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creepling · 8 months

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that boy is a monster - j. slaughter / 2.6k

in contribution with THE HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompts: sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

summary: everyone comes and goes from the slaughter residence, either as survivors or stacks of meat. but as you escape and run further into the woods, johnny won't let you go that easy.

tags: DEAD DOVE - read at your own risk. smut. MINORS DNI. fem!reader. non-con. hunter/prey. knife/blood-play. descriptive injury. narcissistic johnny. fem penetration. blood hunger. choking. roughplay. slapping. kidnapped ending.

It would help to know the surroundings. Sprint the track to get to the finish line. But you’re bleeding. Your legs ache, and the tree branches are tearing at your skin. The calls of the Slaughter family echo in the distance.

Running for your life is supposed to be the escape. You’re out of the house, but your heroic end is not at a close. You have to keep running. You have to survive. And one person, in particular, will not give you up so easily.

“You’re the reason this is happening. You brought them damn kids here. You go get ‘er!” Drayton told off Johnny, waving his bloody stick towards the exit you stumbled out of.

Johnny was cool in his stance. He is cleaning his knife, sharpening its blade. He admires the glint of it in the moonlight, a sly smirk winking back at him in its reflection.

“Keep yer panties on, old man. I’ll get her,” He brushes off the Cook, swaggering towards the gate.

With his family seeing him off, Nubbie chuckles and cheers him on. Sissy claps and howls. “Bring her back fresh now, ye hear!”

Johnny was not going to share. He wants to play with his food and keep you all to himself. Once he finds you, you’re going to scream. He will have your insides, grip your flesh and suck your blood. His family will not have a nip of you. You’re all his.

The beginning of the hunt sent Johnny’s instincts into overdrive. Your shadow mystifies into the forest, and he picks up the pace to dive into the belly of the beast. He grunts as he sprints, inhaling the air. He was only human, but everything in his attitude was animalistic. A coyote in a man’s body, wanting to catch your scent, embarks on the trail you left behind and chases you until your soft flesh is between his teeth.

Deep within the sun-dried trees, Johnny halts his speed and listens to the silence. He peered his hearing for the snap of a twig, the ruffle of a leaf, anything to assume you were close by. He crouches to the earth and calculates the ground. His eye caught an indent, your shoe print heavy in the dry dirt, the heel dragged out, exposing your struggle. Johnny was mesmerised for a moment, then he advanced, tailing the track of your footprints to the direction of your hiding spot. He arrives at a dead end, cursing under his breath. He catches a look above, checking the trees, but both the trees and you are too fragile to hold weight. His eyes scan the horizon, wondering how far you have gone.

“I’m gonna find ya soon enough, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out, and we can get this over with?” Johnny called into the night, his skin tingling at the thought of you nearby.

He was closer than you thought. Tugged low in the dip of the earth, you bite the inside of your cheeks and muffle any sound of panic that threatens to burst. You may be bleeding, tired, and traumatised, but you will not give up. If he wants you to meet the same faint as your friends, he will have to come and get you.

At the deafening silence, Johnny sighs. It was long and drawn, but it soon shifted into a chuckle, and he gripped the handle of his knife tighter. “Fine, I like the challenge.”

Johnny advances, his footsteps descending to whisper when you decide to leave your hiding spot. You drag your limping body in the opposite direction, clenching your side as a cramp takes over. You look around with alert eyes, hoping to find an opening or another hiding spot if he is close. Your hope dwindles at the same scenery repeating: trees, branches, dirt. Over and over. No sounds alert you, making your eyelids droop and blur your vision. You look down at your body, your clothes drenched in blood, giving sense to your lightheadedness. The blood loss and dehydration were slowly creeping up and taking over you. Legs wobbling, making you fall.

“Come on,” You whispered, “You can do this.”

Johnny had his eyes on you. He watches you struggle, crouching within the dry branches. Your pain and fatigue amuse him, reassuring him that mortality can be handy for this line of passion. He loved a prey’s fear, how it ignites them with the endurance to keep living. Yet, the thing that is chasing them will always catch them. It can only get them so far. It lets them die with a fight still in them. People call that honour, but to Johnny, it is the thrill of the game.

It has been long enough. Johnny watches you collapse, grunting at the pain taking over, your knees buckling as you try to crawl your way further. Johnny cracks his neck and readies his blade, his heavy steps approaching you.

“I gotta hand it to ya. You got some fight in ya,” Johnny mused, towering over your struggling state.

The widening of your eyes made Johnny chuckle, tuts leaving his mouth as you began to sob.

“Come on now, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not yet, anyway,” Johnny grips the back of your hair, yanking your head from the ground and crouching down on top of you. His legs saddle your sides, squeezing in to hold you in place. You catch the glint of his knife hovering over your throat, threatening to slice if you struggle.

“Ma mama always got at me for playing with my food as a kid. I never grew out of it. Y’know why?” Johnny presses his lips to your ear. You could now hear the husk in his voice.

“Because I fuckin’ love it,”

Your hands grip the earth, and a scream bellows from your strained throat, sirening through the trees, making birds take flight. Johnny shoves your head to the ground to silence you, pressing his blade tighter to the skin of your throat.

“You shout one more time, and I’ll cut you,” He spat, causing you to dwindle your struggle into small whimpers.

“Just kill me, please,” You plead, Johnny on top of you, detecting that you would rather be dead than be at his mercy.

Johnny enjoys having the upper hand far too much, grazing his gloved hand down your spine, lingering on the skin exposed from your summer blouse. He glances at the cuts littering your exposed arms, blood dripping from a knick on your shoulder. Johnny licks his lips in anticipation, locking his lips on your wound. You gasp, cringing at the suction from his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut and soaking his mouth with your blood.

As if energy surged through him, Johnny groans at your taste, licking his lips dry. Your taste is sweetly metallic. He has never tasted something so pure—the blood of a lamb or a calf, laced with innocence and avoidant of bitterness. Johnny’s eyes wander down at you like the discovery of the Holy Grail. “You taste amazing.”

Johnny grips your arm and manhandles you to lie on your back, your arms feeble in your struggle. Johnny scans your body for more wounds, grunting in annoyance as most were muddy grazes. His legs add pressure to your sides, his hand nipping at the hem of your blouse.

“Keep still,” Johnny orders sternly, moving his knife to your shirt and cutting the thin fabric with the blade. You whine in defiance, but your top is torn off completely and tossed to one side. Johnny stares at the curvature of your bra, tucking his knife under the band and slicing it swiftly. Your breasts graze with goosebumps at your exposure. You squeeze your eyes shut from the humility. Johnny runs his knife down your left breast, the blunt end teasing your hardening nipple.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” He breathes out, removing his glove with the pinch of his teeth. His bare, rough hand grips your breast, making you squirm. You glance up at Johnny, the maddening of his eyes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you in place. Sweat glistens on his face. You feel warmth between your legs as Johnny’s bulge presses against your stomach.

Without warning, Johnny slices a small incision on your soft breast, making you gasp from the shot of pain. Johnny immediately locks his lips on the fresh slice, his tongue collecting your new blood, letting a groan vibrate against you. He sucks your breast as he would with your nipple, except his infatuation is solely on your blood. Your fingers lace through his hair, and you attempt to yank him away, but he points his blade quickly to your throat.

“Move your hand, or I’ll cut you open,” Johnny threatens, pressing the blade hard, alerting panic within you.

“I can’t- I can’t do this, please,” You beg, “I want to go home,”

“Is this not want you want, darlin’?” Johnny teased, “Your cunt says otherwise.”

His head motions down and between your legs, sliding his fingers along the denim fabric of your shorts. Your throat hitches, and your legs tense, locking eyes with the darkening stare from Johnny.

“You want this, I know you want this,” Johnny mutters against his lips, “Let me make you feel good. I need this, darlin’, you gotta give yourself to me.”

His lips lock roughly with yours, his kiss hard - possibly laced with a lingering passion. You taste your blood on his tongue. You moan unexpectedly.

“See? You taste so good. Let me taste you more,” Johnny said as if he were asking, but you know you have no choice.

The sound of panic bubbles in your throat as you feel Johnny’s hands unbutton your shorts, yelping as he tugs the tight fabric down your legs. He crawls his fingers under your pants, catching your slick cunt with the tip of his fingers, collecting your wetness. Johnny groans, reaching his fingers to his lips and licking your juices. Just as sweet as your blood, warm and intoxicating.

Johnny grinds his hips down onto you before unbuckling his jeans, tossing his belt to your eye level. Your eyes trail to the sky, your mind dissociating at the sound of his jeans undone. Johnny preys your legs wider apart with his thighs, the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me, darlin’. Still sure you don’t want this?” Johnny’s pride swells at your defeat, pupils dilated at the sight of yours glazed and lost.

“I would rather be dead,” You said airily, almost inaudible. Johnny narrows his eyes, power swelling in his muscles. He wants you to beg for his cock or mercy; it does not matter.

Without warning, Johnny thrusts his cock inside, and pain shoots up your spine. He was big, more significant than you have ever taken, and he was stretching you out. You squeeze your eyes shut, and the tears trapped in your waterline pour down your cheeks. You silence the yelps filled with pain to adjust to the horrible feeling. But your cunt was wet, wet enough for Johnny to thrust deeper inside you and hold his length firmly inside you.

“Fuuuck,” Johnny groaned. Your walls clenched around his cock, and his hands grip the sides of your waist. “Sucha tight little pussy,” Johnny chuckled.

You shift your body back and forth to adjust to the pain, but it paralysed you, and Johnny drilled you deeper into the ground with the weight of his body. The cool earth stings your wounds and gathers in the grooves of your skin. It is disgusting. It is revolting. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Fuck you,” You spit at Johnny, manifesting your cunt to grow teeth and bite his cock clean.

Johnny furrowed his brows at your revolt, burning a glare to your core. “The fuck you say to me?” Johnny smacked your face, stunning you, but you force eye contact.

“I said fuck you, you fucking-“ Your rage stopped short at the shuddering pain shooting through you. Johnny digs his knife into your side, toying with an open wound. You squirm, scream, try to pry him off you, but his other hand pins your wrists above your head, and his cock is stuffed deeper inside you.

“You really think talking to me like that is a good idea?” Johnny scoffs, watching the pain in your expression with perverted fascination. “Such a stupid ‘lil brat. I need to teach you a lesson.”

The pain melted into numbness. Your eyes drift further away from reality, and Johnny amps his stamina. It seemed neverending, his cock pumping into your cunt, the depth of his thrusts consistent. Johnny’s body towers over you, his knife tossed to the side. It proved useless as your body grew limp, the strength of Johnny’s arms pinning you in place enough to restrict your escape. No more were you retaliating to Johnny’s dominance.

