have to be picked as the sim's first one; they just need to work on (and ideally complete) it at some point in their lives. This challenge is meant to be flexible and guide storytelling, not to be intentionally difficult, and adapt to whatever packs you might have (whether that be none, or all of them), so feel free to make changes to the rules where you need to.

Currently play-testing. As I do, and as new packs release, I may make some changes. 

Generation 1: Orchard 

Always bright as a summer’s day, and beloved by everyone you’ve met, sometimes you’ve been told you’re too much of a good thing. And that some quirks are just not endearing. It’s not your fault you can see things others can’t, and you refuse to pass up the opportunity to make a friend, living or dead.

Traits: Cheerful, Erratic [or Cringe (for rent), or Clumsy], Outgoing [or Dog Lover (cats & dogs), Cat Lover (cats & dogs), Animal Enthusiast (cottage living), or Horse Lover (horse ranch)]

Aspiration: Friend of the World, Friend of the Animals (cats & dogs), Country Caretaker (cottage living), or Emissary of the Collective (werewolves).

Goals:

Reach level five of the comedy skill

Befriend 3 ghosts*

Have a penpal

Grow an orchard of at least three different types of fruit trees

Have a ghost join the household, or a current member die and rejoin the household as a ghost.*

Optional: Live in a haunted house residential (paranormal)

Optional: Have the island spirits lot trait (island living), and/or spooky lot challenge (city living)

Optional: Max the medium skill (paranormal), pet training skill (cats & dogs), and/or horse riding skill (horse ranch)

Optional: Complete any of the following collections: postcards, sugar skulls, and/or spirit dolls (snowy escape)

*Ghost pets (cats & dogs) and horses (horse ranch) qualify. Specters (paranormal) do not.

Generation 2: Wolfsbane 

A student of the earth and the night sky, you’ve always found the mysteries of the world more intriguing than any facet of contemporary human civilization. 

Traits: Loner [or Socially Awkward (high school years) or Unflirty (city living)], Genius [or Bookworm], Loves Outdoors

Aspiration: The Curator, Archaeology Scholar (jungle adventure), Outdoor Enthusiast (outdoor retreat), Jungle Explorer (jungle adventure), Cure Seeker (werewolves), or Crystal Crafter (crystal creations).

Goals:

Grow an herb garden 

Grow wolfsbane flowers*

Have a telescope

Reach level 10 of the logic skill

Moonbathe at least once during each different lunar phase

Optional: Max the vampire lore skill (vampires), herbalism skill (outdoor retreat), and/or gemology skill (crystal creations).

Optional: Complete any of the following collections: microscope, space prints and/or fossils

*If you don’t have Vampires or Werewolves, then you may have to use debug to find the flower, as although it is a base game plant, I don’t know if there is any way to access it through base game gameplay. 

Generation 3: U.F.O Fruit

Your parent inspired in you an awe for the cosmos, but unlike them, who considered it distant and obscure, you’re determined to experience as much of the expanse as you can. All your dreams of adventure you will make reality, and your belief in true love may guide the way.

Traits: Good [or Generous (for rent)], Childish, Loyal [or Adventurous (snowy escape)]

Aspiration: Soulmate, Extreme Sports Enthusiast (snowy escape), Strangerville Mystery (strangerville), or Paragon of Hope (journey to batuu).

Teen Aspiration (optional, would not replaces main aspiration): Live Fast (high school years) or Goal Oriented (high school years)

Goals: 

Have a Lin Z speaker

Marry either your high school or college sweetheart, or meet your future spouse on vacation (or while visiting Sixam (get to work)

Reach level five of the fitness skill

Have a rocket ship and reach level 10 of the rocket science skill

Find the U.F.O fruit and use it to start a garden

After having your first child, publish 3 children’s books

Optional: Grow all three Sixam plants in your garden (get to work)

Optional: Max the robotics skill (discover university)

Optional: Complete any of the following collections: aliens, space rocks, geodes (get to work), and/or snow globes (city living)

Generation 4: Dragonfruit

There’s something about you that’s striking, alluring; you can’t enter a room without everyone’s eyes on you. Admire, but don’t touch. You have a reputation for having a thorny veneer, and no matter what you do, you can’t help but hurt the ones you love the most. 