“That’s it, good girl. Take it,” Johnny grunted, but he was not satisfied with your reaction. Lying there as you get fucked dumb, staring into space. He needs you to be compliant, to be grateful. Johnny tugs your hair and forces your gaze onto him, bathing in your bewildered stare.

“C’mon girl, I know you want this. Say how much you want it,” Johnny demands, continuing to rut into your pulsing cunt.

“I-” It was hard to string words together, but you had nowhere to look except deep in Johnny’s hunter eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Say it, fucking say it,” Johnny grew impatient, smacking his fingers over your cheeks, hoping that knocked sense into you.

“I want you, Johnny,” You sobbed, mesmerised by his insanity.

“Yeah, you fucking do. Start thanking me for fucking you so good,” Johnny enfolds his cock deep inside, holding it in place until you speak what he wants to hear.

“Thank you,” You swallow the lump in your throat, “You’re so good at fucking me. I want you to keep fucking me.”

Swelling with pride, Johnny exhales a deep groan and continues to drill into you, picking up the pace. He felt his climax ascending from his core, gazing at the bounce of your tits, your plump skin covered in the blood he poured from you. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m so close, darlin’. Fuuuck,” Johnny wraps his callous hand around your throat, suppressing your air flow until you see stars.

Johnny rutted his cock to ride his high. You feel the strips of warmth melt from your slit as he pulls out, his pants hot and misty against your neck. Your eyes trail over to Johnny, buckling his jeans and quickly putting on your underwear and shorts.

“Sorry about your blouse,” He mutters, removing his tank top and putting it on you. There is no point in convincing yourself he did it out of the kindness of his heart, as it is to carry you back to the place you tried to escape from and not make the rest of the family suspicious.

Johnny lifts you and tosses your body over his shoulder, your mind and body too exhausted and petrified to wiggle from his grasp. “Let’s take you back home,” He says.

Home. That place was not your home. But to Johnny, he is making it your home. There goes the days of elaborate escapes, deception and retribution. He will have you wrapped around his figure. He shall convince you that no one else cares for you. Only he will protect you, care for you, and love you.

Welcome to the family.

#johnny slaughter x reader #johnny sawyer x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #tcm game #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter #creepling.brainrot #tw non-con #tcm fanfic #hauntedhoedown

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da-birb-writes-sometimes · 8 months

Note

WEEWOO IM HERE FOR THE EVENT!! (also smth I noticed, you can't copy paste your moots @ from one post to another, bc they don't receive the notif;_; I checked my mentions for your @ and uh- nope)

ANYWAY "nights spent in" with Leona pls (or Ruggie or Kalim or Jack or Jamil 💀💀) I just want a lazy night with takeout and cuddles and looking at the city/town from the hotel or room balcony in peace but I also need this frigging degree-

Nights Spent In; Leona Kingscholar

Content; Fluff, so much fluff, gender-neutral reader, romance

Word Count; 650+

Author's Note; I came up with a whole meal for this and I want everything. All of the food mentioned is North Indian vegetarian food, except for Leona's. Best of luck with that degree, Soru!

As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

You were lounging on the sofa on the balcony, a light breeze coming off the waves helping cut most of the heat from the day as night slowly painted the sky in a deep navy. Honestly, you could fall asleep right here, since you were warm and very comfy. Count on the royal family of the Sunset Savannah to spare no expense, even when it came to their balcony furniture for the smallest of their vacation homes.

Speaking of the Kingscholars, Leona had said that he was going out to grab you both dinner, which would have shocked anyone else, but he put in the work when it came to you. You were the exception. Of course, though, he expected something in return, which was usually either using you as his pillow or giving him a kiss… or several until he was satisfied with how fast he could make your heart flutter. Smug bastard…

“Hmm, I went through all the trouble of gettin’ you food and here you are nearly passed out,” he sighed, having sneaked up on you. But he sighed, putting the food down.

Leona leisurely walked over to you before promptly laying on top of you and resting his chin on your shoulder, trapping you. He let out a long sigh and bumped his head against yours.

Taking the message, you started scratching behind his ears and hummed. “I thought I had to pay you back after we ate,” you mused.

He chuffed, but his tail was slowly waving back and forth in a relaxed manner, he was only putting on a show. “You can pay me now and then,” he grumbled, looking up at you and raising a brow expectantly.

You knew that face, it was the face that he made when he wanted a kiss but didn’t want to say it. “You can get the rest of it, but after we eat-” your stomach made a low rumble underscoring your statement. “Before I decide to eat you instead,” you joked, and poked him in the ribs to prompt him to get off you.

Leona rolled his eyes, but yielded, he wanted his damn kisses sooner rather than later. Plus the last time he had decided to lay on you and prevent you from getting food, you had indeed bit him. Even though you didn’t really leave a mark, it still stung a bit, and he would rather not get teased by the others if they found out it had happened again.

“What did you get by the way,” you asked. Whatever it was smelled divine. Your stomach gurgled even louder, sounding more akin to some beast demanding food.

Leona chuckled a bit at the commotion, but brought the food out. “Went to a small place, family run and owned,” and he brought out several containers of food. He looked at his order, “Malai kofta, raita, paratha, mattar paneer-”

You saw one other container and raised a brow.

“Rogan josh,” he answered, swiping the container away from you.

You rolled your eyes at him, but you were more than happy at the food he had got, and knew that he left a hefty tip even though he would deny it. Not only had he made you, and your ravenous stomach’s, night, but also the restaurant owners’ as well.

Now content and full of food, the both of you laid in bed, your legs intertwined. “Thanks for getting dinner,” you hummed, feeling the sleepiness from earlier returning.

Leona turned his head to you, and rubbed circles on your hip, slowly. He was wearing the same expectant look again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” But there was no smugness, Leona was full and just as tired as you, so he was more like a tired kitty looking for some love.

You shuffled over and placed a gentle kiss to his lips, and he let out a tired sigh, pupils dilating into round saucers. “I love you,” you placed another kiss on his lips before placing one on his scar and lingering there.

He bumped his forehead to yours, closing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know… I love you too.”

~~~~~~~

Tags; @eynnwwyjth, @inkybloom-luv, @savanaclaw1996, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii @leonistic

#dove does events #follower event #twst #twst x reader #twst x gn reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x gn reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar x gn reader #i brain rotted. all of these are making me brain rot dear gods #also north indian & punjabi food SLAPS; if you haven't had some you really need to try it; i need to make these #pspspspsp here leona simps pspspspspspsp #<- i'm calling you over like cats yes #also i like the hc that leona head bumps as a form of affection cuz that's what cats do; leona simps were robbed of him purring though #the overgrown house cat is growing on me and he's all smug about it too uGh #soft leona hours? more likely than you think #he deserves softness and fluff #you're getting this a bit earlier than expected [by a few hours] but i have some running around to do #soru!#is food a content warning???#cw food #<- oh apparently so

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muzzlemouths · 5 months

Note

For prompt

“Whatever this is - it’s over”

Sun & Moon centered / 7,686 Words

You’ve been fired.

There’s no Ifs, Ands, or Buts about it, if your (former) boss’ tone is anything to go by. You got the phone call bright and early a number of days ago, only an hour before you were scheduled to go in, yet you were still expected to continue on with your shift as usual. This was just a personal heads-up; a courtesy, they said. You’ll finish out the week before they kick you to the curb for real.

You don’t tell anyone. Not on the first day, or the second, or any time soon. There are forty-eight hours remaining when you decide it may be best to keep your mouth shut all together. Would it be easier, that way? Would it hurt any less?

It’s hard to imagine your coworkers don’t suspect something. You’ve been suspiciously dispirited these last few days, jumping between pretending not to care, and outright hysteria when you believe yourself to be alone. You’ve been careful. Whatever emotion has spilled from your voice is only a drop in a turbulent ocean, its waves threatening to crash and pull and swallow you whole. You lack the energy to keep your head above water, and have just about stopped swimming all together. The thought of letting yourself drown is easier. It chips away at the guilt.

They don’t intend to let you lose the fight that easily.

“Is everything okay?” Sun asks fifteen minutes into your shift, a rearranging of the same question he’s asked every day for three days. You struggle to keep yourself from snapping at him.

“Everything’s fine,” is what you answer him with instead, “just like I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.” The blanket in your hands is folded with the ferocity of a cat wrangling prey, as though the very fibers wage a war against you. Evidently, everything is not fine. “Will you please just drop it?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he quickly raises himself from a slouch to avoid crowding you further, hands flying up in defense, “it’s just…you’ve been so quiet this week, sunshine, and you know how I worry–”

“Well don’t,” you snap – thinking better of it the moment you catch his flinch from the corner of your eye. Your hands slow against the fabric, then stop all together. You deflate with an exhausted sigh and do your best to regain some composure. “I’m just tired, Sun, that’s all,” you try to face him with a smile, “I didn’t mean to snap, I’m sorry,” it doesn’t reach your eyes, “can we just forget about it?”

He straightens further, stiffening in the joints (he gets the picture loud and clear), his hands wringing in circles, already. “Of course, star, all forgiven!” You don’t miss the choice of nickname. Moon will doubtlessly bring it upon himself to ask you the same damn question before the end of your shift if he’s already invading this conversation. “Forget about what?” Sun continues with a wink, “I can’t even remember what we were talking about!”

His effort softens your shoulders. You know he can’t help but worry, it’s in his nature, but it will only make these last two days all the more difficult. “Thanks, Sun. I promise to try and be a little less grumpy.” You produce a smile with genuine effort this time, and he appears to reciprocate by unwinding the joints that had been coiled tight.

“Any time, sunshine. Now then,” he gestures awkwardly toward the heap of blanket, “would you like some help with that? It appears to have gotten away from you. Nasty beasts, these things are. Always causing trouble!”

The fleeting relief of humor helps the waves recede, bit by bit. You let laughter wash over you instead of grief for as long as it’ll last and do your best to ignore the way an ocean of dread still laps at your ankles.

As expected, Moon is hot on your tail before you’re so much as halfway to the locker room when the lights go out. There’s ten minutes left to your shift and, if you’re lucky, you can spend them gathering your things and avoid him entirely. Unfortunately, your luck this week has apparently run dry.

“Leaving so soon?” He asks from the rafters, “What has you in such a hurry?”

If it wasn’t a hurry, it’d be a lingering. An insistence to stay for as long as your timecard would allow, regardless of task, dragging your feet like a child that wanted to stick around and play for only a few minutes longer. You’d look desperate – suspicious, if nothing else – and you couldn’t lead him on to what was happening.

“Got places to be, things to do,” you lie in perfect sing-song harmony, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” It’s one of the last days you can tell him so. “Don’t you have patrols to be doing?”

Your locker slams shut. Moon is behind it, his nails still dug into the cheap metal. He watches you like a shark circling its next meal. “Done for now,” he tells you. “Follow. I want to show you something.”

Do you really have a choice in the matter?

Moon leads you down a familiar path. Past the Daycare, into the theater, through the blue door. You know the route to their bedroom by the back of your hand. “Is this important?” You try not to sound impatient, but the longer you’re here, the harder it will be for you to leave. Moon doesn’t reply.

He holds the door open and ushers you inside with an expectant glare. Your hesitance to enter has his eyes narrowing further. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was angry with you, but you can’t think of what you might have done to piss him off this time.

You walk into the room if only through sheer force of will, each step a fight in and of itself, waged against the bile in your throat and the weight that’s made knots of your stomach. Just five minutes. If you can last that long, you’ll have a reasonable excuse to leave without him thinking any worse of you.

Moon continues to the wall and carefully frees a paper from its tape, pausing to stare at it between his hands if only for a moment before returning to your side. The fairy-lights you bought them are strewn along the ceiling corners and provide only enough light to see him offer you the paper. You still find yourself bringing it within an inch of your face and squinting to make out what it is he’s so intent on showing you.

“It’s from your first day here,” he supplies.

You look for answers in his voice. Motive, emotion, anything. Anything but the unreadable stare he serves you and the thin paper between your fingers. With no other options you draw your flashlight from its holster and bring it up to the page, careful to angle it away from him. Normally he would take a precautionary step back, but today, he remains where he’s at, eyes glued to you. The flashlight clicks in your hand.

“Oh,” a quick breath runs between your teeth, “this is…”

The three of you together. Sun on one side, Moon on the other, and you smack dab in the middle. Crudely drawn as all children’s art is.

You remember the day it was gifted; a regular at the daycare – black hair wrapped in a rainbow scrunchie, the first to arrive and the last to leave – she had come up to you in the moments before it was time for pick-up and tugged at your sleeve. You had spent the day stressed beyond belief and worried about your future at the company, and hardly even noticed her arrival until the art was shoved into your hand.

She disappeared up a slide before you could get a proper look at it, but her eyes found you through the bars of the playpen’s upper level only a minute after. You remember it melting away the stress in your shoulders upon finally turning it over, thinking to yourself that maybe things would work out after all.

Despair opens a hole beneath your feet as the ocean finally drags you under, starving your lungs of air and plunging you into an endless darkness. You fall, and fall, and fall—

“I know it can be…difficult,” Moon’s voice cuts through the pitch, “working here, I mean,” you force yourself to find his eyes, vibrant crimson in a sea of black, “but we can figure something out. Or– or change, maybe, if that’s the problem.”

“What?” Your body feels weightless suddenly, the plummet taking even the bile, even the knots, leaving you with nothing nothing nothing.

“You haven’t worn your daycare nametag all week,” he points out, voice straining as he nods toward the empty space on your chest, “I just – we just thought you would come to us first before transferring.”

The bottom of this great abyss arrives without warning and shatters you entirely. Here, you are no better than a whalefall, heavy bones on the ocean floor, what’s left of you will be picked apart and then swiftly abandoned.

Your knees hit the floor. Moon is quick to follow, eyes flashing wide in a fit of panic, he bends to reach your height and cups a hand over your shoulder. “Star?” The frequency in his voice-box is all wrong. It fizzles and pops with a merciful worry you’ve never been allowed to hear before. “Tell me what’s going on.”

If your world is an ocean then you are a tidal wave, crashing and breaking along the shore, and you risk taking him with you. The paper wrinkles between shaking fists as you finally collapse into a discordant sob, unable to hold it in any longer. The seafoam carries you far, far away, until his voice is nothing but wind in its current. But he’s owed an explanation, isn’t he?

“I’m not transferring to another position,” your every word is pulled like teeth and hurts twice as much, the effort it takes to continue plunging you ever deeper, buried within cold sand, “I was fired, Moon. I’m not coming back.”

His grip on your shoulder hardens until it’s almost painful, nails digging into flesh. You hardly feel it. Your mind sways on uneven waves, your body is numb, a distant part of you, heavy with grief. He releases you on realizing and hesitates only a moment before wrapping his hands around your own. His voice warbles with unspoken dread.

“Why?” He asks.

Why, indeed? You had asked the company a thousand times, and asked yourself a thousand more when their answer wasn’t enough to sate you. Maybe you weren’t working hard enough, fast enough, your efficiency lackluster in every way that counted. Maybe you spent too many hours shooting the breeze with Moon and not enough time sorting boxes of craft supplies or folding blankets. Maybe your coworkers had seen you bringing Sun flowers one too many times. Maybe the kids asked too many questions and you answered with too much, or not enough. Maybe it was a combination of these things, or none of them. Maybe it was as simple as management had made it out to be.

Budget cuts, is what they told you. Your presence was no longer a necessity. The daycare would manage fine on its own.

“I don’t know,” you end up telling him, “maybe I just wasn’t good enough.”

You don’t notice that one of his hands has untangled from yours until the back of his knuckles are brushing along your cheek. They catch a tear as it falls and let it bleed into a strand of hair, gently tucking it behind your ear. “No, no no no, Starlight, you’ve done nothing wrong,” his murmur keeps you from drifting further into the sea, a fragile tether around your waist, fraying at the seams, “I’m sure there’s a way to fix this. We can find a way.”

“I tried,” your sob rings through the empty space of their bedroom, causing him to freeze. “I did everything I could, offered what I could – I’d have worked less hours, accepted less pay, anything. It doesn’t matter!” The tether unravels fiber by fiber. “It’s too late, Moon.” This won’t last. “It’s over.”

“We can still–”

“No!” The tether snaps. You turn your cheek in the palm of his hand and flinch when it cups your jaw, angry tears pouring over his thumb. “I’m so tired of fighting this when it’s obvious that they’ve made up their minds,” you can’t look him in the eye, “Please don’t make this even harder than it already is.”

Your fingers pinch at the edges of the paper, then pull it taut, taking in the art for a final time as water-stains spill across its surface. Wordlessly, you return it to him.

He doesn’t immediately take it, staring back at you, instead, as if by some miracle you’ll change your mind. But you don’t. You get back to your feet when his hand leaves you to take it, a terrible, crackling whine spilling from his throat, the motion of your stand so abrupt his nail stings a thin line down your skin – but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything.

He catches you by the wrist as you turn to leave.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes wide, “let us try.”

The waves are cold and heartless. They brush against your skin with affections no less tender than this and numb you down to the marrow. “I’m sorry,” you shake him free of your wrist, “whatever this is, it’s over.”

The door shuts at your heel with a whisper, and Moon does not try to follow.