Traits: Mean [or Nosy (for rent)], Romantic, Self-Assured [or Self-Absorbed (get famous)]

Aspiration: Chief of Mischief, Serial Romantic, Villainous Valentine, Party Animal, Leader of the Pack (get together), World Famous Celebrity (get famous), or City Native (city living).

Teen Aspiration (optional, would not replace main aspiration): Drama Llama (high school years), Live Fast (high school years), or Admired Icon (high school years)

Goals: 

Have and use a voodoo doll

Reach level 10 charisma 

Grow dragonfruit 

Throw/attend a social event (or a festival) every weekend while a young adult

Earn gold on three dates

Become enemies with two sims that you were previously good friends with

Optional: Complete any of the following collections: crystals, MySims trophies, city posters (city living), and/or tassels (for rent)

Optional: Max the gemology skill (crystal creations).

Generation 5: Cowplant

Dull days and long nights under pulsating lights and darkened rooms. You’re an eccentric bartender constantly surrounded by the pungent vitality of your workplace, and you find it therapeutic. But as you truly begin to perfect your craft, you find yourself bored with drinks that only free the mind for a time, and become obsessed with creating the elixir of life. 

Traits: Evil, Perfectionist [or Overachiever (high school years)], Foodie [or Glutton]

Aspiration: Master Mixologist, Purveyor of Potions (realm of magic), or Expert Nectar Maker (horse ranch)

Teen Aspiration (optional, would not replace main aspiration): Drama Llama (high school years)

Goals: 

Enter the culinary career (regardless of aspiration) and reach level four (you can choose to leave after that).

Grow grapes

Grow a cowplant and routinely milk it for the essence of life (even if you no longer need it for yourself)

Have a good relationship with only one of your children (your heir)

Optional: Learn the Pufferfish Nigiri recipe (city living)

Optional: Have the On a Dark Ley Line lot trait (vampires)

Optional: Make beetle juice and serve it to a friend/significant-other/family-member three times in a row as a "prank" (eco lifestyle)

Optional: Max the juice-fizzing skill (eco lifestyle) and/or nectar-making skill (horse ranch)

Generation 6: Death Flower

You grew up surrounded by the constant shadow of death, and you, the only one your parent could never sacrifice, were the one to finally end their reign of terror. Now, you’re alone with your memories, not even the Grim Reaper to talk to. You spend your life writing haunting eulogies, driven by some sense of penance, both for the lives your parent took and for the one murder you committed to end the carnage. 

Traits: Gloomy, Loner [or Paranoid (strangerville)], Jealous [or High Maintenance (spa day)]

Aspiration: Musical Genius, Inner Peace (spa day) or Good Vampire (vampires)

Goals:

Reach level 10 of an instrument (violin, pipe organ (vampires), piano, or guitar)

Befriend the Grim Reaper during your childhood/teen years

Kill your parent during your teenage or young adult life stage

Only visit community lots at night

Grow orchids, pomegranates, and death flowers

Optional: Have the tragic clown painting

Optional: Have the Cursed (city living) and/or Spooky lot challenge (city living)

Optional: Ask for three wishes from the wishing well (romantic garden)

Optional: Max the wellness skill (spa day)

Generation 7: Forbidden Fruit of the Plant Sim

Your parent lived in eternal mourning, so any happiness or beauty were things you had to find yourself. You found all that and more, in the splendors of nature, and became obsessed with capturing it on canvas for everyone to see. As you tread deeper into nature’s embrace, you find secrets that transform the very essence of your being. 

Traits: Creative [or Art Lover], Cheerful, Loves Outdoors [or Green Fiend (eco lifestyle)]

Aspiration: Painter Extraordinare, Freelance Botanist, or Country Caretaker (cottage living)

Goals: 

Live off-the-grid

Reach level 10 gardening

Reach level 10 painting

Complete three masterpiece quality paintings

Find the forbidden fruit of the plant sim; plant it

Become a plant sim (unless you are already an occult)

Optional: Have the Creepy Crawlies (jungle adventure), Simple Living (cottage living) and/or Reduce & Recycle lot challenge (eco lifestyle)

Optional: Max the flower arranging skill (seasons)

Optional: Complete any of the following collections: frogs and/or insects (outdoor retreat)

#sims 4 legacy #sims 4 simblr #sims 4 legacy challenge #legacy challenge #sims legacy challenge #sims 4 legacy challenge rules #base game only #base game compatible #sims 4 base game #sims 4 base game legacy challenge #base game friendly #base game legacy #base game legacy challenge #base game challenge #enduring roots legacy challenge #enduring roots legacy

[sims4t2bb]

weekly update

New year, new update! With another fruitful year for 4t2 enthusiasts now gone, we hope 2024 will be even better and brings even more fun new items for our dear game (which turns 20 this September!) 💚 We wish all the best to all of our wonderful cc creators and players - as always, onwards and upwards! ✨

— Base Game

Café Immodéré and Joe Jockey conversions by @jacky93sims have been added.