You don’t sleep that night. The look in his eyes haunts you like a ghost, there each time you close your eyes, you toss and turn restlessly from the time you get home to the time your alarm goes off the next morning. Though you expect the sound to be grating as always, today it is anything but. Sweet, like a lullaby. Familiar. You savor it for all of a minute before forcing your hand over the button. Tomorrow, you’ll hear it for the last time – until you can find yourself a new job somewhere else.

You go about your morning routine with a certain amount of listlessness. The waves aren’t turbulent, anymore. They’ve settled into a mindless current, the idle of driftwood on a calm ocean’s surface. You skip breakfast.

Key in the ignition, seatbelt on, you adjust your rearview mirror and swear that Sun smiles at you from the back seat. Here one minute and gone the next. You had often joked about breaking them out, one day. Showing them the world.

How foolish.

Your drive is interrupted by the lazy push of traffic, and you can’t help but feel like the universe itself is dragging its feet with you. The remnants of a nasty fender bender just ahead distracts you briefly. Your mind is drawn back to the many times Moon complained about you driving home each day in what they both considered a death machine. Bitter laughter chokes against your tongue as you pass it by, free hand rooting around for your phone so you can explain away any tardiness.

“It’s fine,” says your boss. Of course it is. You’re only here for a short while longer, anyway.

You’re half an hour past the beginning of your shift when you finally pull into the parking lot, the area busy with cars already. You do what you can to avoid your coworkers’ gaze upon entering and clock in with your head down, thoughts still distant.

There’s an abundance of noise coming from behind the daycare doors long before you reach them. Pushing forward, you find yourself between dozens of children playing in what can only be considered unmonitored chaos. Craft supplies have spilled from their drawers and made a river onto the play mats. Toys litter the walkway, forcing you to step over dolls and plastic rockets and stuffed animals alike just to get to the front desk. The chorus of unrestrained fun bleeds your eardrums.

And there stands Sun at the center of it all, covered head to toe in paint, glue, and stickers, hands shuffling with guilt behind him while your boss verbally chews him up and spits him out.

“What’s going on here?” You drop your bag behind the desk and sidestep through a sea of running toddlers before coming to a stop at your manager’s side. Sun’s head snaps upward with a vocal clickclick at the sound of your voice, the tiniest flicker of relief settling in his overheating frame.

“Finally,” answers your manager, “I don’t know what you’ve been teaching this thing, but it’s gotten far too lazy. These children need to be reigned in immediately,” he gestures wildly at the ensuing chaos, face so red and tight you think he might just pop. “Now that you’re here you better fix it. I expect everything to be taken care of when I return, or you can say goodbye to your last paycheck!”

“Oh, u-um,” you shoot a quizzical look in Sun’s direction, but his face is blank, save for the usual candid smile, “sure thing. They’ll be perfect little angels when you get back.”

Your answer is nothing more than a grunt, that of an angry and pouting dog. He nearly bodies a third grader on his way out.

Your neck cranes to shoot Sun a narrow-eyed look. “What was all that about?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean!” He chirps.

What happens next moves like clockwork. Sun turns on his heel and brings two fingers against his smile, and perfectly imitates the shrill of a whistle, seamlessly gathering the children’s attention with little more than that and a clap of his hands. “Anarchy time is over, children,” he sings, “time to clean up, up, up so we can watch our movie!”

He receives a divided wave of reactions, squeals of glee overshadowed by groans and whines of not being done with their games, just yet, but he’s quick to put a stop to that with the simple lift of a finger. “Remember, first one to clean up their area gets to help me pick out the movie,” his smile undeniably widens behind the mask, “and our snack!”

The resulting chaos is of a different variety. Children of all ages bustling around to do their part until every toy is in a pile and all the crafts have found their way back to the table. Not perfect, by any means, but it’s about as close to organization as the daycare gets until Sun has a proper crack at it himself.

He never needed your help. Not before your arrival, and certainly not now. Sure, having an extra pair of hands around makes his job exponentially easier, but he managed to uphold this business for years before you were hired. He knows just what to do.

And here, too, does he know exactly what he’s doing.

“You cheeky bastard–”

“Language!”

“–you did this on purpose.” You accusingly point a finger toward the smug expression he’s wearing, that plastered smile shining back at you like he is none-the-wiser to what you’re saying. He’s practically mocking the very implication of it. “What were you thinking!”

His head tilts thoughtfully to the side, pointer finger coming to sit atop the chin of his faceplate as if he’s actually thinking about it, “I’m not sure what you mean,” hums Sun. “Do you mean to say that I pulled every drawer from the shelves and placed every toy within reach first thing this morning? That I let the children run amuck, all willy-nilly? That I encouraged their ruckus? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Yes!”

He tuts, shaking his head in disbelief, “I would never do such a thing, sunshine! Why, I’ve just been doing my very best to keep these rowdy tots in line until you could get here. It was utter disarray without you here. Disarray, I tell you!”

You aren’t sure whether to be proud, or allow the feeling of your blood boiling to spill into something more tangible. “I know what you’re doing, Sun,” you decide on a halfhearted scold, instead, “this was risky. Too risky. What if you had been punished with more than a slap on the wrist?”

“I can hardly call that tantrum your manager pulls anything in the way of a slap,” he insists, “and besides, it all ended up just dandy. See?” He nods in the direction of a much cleaner daycare, the children already pouring over a basket of DVDs like vultures on old meat. His hand is heavy as it abruptly rests atop your head and rustles through your hair. “Everything went according to plan, petal. Stop your worrying.”

You slouch under the touch and gently bat his hand away, only half-smiling. “It’s not going to work, you know.”

“It might!”

“But—”

“I told you, didn’t I?” He turns fully now and cups your face between both of his hands, “Quit your worrying, little biter. You’re not allowed to stop trying until the rest of us have.”

You pout something fierce, a frustrated whine already building at the back of your throat. It eventually eases into the lows of a sigh. There’s no point in fighting either of them on this. Sun, especially, is aggravatingly stubborn when he’s set his mind on something. You can only imagine the plans they were making from the very second you left the night before.

Your eye catches on a subtle twitch in his fingers, and deeper still, in the depths of his chest, the whir of an overworked fan. The telltale signs of an anxiety attack that he’s barely restraining. He has every reason to be anxious, too. Sun can’t handle messes on a good day, so to go out of his way to intentionally create this much of it...

He really is trying.

“Thank you, Sun,” you take in a deep breath and hold it, relaxing with the exhale. “I’ll try and be a little less...grumpy, about all of this. Let you have a chance at trying at least.” You feel a pang of guilt at having to say it twice.

His right hand strays from your cheek while the other one stays. “Do you promise this time?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

When he taps his pointer finger against your bottom lip it tastes like sticky paint and glue. Your nose wrinkles, cheeks splitting with a smile even when all you want to do is cry. “I promise.”

It doesn’t work.

Why would it?

A single day of ruckus is nothing in the grand scheme of FazCo’s wallet. Sun is given a secondary scolding while being told to do better, and that’s that. There isn’t enough banking on your presence here to bother paying your checks any longer.

You still thank him for the attempt, knowing just how much he put himself through in the effort, and he remains convinced that something will change, even now. That a miracle will bring you back to them. When you say your goodbyes it’s with hope in his eyes, and acceptance in yours. You don’t notice how poorly he’s actually holding himself together.

Or the flicker of purple in his gaze as you leave the daycare behind.

That night is no better than the last. If this continues, you’re going to spend your final day with them sleep deprived out of your mind. It’s not like it can be helped, either way, seeing as each attempt at getting some rest violently reminds you of how little time is left. The memories you shared and the memories you had hoped to make, all taken from you in the time it will take for the sun to rise and set once more. It felt like a sick joke. Too cruel to be real.

It’s three in the morning when you receive a call.

You notice your phone vibrating on the bedside table within seconds of it, seeing as you’re still awake and watching old sit-com reruns to quell the anguish in your heart. You don’t hesitate to answer it the moment your eyes settle on the name.

It’s your manager. And he sounds – to put it lightly – like he’s going to piss himself.

“You better get your ass over here,” he half-quivers, half-snarls into the phone, “I mean it. Now.”

You’re already up and looking for your shoes when you hear a heavy thump from the receiver. “What was that?” You ask, eyes scanning the room for your other sneaker, “What’s going on?”

“I forgot something before closing and— does it matter? Just get over here!” Wood splinters around his voice. Behind that, the familiar sound of bells.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” you tell him, “try to find some place to hide.”

Forgetting your shoes entirely, you shove your feet into some slippers (it’ll match the rest of your attire, anyway), and throw yourself out the front door.

You really ought to have been pulled over sometime in the mad-dash between your house and the pizza-plex. Either the officers normally patrolling these streets are all at home sleeping like normal people, or your luck is finally turning around. Though, considering the circumstances bringing you to this point, you can’t say that’s entirely true.

The building is quiet as a ghost when you slip inside. “Moon?” Your voice spills over the empty halls and bounces back to meet you again, making the wide arching mouth of the pizzaplex feel that much more hollow. His voice does not answer you.

Instead what you hear is a rattling from the distance. The sound of metal on metal. You head for its direction in a full-body sprint while digging out the phone in your pocket, considering giving your manager another call, but ultimately thinking better of it. If he really was hiding (as he should be, if he cared whatsoever about your advice) the ring would only give his position away. You would just have to find them without it.

It doesn’t take long.

You round the corner to the sight of Moon making a meal out of your manager. Or trying to, at least. The metal bat your boss wields to ward off the normal type of intruder (already dented in to look grotesquely misshapen by now) is the one thing standing between him and a bed six feet under, and judging by the quivering in his arms, that method isn’t going to last much longer. His back presses against the floor with the entire weight of the animatronic atop him.

Moon spits and snarls, teeth gnashing behind the mask and nails carving slivers of metal from the bat that keeps his right hand from doing damage to anything else. The left hangs limply at his side with its elbow joint bent out of shape, wires exposed and barely keeping the limb pieces together. His chest is dented in a number of places, proving that the bat struck successfully more than once, though you can’t say your manager is looking any better.

Especially when you near them and get a proper look at the man who pays your checks; thick blood pools from his nose to chin, coating gritted teeth in red. The color stains his shirt and climbs the length of his body, thin gauges rivering down both arms. And his leg, fuck, the angle is all wrong–

His neck cranes to see you, face red with effort rather than anger for once. “Call your dog off!” He barks.

Ignoring the implications of that, you nod like your life depends on it (as it’s surely about to) and raise your hands into the air, daring a step closer. “Moon,” your chest feels tight, as though you aren’t getting in enough air, but you’ve done this song and dance plenty of times before. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Can you look at me?”

And he does. Against all odds, he does. The ever briefest flicker in your direction, a long enough distraction to give your manager a chance at escape but not enough to prevent Moon from immediately trying to follow.

“Hey,” you find his wrist to stop him in place, mirroring his own gesture from only a night before. An unspoken plead.

His head does a one-eighty to look directly at you, the expression he regards you with being that of a total stranger. Icy dread sinks into the lengths of your stomach and takes your heart with it.

"Moon, it’s me," you try again, "I'm here, I’m here, can you–"

His good hand raises, fingers winding above your elbow, and for an ever fleeting moment you think that maybe he's already found his way back to you. Then your feet leave the floor.

And your body ragdolls across the tile.

It’s a fickle thing, human life. It was stupid to think you could go into this situation guns blazing and still make it out okay. But it’s here, your back against the floor and body aching like a fire ablaze, when your eyes crack open to the sight of your manager limping toward the exits – leaving you behind like table scraps – that you realize just how much trouble you’re in.