— Expansion Packs

High School Years

A Facetnating Shade, Beat Seat Pro, Canopy of Light - Short, Dashing Deco Desk, Gently Used Textbooks, Hobby Holders, Lux Corner Cubby, Luxury Dining on the Go, Makin' Make-Up Magic, New Aged Cubed Wall Display, and more conversions by Ladysimplayer8 have been added.

— Stuff Packs

Romantic Garden

Artisanal Lattice, Climbing Rose Lattice, Dining Alfresco, Don't Look at Me Monkey Bars, Fountain of Gluteus Maximus, Perennials for Millennials, The Folly of Lady Chloris, The Wellspring of Felis Leo, Triumphal Arch of Gluteus Maximus, Whispering Wishing Well, and Windowed Climbing Rose Lattice conversions by Ladysimplayer8 have been added.

#weekly update

[honourablejester]

I’m reading the Pathfinder ‘Lost Omens: The Mwangi Expanse’ setting book (guess whose copy arrived recently!), and I’m on the section on the Mbe’ke dwarves of the Terwa Uplands, and I just. I want to mention the origin story the Mbe’kes tell about themselves:

“This is the story that Mbe’kes tell.

Long ago, dwarves marched upwards on a Quest for the Sky. They saw many wondrous things on that march; temples and treasures, magics and mysteries. One group of dwarves, who would later become Mbe’kes, finally emerged in a sheltered valley.

They looked about the rocky sides of the valley, and they looked at the great blue thing above, and mistook it for just one more cavern, if perhaps larger than most. Sages stroked their beards and engineers hefted their tools, and the dwarves set about breaching the vault of the sky. They climbed the tallest mountain in the land, braced the sky properly, and started digging. Dwarves, of course, can dig through anything, and so quite soon they broke through the sky into the Plane of Air.

The People of the Air were greatly surprised by these strangers. First a great hurricane-spirit tried to chase the dwarves away, but the dwarves had fought worse beneath the earth and were not cowed. Then a great djinni of the west wind offered the dwarves fine treasures to leave, but nothing matched the wonders the dwarves made themselves. Finally, a curious cloud dragon asked what in the seven stars above and the three stars below the dwarves were doing.

Once they understood their mistake, the dwarves descended back to Golarion and looked about the valley from which they’d emerged. They could most certainly make a home there, and did, and ever since Mbe’kes have been good friends with cloud dragons.”

Now. A couple of things. First, the actual historical and archaeological record tells a different story, suggesting that the proto-Mbe’ke initially fought for territory with the cloud dragons in the Terwa Uplands (evidence includes a suspicious number of old Mbe’ke relics made of dragon bone), but eventually the two groups made peace and became the firm allies they are today later down the line. Second, the Mbe’ke have a proud tradition of ‘tangle-tales’, an expression of their humour, which involve telling the most ridiculous, nonsensical, over the top stories possible with the straightest face possible, and responding to them just as seriously to encourage elaboration, until someone finally breaks and laughs. So. Tall tales are a prized tradition for Mbe’ke. And third, there’s this later note:

“If one were to ask a Mbe’ke, they would say that their people are famed for three things: first, they are the most stubborn of all dwarves; second, they are the most argumentative of all dwarves; and third, they have absolutely no sense of humour. This last will be said with a perfectly straight face.”

Their humour and culture is a combination of dwarven stubbornness and pragmatism, and cloud dragon whimsy and curiosity. And in that context …

I just really love that origin story? As a thing they tell about themselves. Because you can see …

The things they pride themselves on are being stubborn, argumentative, and secretly humorous. And it shows. Their origin has them climb out of the earth, look up, fail to realise that the sky is not just another ceiling, and then impossibly dig through that as well anyway. Stubborn, yes. Heh. And then, in the Plane of Air, they cannot be driven away by force, because come and have a go, and they can’t be driven away by bribery, because we’re dwarves, you can’t offer us anything we couldn’t make ourselves, but they can be politely knocked back by someone gently arguing with them until they realise their own idiocy. In this story, the cloud dragons were just ‘lads, what are you at?’, and the Mbe’ke looked around, realised their cosmological error, and just went ‘oops, our bad mate, thanks for the head’s up’, packed up their kit, and went back down a layer.

I love so much that this is a story they tell about themselves. That it shows what their pride is held in. In stubbornness, in doing the impossible, in refusing to be driven back by any insurmountable obstacle or show of force or attempt to undermine their integrity, but also in recognising their own foolishness, in acknowledging their own errors, in having fair dealings with people who deal fairly with them, and in poking some gentle fun at every previous thing on this list. Yes, it’s showing them in their best light, according to their own values, and the reality is often different, but it does illustrate quite well what those values are, and it’s fascinating.

And I also love some of the little details. They climbed the tallest mountain in the land and braced the sky properly. Like, if you’re going to do this ridiculous thing, you’re damn well going to do it right. Is it plausible or even possible? Irrelevant. Do it right regardless. I love that they saw another vast ceiling, another impossible barrier, and the ‘sages stroked their beards, and the engineers hefted their tools, and the dwarves set about breaching the vault of the sky’. Like, right, on we go! Another job, let’s get it done. They’re so … dwarvish. And god I love dwarves. You cannot stop a dwarf from digging. I love them.

Ahem. Anyway. I like the Mbe’ke a lot? Also dwarves. Just. In general. Heh. Carry on!

#pathfinder #pf2e #lore #mwangi expanse #dwarves #mbe'ke dwarves #i just love dwarves #worldbuilding #mythology #story telling

[lokisgoodgirl]

Pinned Down [Part 3 - Final] Avenger!Loki x Female Reader] 18+

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: The mission called, you reluctantly answered. It's the Quinjet - what could possibly happen? (w/c 2.2k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language. Sexual tension. My personal safety if these two don't fuck in this chapter. Pinned Down Mini-Series: PART ONE / PART TWO A/N: Thanks for coming on this tense journey...let me know what you think of the grand finale (>^^)>

“Agent.”

You arrived at the top of the Quinjet ramp, the low hot ache between your thighs rearing again as it heard its master’s call.

“Laufeyson.” you said curtly while ducking around his inconveniently placed frame, avoiding his eyes as you strode down the middle of the vessel to the cockpit, “Cap… Barton.”

“Agent. Nice of you to join us.”

Clint’s sarcasm stung like vinegar as you squeezed the headrest of his seat, taking a subtle deep breath as Steve eyed you with interest.

“It was my night off. Took me a minute to get…organised.”

“It was Laufeyson’s night off too and he was here in a jiff” Steve’s cheerful voice goaded you lightly as he set the navigation system, the screen lighting up under his fingertips.

“Well unlike Laufeyson, I can’t change my clothes with my mind can I?” you snapped as Clint and Steve shot each other an over-exaggerated grimacing look, their eyebrows raised.

You rolled your eyes and turned sharply, making your way down the narrow cargo hold of the ship which currently held the load of one very tall, very intimidating looking demi-god facing towards the cockpit in military stance, whose engorged cock you had been rubbing against ready to riotously fuck not fifteen minutes ago… before he had abruptly left you to scramble yourself together like a magic-less loser. Irritating.

You perched on one of the hard seats lining the side of the craft, looping your combat suit clad arms through the seatbelts and inserting the buckles to the holds with a set of firm clicks as Loki pivoted 90 degrees to face you and slid gracefully onto the seat beside yours.

“Move over” you hissed, your eyes darting to the cockpit as Clint started the engines, flicking intermittently at the panel of switches as the thrusters roared to life.

“Absolutely not.”

Loki smirked as he got comfortable, brushing the seatbelts defiantly away from his tight leather uniform, staring ahead as he placed a hand on your thigh with a firm squeeze.

“Loki-“

“Right team, we’re on a quick covert hop to Des Moines, Iowa. With any luck, it’ll be in and out the target facility in fifteen minutes. Briefing docs are in your packs…”

You braced yourself against feeling the pressure of Loki leaning towards you as Steve continued speaking, his pouted lips lowering to your ear as he inhaled seductively. How was it possible to inhale seductively?

“How are you, Agent?”

His orgasmic tone made you shudder, the tenor of his voice making your pussy widen with another wave of need to feel him moving against you. Inside you.