Moon’s sharpened nails tickle against the back of your throat as his fingers encircle and squeeze, the choked breath he draws forth beating against your already battered ribs.

“Moon–” His name becomes lodged in your throat, rasping violently as you feel yourself raised in one smooth motion. Your back connects with the wall with merciless force and any hopes you may have had about this, too, all being an act disappear in an instant.

Tears brim at the corner of your eyes, your vision already starting to dwindle, they burn down your cheeks for what feels like the hundredth time that week. Still, you refuse to allow this to be how it ends. You’ll get your final day here, even if it takes everything you have left. Even if you’re forced to wield the same ocean that dragged you under.

“Please,” you whisper. His grip tightens. Your lungs sting with the effort of each breath, mind racing for the right words to say when it all becomes clear to you. “We can find a way to fix this,” your eyes search for any remaining piece of him, desperate and pleading as he’d been the night before, ”just let me try.“

One finger pries away, then another.

You collapse to the floor in an instant.

Moon stares upon you with a look you can’t quite read. He recognizes the words, he has to, or you wouldn’t be swallowing mouthfuls of air right now. Even so, his level of clarity is uncertain.

“Have to–” his good hand twitches, fingers contorting indecisively, “have to keep you here,” he says. “Late. It’s late.” His hand balls into a fist, then relaxes. The black swallowing his eyes begins to recede, giving way to familiar crimson if only in small, slow increments. “Time for bed.”

The song and dance continues, even if he’s forgotten which direction to put his feet and the lyrics are all wrong. You know the meaning behind them; what he wants to say, what he’s trying to say.

So you offer him a nod, slow at first but building with your confidence. You can still save yourself. Save him. “Yeah, I was just getting ready to lie down,” you tell him around a cough, “S-See?” You point with a wary smile towards yourself, thanking your lucky stars that you decided to wear an actual pajama set to bed for once instead of just an old T-shirt and pants. There’s only one slipper remaining on your foot – the other sits abandoned a few feet from where you currently sit, having been lost in the scuffle. Moon follows your gaze to its location.

He gives you a sideways, narrow eyed expression, red slits among a field of black which blends seamlessly into the dark hallway. Then he’s lowering himself into a crouch and half stepping, half scuttling towards your slipper. It would be endearing if you weren’t skating on thin ice right now.

Bending further to pick it up, he eyes the slipper for a moment before looking over his shoulder for confirmation. You nod, once more, and bring yourself to yawn with enough dramatics that it has his eyes dilating in that special way, more red blooming and overtaking the black. The action is only half forced. You really are exhausted.

Like tiptoeing across the thinnest layer of a frozen lake, you wait until he’s finished placing the slipper back on your foot before continuing with the next part of this dance. “Will you help me get to sleep?”

He stares, eyes calculating, as if he knows it’s all a game. You’re tricking his code in the only way that still works – and it doesn’t always work – but it has to, this time, because your whole life relies on him playing along.

And he does, lending you only a nod before bending at the knees and scooping you into his arms, bridal style, at a pace that denies any chance for argument. You don’t fight him, anyway, and you don’t miss the wince that crosses his face as his wounded arm wraps weakly around your shoulders, either, barely able to keep you there.

You also don’t miss the irony of having spent two days waging war against your insomnia only to be taken in for a nap by the very person you wanted so desperately to avoid. They weren’t meant to see you in this state. Likewise, you know how much he hates you to see him like this, too. A fair trade, you suppose. Life is funny like that. And by funny, you mean unfair and horrible.

When you breach the Daycare doors, Moon makes a beeline for the nap area and sets you down on a nest of blankets and pillows. It’s normally their job to fold and sort these into their respective cubbies, so you can only imagine their displacement here was a culmination of built up stress. The image of Moon refolding each blanket again and again without gaining any proper satisfaction from it plagues your mind, reinforcing the guilt that has already begun to creep its slow fingers around your throat again.

He wordlessly settles a pillow beneath your head before thinking better of it and tossing it across the room, though the blanket he had tucked you in with remains where it’s at. Then, changing his mind again, he slumps into a heavy sit just behind you and draws you near, your back against his chest, both arms surrounding you in a hug despite the effort it takes for him to raise his left below the elbow. His faceplate bonks gently against the top of your head.

And he’s silent like this for a long, long while. Leaving you feeling tense and defenseless, never truly knowing if you’re out of the woods just yet. If he’s come back to himself. You don’t allow yourself to look back until a quiet tremor spreads through the arms holding you tight, extending to his hands, trembling fingers curling into your shirt, eventually traveling throughout his entire casing until it feels like his very exoskeleton will vibrate straight out of its frame.

A noise stirs from his voicebox that you don’t immediately recognize. Practically a whisper, at first, it strains against his mechanics like a high pitched whistle through steel pipes before the frequency snaps, becoming the whitenoise heard between television channels, loud, discordant, ugly and raw.

A sob wracks through him.

“You can’t leave,” he chokes between the static in his throat, tucking you ever closer, “please, please, please don’t leave us.”

The agony his voice wields threatens to pull you back under. You fight the sensation, forcing yourself to relax in his hold, instead, even as you suffocate within it. Tears well into your eyes for the umpteenth time and fall soundlessly from your chin to land against his arms.

After a decisive moment, you make up your mind, answering him first with a stern shake of your head. “I won’t,” you promise, “they’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.”

Your chin lifts with an effort to meet his eyes, and you smile, wry and shaky as it is, hoping that he’ll reciprocate. He doesn’t. Looking down on you with a black, oily sheen smudging his cheeks, instead. You can’t bring yourself to blame him for it. In the end there’s only so much you can do. A promise is nothing in the eyes of the organization behind their very existence.

“I’ll stay the night,” you tell him, as if it’s any comfort. He answers with nothing more than a nod, then rests his chin atop your head, again, not willing to meet your eyes any longer. More noise spills from his voicebox, weak and distant, none of it words.

It isn’t long after that he begins to sway. A subtle rock from side to side, joined a moment later by the familiar tune of his music box, its winds and clicks singing against your cheek when you turn to face his chest.

For the first time since receiving that dreadful phone call, you find yourself drifting with ease. Darkness curls around you like a warm blanket to the gentle, albeit shaky hum in Moon’s throat, soothing you ever further, despite your struggle to stay awake with him for just a little longer. Just one moment more, safe in his arms.

Sleep drags you under.

It’s morning when you next wake. The day is only getting started, judging by the position of the sun as it glares through the daycare windows and directly into your eyes. You are greeted by your other Sun, who smiles at the sight of your eyes fluttering open and has you wrapped up in his arms much in the same position as you had fallen asleep, though you take note of an additional blanket wrapped around you.

“Morning, sunshine,” he croaks – an odd and unfamiliar lack of excitement in his quiet tone – though you know it would be cruel to expect happiness from him after last night. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mm...actually, yes,” you admit around a yawn, “but I’m sure it was only a few hours.”

“Three, to be exact,” Sun answers you. His arms unwind, careful of the damage to his left, to finally return your freedom. He is visibly reluctant to do so. “It’s around seven, now. How do you feel?”

You shimmy out of his remaining grip and take the opportunity to stretch and turn yourself around, careful not to go very far. Sun’s fingers twitch in your absence like he’s waiting for an excuse to pull you back into his lap. “Seven already?” You dodge his second question, not wanting to get into how sore you are after being chucked like a stuffed toy across the room only hours before. Moon is doubtlessly feeling guilty about that enough as it is. “Shouldn’t you be getting the daycare ready for open?”

He reaches for you, but thinks better of it, and tucks the hand back into his lap with the other. “I just–” his voice strains, going silent. Every ray has disappeared into his faceplate to leave only the points. It isn’t until your own hand outstretches and rests against his that he rediscovers his voice. “I just wanted to spend more time with you, whatever time we had left.”

Your smile wavers, tears threatening to spill across your cheeks again right then and there. There is a telling layer of black oil coating the underside of Sun’s eyes, too, that you elect to ignore. “I understand,” you tell him, “but you’re only going to get yourself in more trouble if the daycare isn’t open on time. My boss might not let me finish out the day if that happens.”

A whine rings from his throat at the mere possibility of it, that of a guilty dog staring at the floor, tail tucked between its legs. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it.

“Come on, I’ll help you get set up, and we can talk some more in the meantime.” You look down at your clothes, remembering your impatience to get out of the house the night before, and grimace a bit. “We can just say I thought it was pajama day, or something. I’m sure the kids will love that. Let me just get some caffeine in me first and then we can–”

Cool fingers wind around your wrist while your knees are still bent, not even fully to your feet yet. His hold on you isn’t painful, but it is dangerously close to becoming so, and you don’t have to look far to see the panic in his eyes.

“I’ll come right back,” you promise, “Just a quick hop down to the coffee booth, that’s all. I’ll even bring some fizzy faz back for you.”

His whine sharpens, reverberating against his chest. “You aren’t supposed to be here in the first place, remember? What if you’re caught?”

“What are they going to do, fire me?”

It is evident by the harsh squeeze he gives your wrist that he does not, in fact, find your joke funny. Nevertheless, he begrudgingly releases his hold on you and takes to rhythmically tapping all ten fingers against his knees, instead, the metallic tink tink tink echoing even through the fabric of his pants. “Be quick, please?” He begs.

You give him a quick nod and take off in the direction of the booth with as much skip in your step as you can muster. Which, admittedly, isn’t a whole lot. Three hours is still three hours, even if it was spent in the arms of your favorite people, and you’re still feeling downright miserable on the emotional front.

The staff bot greets you by name as you shuffle up to the counter and order your usual, taking care not to burn yourself on the cheap styrofoam cup that gets handed back to you. When you turn back around, lethargic and gripping the cup too tight, you come face to face with your manager.

He looks…well, he’s looked better. There are bandages wrapped around both arms, a collection of them scattered across his face and jaw, none of it professionally administered. You imagine that even the management around here does their best to avoid a lawsuit. Though, judging by the crutches he’s using, you have to assume he went to someone with medical training after patching up what he could himself.

You expect him to be upset. Pissed off, really. Instead, he looks at you as though he’s seen a ghost. That, if nothing else, gets a laugh out of you.

“Hey, boss,” you hum, trying to act nonchalant, “having a nice morning?”

“I–” he gawks for a while longer, wetting his chapped lips. You think he looks almost normal without all the angry red and popping veins. “I wasn’t expecting you to be–”

“Alive?” You supply, cocking an eyebrow. Your smirk is definitively smothered, trying not to get too cocky with the asshole who left you to die the night before, but its presence can be heard in your tone nonetheless.

“Back at work, already,” he corrects with a strong grimace, evidently knowing he’s been seen through already. “Didn’t Moon…”

“I got him under control,” you say with an easy shrug. It isn’t the first time. Were the circumstances different, you’re sure it wouldn’t be the last, either. “Can I still keep the coffee? I know I’m not on the clock yet, but…”

“It’s–” he stills, breaking awkwardly into silence for a moment before deflating with a long and tortured sigh. “It’s fine,” he grumbles. “Doesn’t matter.”

He is silent as you pay the bot, sipping sagely on his own coffee while avoiding your eye and wearing a painfully constipated expression. It isn’t until you’re preparing to head back that he calls your name again, causing you to pause, dread rising in your gut. You force yourself to turn around.

He looks sour in the face, like the staff bot traded out his coffee’s sugar for a handful of lemons. You are preparing yourself for the scolding of a lifetime when his eyes roll, casting to the side. “You’re being demoted to minimum wage,” he tells you.

It takes a few seconds too long for the words to catch up to your brain. When at last the implications sink in, it takes real, actual effort to not smile like a kid on Christmas and jump around right there in front of him.

You settle for a wide – normal – smile, instead, but still laugh a little too loudly, nodding with enough enthusiasm to make him groan. “Sure thing,” you tell him, “I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow. O-Or whenever. Same schedule?”

“Sure,” he grunts, “just keep your dogs under control.”

And then he’s gone. Simple as that. He walks past you and into his office, shutting the door with a soundless click, and you are left in an empty hall too early in the morning, coffee going cold in your hand, a hundred thoughts racing through your mind and all of them sending you into a run back towards the daycare.

The drawing comes to mind again. Sun on one side, Moon on the other, and you in the middle – and it’s here where you can no longer stop the smile that blossoms across your face, the heat that warms your chest and sooths away every cold and aching wave that had threatened to drown you and take your heart with it.

Yeah… maybe it would all work out after all.

#drabbles #sun x reader #moon x reader #sun fnaf #moon fnaf #sundrop #moondrop #DCA #DCA fandom

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parad-ice-lostandfound · 4 months

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Prompt: "…How’d you know I wanted this?" "Because I heard you talking about it on several occasions." "I didn’t know you paid this much attention to me." "—I don’t. You just happen to talk really loudly.”

Pairing: Idia Shroud x GN!Reader/Prefect/Yuu

Genre: Fluff, and slight crack because it's Idia <3

TW: NA

"-And so, we shall celebrate this winter with a housewarden Secret Santa exchange!" Crowley smiled, golden eyes crinkling into happy little half-moons behind his mask.

The seven housewardens of NRC, joined by Ramshackle's Prefect for this particular meeting, looked at each other. Some with clear exasperation in their eyes, a few (namely Kalim) showing a little more excitement than the rest of their dour counterparts.

The Prefect sighed, sinking into their chair as if embarrassed beyond words as Crowley clapped his hands and stretched his arms towards them, proudly continuing.

"I must give credit of this splendid idea to our beloved Prefect, who told me about this adorable little custom they had followed back in their own world. Of course, being the kind and generous soul that I am, I wish for our Prefect to feel right at home here in Twisted Wonderland. I believe all of you wish the same, hm?"

Leona grumbled under his breath as he leaned back in his chair, tail swishing irritably. Of course the old crow goes and uses them against us, he thought to himself, watching as the others' faces immediately softened at that. No matter how much the seven housewardens of NRC hated working with each other, with the exception of Kalim who seemed happy to just be there, all of them would bear with it if it was for the sake of the Ramshackle Prefect.

Crowley didn't exaggerate when he called the magicless human a beast tamer.

"Fine by me, as long as I don't have to get somethin' for the lizard," he spoke, jutting his chin at Malleus as he frowned. The dragon fae narrowed his eyes at him, before turning to look at the headmage.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with Kingscholar," he said, voice low and serious. "That being said, I do hope that you would allow me to partake in this gift exchange with the Child of Man as my partner."

"Now, now, that isn't fair to the rest of us, Malleus. I would very much like to be the Prefect's Secret Santa as well," Vil hummed, raising a perfectly trimmed eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"That's not how Secret Santa works," the Prefect sighed, before Crowley took over for them. "Precisely. And to ensure that everyone has a fair chance of being assigned as our beloved Prefect's Secret Santa, we will have the fairest means of competition possible!"

He took a box from under the table and placed it in front of everyone. "You all shall draw chits, and the person who's name you draw will be for whom you have to get a gift," he drummed his golden claws on the box as he pushed it in Riddle's direction.

"Mr. Rosehearts, if you would."

Riddle nodded, before putting his hand inside and pulling out a chit.

The process continued, with the Prefect being the last to pull out a name. Their eyes had widened on seeing what was written before they shoved the piece of paper in their pocket, refusing to answer Malleus and Kalim's questions of whose name they had pulled.

No one noticed the reclusive housewarden of Ignihyde slinking away in the shadows, the tips of his hair flaming a soft pink.

"Why did I have to get them, out of everybody?" Idia groaned into his pillow. The one time he decided to attend a housewarden meeting in person, he had to be roped into what was probably going to be the most awkward bonding activity.

"I do not have enough XP to get the Prefect a gift for Christmas," he mumbled to himself, turning to lie on his back. As Idia stared up at the ceiling, he continued airing out his grievances to the techomantic machines in his room.

"If it was any of the others I could have gotten them something. What do I get them...?"

Idia let out another groan, dragging his hands down his face. Maybe avoiding them after his overblot wasn't such a great idea...

But how could he have brought himself to talk to them after the entire fiasco that was his overblot? If there was anyone who knew all about the effects of overblots on victims and the people around them, it was him. Besides, Ortho had become fast friends with them, so he could always keep an eye on their state through him...

"Ortho!"

The young humanoid poked his head in through the door, only to be met with the frantic and helpless eyes of his brother.

"Help me get something for the Prefect!"

Idia sighed, wishing for not the first time and certainly not the last time to melt into the floor, if only to escape the stifling atmosphere in the room as the housewardens exchanged presents.

Distracted by the sight of ever oblivious Kalim handing a flustered Riddle an extremely expensive-looking tea set, he didn't notice when the Prefect snuck up on him.

"Hey."

"Sevens-!" He spun his head to look at them, eyes wide with shock and fear. "P-Prefect, you shouldn't creep up on me like that! That's t-too much for my poor otaku heart-!"

Idia's cheeks and hair tinted a light pink as they mumbled out an apology for startling him. They allowed him to calm down before speaking.

"So, who's the lucky person?" They asked, their gaze on the wrapped box in his hand. He felt his mouth dry, at a loss for words.

"T-this is, uh, it's for you, a-actually," he mumbled, feeling warm as he looked down at the neatly wrapped present before handing it to them.

The Prefect tilted their head, and Idia had to stop his squeal at how cat-like that action was. "You're my Secret Santa?"

Idia nodded, not trusting his words to be anything but a panicked jumble of how cute they were and how much he liked them and how he hoped they liked what he got for them because if they didn't then he would happily bury himself alive to escape the humiliation and embarassment and-

"What a coincidence! I'm your Secret Santa as well!"

"O-Oh." Idia's train of thought screeched to a stop, before roaring back and running at even higher speeds. Is this some sort of joke from the Seven? That just upped the difficulty level! Abort, abort mission right now!

They smiled, before pressing something into Idia's hands. The warmth of their smaller hands on his was equal parts comforting and panic-inducing. Had Ortho been there, he would have definitely remarked on his increased heartbeat and dilated pupils.

"I got you the merch that Precipice Moirai released recently. It isn't much, but..."

"Isn't much..? Wait, are you talking about those figurines they launched for their fifth anniversary?!" Idia's eyes widened as you nodded. "Even I couldn't get them anywhere because I was a bit late! How did you clear that quest so easily?!"

"Well... I entered the lucky draw they held just for fun, but ended up winning the figurines. And I knew that you wanted them, so-"

"How did you know I wanted this?" Idia asked. It wasn't his intention to be rude, but he was pretty sure that all of his groaning and moaning about losing the chance to own the ultra-rare, SSR tier merch was only heard by Ortho.

He watched as they hesitated before answering. "That's because... I heard you talking about it to Ortho a few times."

Idia's heart thundered in his chest. The Prefect was trying to not make eye contact with him, a clear sign that they weren't telling the entire truth.

"I, uh.. I didn’t know you paid this much attention to me"

"—I don’t. You just happen to talk really loudly and passionately about the things you like," they said, still refusing to make eye contact with him. Before Idia could tell himself that it was because the Prefect wanted to get over with this interaction as soon as they could, he noticed the darkness of their cheeks, and the colour on the tip of their ears.

"Oh. Well, thank you anyways, Prefect. I hope you'll like my gift as well," Idia said, an awkward, yet sincere smile on his face.

Back to Masterlist...

#ice writes #twisted wonderland #twst #twst idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #idia x prefect #idia x yuu #twst idia shroud #merry twstmas event #finally!#i get this out on the boyo's birthday!#happy birthday idia!#400 follower event

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sky-kiss · 5 months

Note

You want a sinning prompt, ill give you a sinning prompt *cough*Ascendedform!usingyoutomakBloodofRaphaeltieflings*cough*

A/n: /checks the time Ok. It’s sin o’clock. I'm hiding everything under the cut. Because it's...well. You know.

___________

Ascended!Raphael x Reader 18+: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of your actions.

___________

"Look at you," Haarlep breathes the words against your ear, nose tweaked against your cheek. There's a scrape of teeth, and you shiver, screwing your eyes shut against the sensation. Sensitive, so sensitive. Every nerve in your body feels alive. They lick across to the corner of your mouth, turning your head to kiss you deeply. The incubus' tail curls around your thigh, urging your legs to fall apart for him. Fingers circle your clit, a lazy series of strokes meant to build you higher but never break. He chuckles, a mimicry of affection, as he kisses you again. "Such a pretty mess you make. Even Raphael couldn't fault my work."

You gasp, head lolling back against their shoulder. His right arm is a vice holding you back against his chest. The warmth of them helps. Haarlep smells like summer fires and vetiver, fresh and burning; it suits them. You're burning.

Their fingers dip lower, pressing into you and scissoring. You whimper, and Haarlep swallows the sound, pushes their tongue into your mouth, and makes you taste, drink, and welcome him. The fever is almost unbearable. The incubus has stretched and stretched you. All you feel is empty.

"Good girl," they coo. Haarlep wipes your slick on your thigh. They smile against your skin. "So good for us. So ready. Say it, sweetling. Say you're ready."

"Please."

"Ah, ah, that," they nip the tip of your nose, "was not what I asked: are you ready, pet?"

"I'm ready. Gods, please!"

"Oh, darling," he shifts, dragging fingers down your sternum, your belly, down to the apex of your thighs. "After tonight, not one of your gods will have you. All ours. Always." Haarlep hums, leaning their head against yours. "Isn't that right, Raphael?"

Raphael waits, kneeling. The ascended fiend tilts its head to the side, tongue lolling from the center mouth. Its eyes burn with animal intelligence; part of it is weighing Haarlep's words, tasting them. Its wings fan out to the side, brushing the tile, braced for stability. The clawed hands rest on either side of the pair of you.

The beast noses your chest. Scents you. And purrs. You groan, shifting back against Haarlep, lifting your hips.

How lovely you'll look, he'd said, as conversational as he might have been over brunch, full of my seed. That's what you want, yes? To be good for me? Serve me?

You wanted it more than your next breath. The fiend tastes you first, its growl vibrating through your body. The heat makes you shift, panting, glancing over your shoulder for help. The flat of its tongue covers the whole of your cunt with flat pressure, warm and wet; Haarlep leads you in a lazy rock, cock still pressed against your ass. You clench at his thighs, searching for purchase, anything, as the fiend works itself up. The more it laps at you, the wetter you get. The better you taste. The more it wants. Up, and up, and up, and there has to be a breaking point, there has to be a ceiling, there has to, has to, has to…

Your back bows, thrusting into the creature's touch. There is enough of Raphael in there to delight in this naked affectation, and it howls its pleasure, tongue pressing inside your clenching hole. It's being filled with heat, stretched, and you can't help but fuck yourself onto it, welcoming more. You want him. You wish you could put into words how badly you want him.

You're lucky, you know, he'd breathed the words against your lips, skirt rucked up around your hips. His hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as he thrusts into you. I've chosen you, little mouse. My treasure…what pretty spawn you'll give me.

And, oh, it's too much. Too much, the head of its cock pressed to your soppy cunt. Haarlep spreads your legs wider, angles you, purring filth in your ear until you're grinding down, desperate. They want to see you speared on him, want to listen to you babble, want to watch you come and come. Raphael pushes, and you jolt, feeling your body finally relent.

You could never take all of him, but you take enough. It lowers its head, licks your cheek, and howls. It fucks without grace or concern, pulling you where it wants, its head thrown back, taking. In the back of your mind, you're vaguely aware of Haarlep laughing, lifting your hips just enough to let the fiend slide deeper. Air is an afterthought. You're screaming, and it's sharp, everything: the heat, the pain, the pleasure. Sweat tracks down your body in lazy rivulets. You're coming apart, but your body won't stop. It's rocking with him, hungry. One of the fiend's hands snakes around your waist, jerking you away from the incubus and into it.