Your eyes travelled reluctantly to his where his stare waited like a predator in the undergrowth, ready to strike. The god’s earlier flash of vulnerability had dissipated outside the confines of his chambers – his self-certain smirk of superiority bathing once again in your discomfort.

“How are you, Laufeyson?” you hissed sarcastically, your enflamed whisper barely audible above the noise of the engines, “those leather trousers don’t leave much to the imagination. I hope nothing comes to mind that distracts you.”

Your hand snapped to his groin - your palm rubbing with unrelenting firmness across the expanse of his upper thigh, pressing against the turgid outline of his still semi-aroused cock underneath the hard leather.

The friction burned against your skin as you squeezed his bulge with a grip of malicious intent, your lips pursed in concentration as his eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Flight time seventeen minutes, folks…” Clint’s voice rumbled over the hum of the craft as he turned his head towards you both, your hand retracting quickly to your lap.

“Thank you, Barton.” Loki said casually with the air of addressing staff, “I’m sure we’ll be just fine back here – won’t we, Agent?”

You rolled your eyes for the second time and cursed him under your breath as you quickly unclasped your seatbelts and grabbed the folder on the seat next to you, the one not occupied by the most infuriating being you had ever known. Wordlessly you crossed the narrow hold, planting yourself on the line of chairs on the opposite side and pointedly opening the briefing documents with your head down.

One minute passed. Two minutes. Your mind floundered as you read the same lines repeatedly, vivid memories of his needy body underneath your straddled thighs while moaning your name fighting against the bland words on the page.

A soft clear of his throat announced that Loki had imperceptibly shifted from his seat, standing before you only feet away. You looked up at him warily as he raised his finger to his lips, gesturing backwards with a gentle nudge of his head.

Your eyes widened. On the spot where you had been minutes before were two perfect copies of you and Loki, thumbing through the briefing documents with pensive gazes.

In a flash he was seated beside you, his hand covering your mouth in anticipation of protest as he leant forward to whisper in your ear once more,

“They see only our duplicates, darling…we are hidden from them by my magic. Alas though, I cannot mask sound…so we shall have to be silent. Do you understand?”

You nodded against the base of his palm, adrenaline surging through your body as you felt your hips flex beneath you – the insatiable need to have him consuming you like a dry canyon’s flash flood.

He peeled his fingers from your jaw, flexing them gently as your battle suits melted in a fade of green. Loki’s eyes darkened as he lowered his chin, absorbing every inch of your naked body in his gaze as you keened towards him, making the seat erupt with a short squeak.

Your eyes flickered briefly to the two men seated in the cockpit meters away as Loki grimaced, continuing their rumble of conversation as dark clouds buffeted past the windows ahead.

You followed his line of sight as his eyes trailed to the floor, his long limbs moving quickly to position himself on the cold metal, raised bumps pressing temptingly into his flesh as he stretched out on his side. He propped himself up, one bicep flexing to rest his palm under his head beneath a mess of curls while he raised one knee to an inverted V, putting his mouth-wateringly perfect cock on full display for the first time.

This was definitely not the way you imagined your debut of finally having him.

You had intended to take your time discovering every centimetre of luxuriously velvet skin that encased his legendary manhood, licking him gently to the edge of sanity as he squirmed beneath you with desperate need, growling your name like a battle cry. You had intended to be loud. Very loud. But given the unique situation…you would take what you could get. Thoroughly take it.

You gracefully stood and motioned to him, a conversation in silence as he manoeuvred himself to rest back on his elbows and widened his thighs, beckoning slowly to you with two fingers pressed together, dark tendrils falling seductively around his cheekbones.

God he was so fucking hot. And for once, he couldn’t ruin it by talking.

He clenched his ass in anticipation as you straddled his body from above, his thigh muscles flexing beneath you as you lowered to plant your lust soaked pussy on his taunt stomach, backing up to brush his hard length between your swollen lips.

He released a soundless moan, his mouth opening as his eyelids closed briefly against your teasing touch. His sculpted pectorals clenched as he braced himself, abdominals tantalisingly shifting as his hips gently thrust against your ass seeking relief from the torture as you did.

You squeezed your thighs to rise above him, inching yourself slowly onto his rigid cock as his eyes widened with restrained pleasure, his brow furrowing as the ridges of his manhood sucked gratefully against your desperately wet channel, taking all of his godly length.