You belong to Raphael, his, his, and you shake, one hand tangling in your hair, one reaching out for Haarlep. He leans over you and kisses you just long enough to leave a fresh swell of intoxicating pleasure rocketing through your system. And then leaves you to the fiend.

You lose track. You're exhausted. It flips you onto your front, up on your knees, filling you again. You ache, but it's good. Its folded over you, panting, screaming, and you break again, clutching at its cock. And when Raphael finally comes, you want to sob; forehead pillowed on your arms—filled with him, full of him. Its spend drips down your thighs.

Fingers, oddly gently, card over your lower back and thighs. Raphael, your Raphael, leans over you, pressing a kiss to the small of your back. He gathers his seed with a chuckle, pushing it back into your cunt. You moan.

"Look at you," he mumbles. "So beautiful. Eternally mine."

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #ascended fiend raphael #asks #my writing #/walks into the sea #bg3 smut

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angelltheninth · 11 months

Note

Leona + "Come over here and make me?"

This is so Leona, my fingers typed this up so damn fast.

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, developing relationship, kissing, making out, banter, rough kissing, suggestive, hair-pulling (for Leona), biting, Leona is an asshole (but a lovable one)

Word count: 0.6k

A/N: I can always write more Leona, unlike him I don't need naps. Keep these coming cause I love writing little drabbles like this. The prompt list is here.

1. "Come over here and make me."

Leona was always such a damn tease. Gloved fingers sneaking up and down your thigh in the classroom, his tail trailing up your spine, his knowing smirks when you'd lean in to whisper him an answer to a question and then turning to the teacher and saying how he just loves his girlfriend so much he can't stay away. And you weren't even dating, he just enjoyed getting a reaction from you.

A real charming asshole, ask anyone and they'll tell you the same.

"Why are you so fucking annoying all the time?" You walk briskly towards your dorm, Leona following close behind with that all important smirk of his.

"Hm? You seem to enjoy my annoying self quite a bit from where I'm looking. That pretty face, all flustered, your heartbeat, so rapid. Can't hide shit from me, sweetheart." His tail swished and twirled happily behind him as he kept step with you, his hands crossed behind his head, bulging biceps on display.

No, no. You were not giving him the satisfaction of knowing you were looking at him.

"Let me carry your bag for you." Leona extended his arm expectedly, bowing just a little.

"We're at my dorm Leona, there's no need for that anymore." If he had asked earlier maybe you would have- "Hey! Leona! Not funny!" In a flash he took your bag and was clenching the straps of it in his hand, "Give it, you lazy dropout."

"Lazy dropout?" He feigned being hurt with a dramatic 'ouch'. "That's 'Your Highness' to you babygirl."

"I'm not your babygirl. Shut the hell up already and give me back my bag." You were getting real annoyed now, taking a step forward every time he inched back. Pretty soon he would hit the wall and have no where to go. The so-called King of the beasts at your mercy. "Leona." You warned.

"Come over here and make me." He smirked and stuck his tongue out at you, taunting you and weighing the bag up and down in his hand.

You weren't sure what you planned to do when you stepped close to him but the angry kiss caught you both by surprise. Leona a bit more then you but then again he did respond pretty fast, pushing back, kissing, biting, growling at your challenge. He didn't give you a chance for an excuse, chasing your lips the moment you pulled away, the bag thumping on the floor forgotten, his back against the dorm wall, the material of his pants brushing against your inner thighs as he pushed his leg in between then.

"Braver then you look. I underestimated yo- ow!" Leona growled and hissed when you grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled, "What's this? My girl likes it rough?"

"I'm not your girl, I already told you that." Yet you couldn't stop the gasp and whine from escaping when he rubbed his thigh between your legs. "We're outside. Someone might see."

"Mhm. Such a shame cause we have such a reputation." He lunged forward, not caring less about the burning pain on his scalp and sucked a tiny bruise on your throat. "Wanna mark you up all over." He whispered, pushing his thigh against you one more time and almost making you lose it.

You would have if he didn't stop suddenly, giving you his knowing asshole grin and walking right past you, like he didn't just have a makeout session with you. "H-Hey! What-"

"Like you said, can't let people see. Too bad right? You looked like were really getting into it to. Better luck next time babygirl." He made a V with his index and middle finger and swiped his tongue in between a few times, "See you soon. Maybe on a bed next time."

"Y- You..." Your whole body was burning, partially from anger and partially from the built up tension, "You're such an asshole!"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #twisted wonderland imagine #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst imagines #twst headcanons #leona x reader #twst fluff #twisted wonderland fluff #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst fanfic #leona kingscholar imagine #leona kingscholar headcanons #leona kingscholar fanfic #leona kingscholar x female reader #twst x you #twst x female reader #twisted wonderland x female reader

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buckets-and-trees · 11 months

Text

Out of These Waters

Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: Mer!Bucky x Princess!Reader Word Count: 7.6k

Summary: Fathoms below the surface, the tales of merfolk aren't mere tales, but a reality - a society sworn to secrecy, protecting themselves from the dangers of humans. But one of them with a yearning for what's out there keeps being drawn further and further into the places he should not go. A gender-bent adaptation of The Little Mermaid to be told in two parts.

Content/Concept Warnings: liberties taken with Hans Christian Andersen and Disney source materials, pining, magic

Additional Notes: Written for the @buckybarnesevents Connect4 Alternate June-iverse to fulfill my C3 "Gender Bend" square, looping in a number of dialogue prompts for Navy and Roo's May Challenge over at @the-slumberparty (designated in bold), my second square of @buckybarnesbingo B2 "Hidden," and MERMAY (shush, I know it's coming in at the absolute last seconds before the whistle blows). Thank you @navybrat817 and @rookthorne for letting me shout at you and go on at length riddling out this plot! A/N 2: This is part one of what needed to be split into two halves of a thorough adaptation/retelling. I had NO INTENTION of doing anything mermay. But a few weeks ago mermay art started surfacing on my dash... and I was enamored. And then some of Mindy Lee's art was shared in this post, and I thought... but what if Bucky were a merman with ridiculously long, dark, flowy hair like that... And then there was this merBucky art by @haflacky, and @navybrat817 sent me this one, and, and, and... and I realized the square I had been most perplexed about how I would find something to inspire a muse for could work if I made Bucky the protagonist of The Little Mermaid. So if you've noticed that I leaned heavy into the reblogging of mermay art, NOW YOU KNOW WHY.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Steve shook his head. “I can’t keep saying the same thing again and again, Buck.”

“Then don’t.”

“You know you’re supposed to guard from below, not above. The whole point of our guarding is to maintain secrecy, ensure humans never get too close.”

“Is it not better to know exactly what’s going on than to wait and react?”

Steve’s tail lashed quickly forward and back again, a further show of the frustration already written on his face. “But we both know that’s not why you sit at the surface.”

“There’s a wide balcony built into the side of the cliff the castle rests upon that’s only just above where high tide hits with a stairway that leads straight into the waters,” the words rushed quickly out of Bucky’s mouth. “It’s old. Why would they have direct access into the sea at the royal palace if not to interact with us?”

“How do you – no, I don’t want to know how you know that.” Steve planted his hands on his hips, just above where his dark blue scales spread down below his abdomen. “If I don’t know, I don’t have to lie for you. Your shoulders are darker than they should be, and your face is too sun-kissed.”

With that, he turned and began to swim away. Bucky looked at the tiny octopus resting on his left shoulder, tentacles wrapped around his bicep and stretching over his chest and back. He stroked the top of one of the tentacles and the beast slipped one of its arms underneath its body and slid out the three small trinkets Bucky had hidden there. “If humans are so bad, why do they make and collect such interesting trinkets?”

Instead of following straight after Steve, Bucky headed further west instead of south to the kingdom, and it wasn’t long before he reached a cave near the reef on the edge of the kingdom he’d discovered long ago during his patrols of the outer regions. It was in an undisturbed area on the outskirts of the underwater kingdom of Asgard, a place of complete solitude for Bucky. He shared the existence of this place with no one, using it as an escape, then a retreat, and now a regular spot to not only be away from duty and his ties to others, but also a place to keep his growing collection of human artifacts.

A cautious visit to the surface to observe humans as a point of reference was part of ritual tradition for all Asgardian merfolk as they reached the age of adulthood. Many used it for what it was – the point of reference for the life they were not a part of, knowledge of the dangers of the surface world, and were happy to have it over and done with.

Not Bucky.

He wasn’t the only one who the visit struck a chord with. Many of the merfolk found a call to join the royal guard after their visits – some out of fear to keep the sea safe, some out of a reverent respect for what lay beyond the safe border of the underwater. Others were struck by their habits – so similar to the merfolk, and yet different – and became collectors of the oddities that sometimes found their way into the sea either by shipwreck or simply being tossed overboard.

Bucky had yearned for his visit to the surface for years before it was his time, spurred on by a fascination that had sprouted from hearing about humans and the surface from his father who had served in the royal guard for many years before Bucky was old enough to join. His visit split the curiosity from a small crack to a chasm of questions and desires. He wanted to know so much more about the people he saw, how they lived, and yearned to even experience it himself.

Joining the guard and taking regular rotations of duty for protection monitoring allowed him the opportunity to breach the surface and observe as long as he was careful, and he was. As Steve had rightly surmised, today had been another of those days. He kept to every other part of the code and did not speak or interact with the humans on any level, the directive put into place by Bor Burison early in his reign, maintained throughout the entirety of Odin’s reign, and continued by his son Thor, their current king.

But it wasn’t the only reason he had joined the royal guard. Bucky was an explorer by nature, so he also took satisfaction in the standard undersea outskirt patrols, mapping and surveying different parts of the kingdom, and – most importantly – felt a deep sense of duty to the kingdom and serving the king, whom he felt a great amount of loyalty and friendship toward after growing up on the same training grounds together and fighting alongside on a few occasions.

So Bucky’s cave was more than just a place to keep the trinkets and artifacts he found during his excursions, it was a place where he could be himself, think, rest, or just be without any distraction. The alcoves held his treasures, which included some maps of his own creation on the sheaves of seaweed, and some things made for him or given to him by his younger sisters.

This place was some three or four leagues from the coast, and Bucky often saw the shadows of boats sailing above it. It was growing dark, so tonight he wouldn’t lay and look up at the passing shades. It was only his intention to stow away his new findings – a silver ring with jade stones and another instrument, either a tool or an ornament, with a thin silver shaft a little longer than the palm of his hand holding a row of teeth with more jade embedded into the smooth back of the shaft. As he studied it, running his fingers over the smooth back and the bumps of the dull teeth, wondering what purpose it could serve or if it was purely decorative, it began to collect hues of muted but colorful light. He smiled and looked up through the hole of the roof of his cave.

“The booming fire lights,” he murmured to his shoulder octopus, placing the object on a shelf, and shooting quickly up and out of his cave for the surface. Within just a few moments he was near the surface, and so he slowed abruptly, knowing it was always safest to emerge slowly into the air rather than burst forth from below, even if he did benefit from the darkness of the night sky. With the booming fire lights flying above, Bucky knew there was an even smaller chance for any humans to notice him, but his adherence over the years to very basic strategies made his venturing beyond the established boundaries sustainable.