Long fingers rose to your hips, steadying you against him as the hum of the engine vibrated around your calves through the cool metal floor. He thrust into you once, the jolt a snap of absolute pleasure that cascaded to the depths of your soul in an instant as you clapped a cushioned hand to your mouth; his lips curling to a devilish smile as he relished your silent desperation.

You began to ride him, thighs pulsating effortlessly against his hips as you squeezed around his needy cock. There was no time for games. No allowance for witty retorts. You needed to feel him bottom out endlessly inside of you. To quench the raging thirst radiating maddeningly from every cell as he pulled you down on to his waiting grip, his firm thighs softly thumping your ass as he took you completely.

Loki’s regal face was scrunched in pleasure, soundless moans forming on his lips as the veins in his neck stood out against pale skin at the effort of containment, his fingertips pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he fucked you with devastating slowness. You began to pant as you felt the first ripples of climax building in your lower belly, his almond-shaped eyes fluttering open as he shot you a knowing look.

Silence, darling

Fuck.

You leaned forward, catching his waiting mouth in an animalistic kiss to stem your moans of pleasure as the new angle pressed against your swollen clit, his hands grasping your hips forcefully as he pushed you even further on to his unrelenting prick; pulsating with need to come inside you, to claim you.

Your mind glazed over as you recycled his heavy breath inside your mouth, gasping for relief as the fires of orgasm ripped upwards.

Tight walls clenched around Loki’s enormous cock as your racked body shuddered on top of him from the strain of holding back screams of pleasure; your cum spurting around his flesh as he continued to bottom out inside you in silence under flushed cheeks and slow breaths.

“Four minutes until landing, guys.”

One hand flew to the back of your head as he forced you harshly into another kiss, hands winding in his raven curls as you felt the muscles in his neck expand under the skin of your forearm.

A deep sigh escaped him, his taunt hips snapping upwards as he threw his head back with eyes screwed tightly in a silent howl of bliss. You felt his load hit the back of your needy cunt as he softened beneath you, sliding down to lie flat on the metal floor as his breaths evened to match your own.

“Darling that was incredible-“

Your palm shot to cover his mouth, panic in your eyes as you whipped your head around to the cockpit where Steve and Clint were initiating landing protocols, completely un-phased.

“Ah. I may have told a slight untruth about that…” Loki raised himself again to his elbows, his eyebrow cocked sheepishly as you turned back to him sucking in your cheeks in to stem the barbs on the tip of your tongue.

“Come now, did you really think I could cast duplicates of our forms and hide our true figures but not cast a simple silencing enchantment? You wound me, pet…”

You slid yourself off his body, covering your breasts with your arms as you stood throwing daggers at him. Silence was golden, it seemed.

He sighed, raising himself purposefully from the floor before reaching between your legs to draw two fingers through your folds. Loki raised the digits dripping with a mix of your juices, rolling thinly down the sides as he twisted his hand, your battle suits appearing fluidly back on your forms as he thoughtfully sucked the proof of your union from his skin.

He leant forward, brushing an errant strand of hair from your cheek and cupping your jaw tenderly as he searched your gaze to find a vulnerable gap in your resolve.

“I like you very much, you know.”

His cautious confession hung in the air as you considered your path, teetering on the precipice of destiny for the second time that evening.

“…I like you very much too” you whispered, your eyes rising to meet his which sparkled with excitement, fine lines crinkling at their edges.

“Are you sure about that, pet?” he goaded coyly with a tentative smile, motioning to the space occupied by your duplicates, “I am known to be a bit of a handful…” he added with a tinge of reproach.

You sank back into your original seat, the glow of your placid duplicate fading as you took her place beside the flesh and blood Loki, the most irritatingly perfect being you had ever known.

“Everything.” you murmured, echoing your earlier promise as he raised your hand to briefly meet his lips – a subsequent snap of his fingers indicating his silencing enchantment had been broken.

Steve stood abruptly in the cockpit and moved fluidly between the seats, hoisting his shield from its position on the wall as Clint brought the jet to a smooth descent towards your destination.

“You have your orders. You know your positions. Fifteen minutes – in and out.”

He looked down on you and Loki with an obliviously confident stare, as Clint grabbed his quiver from the side.

“Are you ready?” Cap poised.

You and Loki shot each other a knowing look, coy smiles playing at your lips as you registered the perfect synchronicity.

“We’re ready.” Loki said.

__

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