The wind danced across his face as he emerged from the water, cool and swift, but not unpleasant. Wind was such an anomaly to him, he wouldn’t have thought it unpleasant anyway. He watched the colorful lights dancing against the intensely dark sky, seemingly darker than others he’d seen before, but his attention was drawn by something else as well. Not far off from where he was treading at the surface a large sailing ship was gliding along with loads of music and laughter spilling over the sides. Ships in this area making their way to and from the docks of the surface kingdom were frequent, but not usually at the leisurely pace and with such clearly joyful revelry. His heart swelled just a little, and he couldn’t deny the pull toward the celebration. He slunk back down just below the surface, low enough he knew the rapid movements of his tailfins wouldn’t emerge or even disturb the water and swam toward the vessel.

Bucky had seen the ship on approach earlier during his surface patrol. It’s one that usually sat in the harbor, had been gone for a few weeks, and only returning now.

A few moments after he resurfaced, just at the base where the ship met the water, the booming fire lights in the sky ceased, and a shortly thereafter the music died down. The ship was not far off from land, so Bucky assumed the crew had stopped to celebrate with the fire lights and was now starting to make final preparations to conclude their voyage, but his curiosity was not disappointed in venturing closer. Two humans were at the side of the boat conversing directly above him, one leaning a little over the railing, looking out over the waters, and their voices rang out clearly for his ears.

“The people will be proud,” a male voice said.

“I hope so,” your voice drifted down to him.

“They will,” your companion insisted. “Your first royal tour, and you were able to make tremendous diplomatic overtures in many of the kingdoms we visited. In particular, the resurgence of a more active alliance with Wakanda and opening a trade route with them – we hoped for the former, but no one expected the latter. Wakanda hasn’t traded with other countries for generations!”

“With Shuri as the new queen, she was ready to make new inroads, I just happened to be the first delegation they received.”

“I’m sure that was by design.”

“Do you think they’re using us?”

“No, your majesty, as I told you before we set out, I think they were receptive to our diplomatic overtures because as a new queen, she saw you on equal footing as a princess who will soon inherit this kingdom.”

You didn’t respond immediately, and Bucky heard you heave a heavy sigh before speaking again. “Less than a year.”

“You will be ready. You are ready. Shuri initiated the trade negotiations only after she had judged your character, your intelligence, and your tenacity – characteristics noticed by her brother T’Challa, as well.”

“Are you my Prime Minister or my match maker?” you chided.

Your companion laughed, and replied, “As your Prime Minister I do know that the people would certainly rejoice at the prospect of a royal wedding, but I don’t think there will need to be any interference on my part, Princess.”

“The people would certainly rejoice?”

“They would, and of course a happy people makes doing my job easier, but I would also rejoice. I would not have you face the prospect of the crown alone, your highness.”

“I don’t need a husband to rule.”

“No, I know that – only a moment ago I just affirmed how strong your diplomatic skills are. I only say that because I believe you deserve to have a partner to share it with – the weight of the burdens as well as joy in the successes. I’ve always been grateful for my companion in those ways, and your kingdom has benefited from their wisdom as well, for they set me straight when I need to see something differently and everyone else will tell me what I want to hear and not what I need to hear.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Bucky imagined you may have been sharing a look of some sort with your Prime Minister. “T’Challa was someone who gained my respect very quickly and,” you hesitated for a moment, “he was also perhaps someone I began to grow fond of.”

Something burned in the back of Bucky’s throat. He didn’t like hearing you speak of this Wakandan prince. He didn’t like it because your voice was not that of a stranger to him. He had heard you – only a few times but heard you all the same – when he had ventured near the palace on the cliffside, discovering that sunken balcony with steps right into the sea, and other places along that part of the shore. He assumed you were part of the royal household, but this was the first conversation he’d heard indicating you were the crown princess and due to take the throne. He wanted to know more about everything on land, but he was particularly intrigued by what he was learning about you.

“I left with many indications that the Wakandans were interested in reciprocating a royal diplomatic visit presently, and that although Queen Shuri would be unable to leave in the near future, this was a priority moving forward to put stock in the alliance, and there is no one the Queen trusts more than her brother for matters of importance.”

“How conveniently fortuitous for your romantic hopes,” you responded, bracketing it with a soft, warm laugh.

The wind suddenly picked up, there was a deep rumble in the air, and then the sky began to release water down on them. A storm. Bucky had encountered a storm at the surface before, but never with such a heavy pelting of water. The folk on the boat began shouting, and he could hear a bit of their hustling about above the sounds of the storm, but only just. His ears began to buzz, and there was a sharp metallic taste hitting his tongue. Bucky put his hand on the side of the ship to steady himself, starting to feel a little dizzy. The next second there was a blinding light that engulfed everything, with a sharp crack, and an even larger almost deafening crash at the end of it, and then a roaring sound unlike anything Bucky had ever heard before, followed by screaming and shouts from the ship’s crew. Bucky’s heart beat erratically for a few moments, and though the brilliant white light had disappeared, there was now a red and orange glow radiating from the front of the ship.

The splintering of wood, more shouts, and then a boom as the mast of the ship tumbled over, and then fell over the side, and into the water, Bucky just swimming out of the way in time. The whipping of the wind increased even more, bringing big waves that began to beat against the side of the ship, causing it to rock and creak.

Bucky retreated below the surface, and looked up seeing other things beginning to fall into the water, boxes, row boats, a body swathed with swirling skirts. Bucky’s body was full of adrenaline already from that wicked flash of destructive light, body feeling out of sorts, but he was horrifically transfixed on that body, waiting for the limbs to react, to move, but they didn’t.

Someone from the ship’s crew would see, they would leap in after to retrieve the displaced human.

Any second.

But what continued to appear at the surface, after another flash of light, were more object, planks of wood, and the body remained motionless, continuing to sink.

He couldn’t leave the human helpless.

Surging upwards, Bucky snaked his arm around the torso of the human, tucking it against his side, and then rushed to the surface. He looked around, scoping out the situation, but found nothing but more chaos. The human crew on the deck of the ship were distracted entirely in what was happening immediately around them, no one seeming to look over the side at all in search of a missing body because now the small boats were being cast into the water and all the crew were calling out, “Abandon ship!”

Bucly looked down at the head that had lolled back to rest on his shoulder and his heart stuttered because though it was dark and stormy and he’d never been anywhere near this close, he was certain it was you, the crown princess in his arms. Bucky groaned in distress. He was already in a compromising position, he couldn’t leave you here with little assurance that you would be rescued – certainly not without him helping you in your unconscious state – and each passing second mounted his concern over if you were even still alive. He brought a trembling hand to the side of your neck to see if he could feel a heartbeat. Do humans have heartbeats? he wondered, but assumed they must since merfolk like himself did, and humans and merfolk seemed to share near identical bodies from the waist up. Detecting a heartbeat seemed futile at this moment, tossing about in the sea, with his own hand unsteady.

Without another thought, he tightened his hold beneath your arms, swirled to face land, and franticly beat his fins to take you away from the wreckage, realizing there was nothing left to do but swim you to the shore himself.

Bucky knew the shore too well for a merman, far better than he knew ever to admit to anyone in Asgard, but his extensive familiarity meant in this instant he had no question of where he needed to go, and time was precious. Grateful for the hightide of nighttime, Bucky had to make very little effort to get the two of you up onto the balcony that lay at the bottom of the cliffs just below the palace – the very one he had spoken to Steve about only an hour before. Bucky gently shifted you onto your back on the smooth granite, cradling your head in one of his large hands. His other hand furiously brushed his long hair out of his face, then came up to your neck, seeking signs of your heartbeat again. It was faint, but he could feel it consistently pulsing under his fingertips.

Tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying released in his chest.

You were still alive.

He’d felt dizzy with that streak of violent light, so perhaps you had been affected as well and may have also hit something in the water when you fell off the ship. He brushed his thumb softly over your cheek. “Come on, Princess, you need to wake up.”

Still unresponsive, he rubbed your cheek a little more firmly, then moved his hand down to squeeze your shoulder. He continued murmuring softly, trying to coax you back to consciousness. After a few more minutes, he finally felt you beginning to come around, noting the moment when instead of your head lying dormant in his hand, your muscles started to move and adjust. “That’s it, Princess,” he cooed.

You groaned and pressed your cheek into Bucky’s palm. His heart ached and raced, realizing the reality of his situation.

He hesitated for a split second, loathe to leave you, but he carefully eased your head onto the ground, removed his hands from you, and slipped away and back into the sea before you could see him.

As he swam as fast as he could, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and he did not stop until he was home, only slowing to a speed that would not draw attention when he neared the outskirts of the underwater kingdom, knowing he could never even hint at his involvement in saving the life of a human. His mind raced with the enormity of what he’d done, and the only reason he slept at all that night was due to the exhaustion from maintaining such a high-speed swim over the long distance to return home.

His body was refreshed in the morning, but his mind was not. Bucky knew he had a day ahead of him filled with his duties as a royal guard, but every fiber of his being yearned to rise to the surface and seek you out – only to ensure you were safely recovering from the shipwreck ordeal.

“You’re not tricking anyone always taking the assignments to investigate new shipwrecks, patrol the outskirts, and monitor security near the surface,” Sam said as they left the command post for the guard in the golden palace of Asgard after the morning briefing and assignments.

Bucky shot him a sidelong glance. “What did Steve say to you.”

“Steve didn’t say anything to me,” Sam chuckled. “I know you, and this is becoming more frequent.”

“If someone has to take care of these responsibilities anyway, why not me?” Bucky tried to keep his tone casual, adding a shrug.

Sam didn’t respond. Bucky looked over at him.

Sam put up his hands nonchalantly. “If you say so.”

Bucky stopped and turned to face him. “Say what you feel so compelled to say.”

“I don’t think Thor will be as angry as Odin would have been about your human obsession, but he won’t be happy about it. The laws are there for a reason. You know that.”

Bucky shook his head in irritation. “I’m not in any danger.”

“I’m not scolding you, Buck, but Odin would have had your fins nailed to the floor.”

The little octopus on Bucky’s shoulder squirmed. Bucky stroked it soothingly. “Thor’s not Odin, but no one is going to tell Thor anything because there’s nothing to tell.”

“Just be careful.”

“You also volunteered to mapping part of the uncharted reef with me today,” Bucky reminded him.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get lost or lose track of time,” he said with a grin.

Bucky laughed. “Come on then, morning light is best for scoping out the reef.”

The day was spent adding to the empty edges of the map of the reef. Thor had commissioned further exploration and completion of the maps of their land and the surrounding seas, placing great importance on better knowing the kingdom and her neighbors. Scratching the new lines and shadings into the sheaves of seaweed brought its own sense of satisfaction, and it did fill his mind for the day and distract him for the most part. He returned to Asgard with Sam at the end of the day, no detours. He ate with other members of the guard before returning home. He slept, but then he woke before dawn, leaving in the darkness, and began swimming to the shore. Would you be at the seaside balcony at the crack of dawn? He didn’t expect so, but he would scope it out all the same, and he was sure if he did not see you he could safely sneak to the port docks and hear news of you – now that he knew you were the crown princess, any word regarding the return of a royal after a shipwreck and her wellbeing would be the gossip of the morning.

Merfolk and humans were no different in that way, Bucky thought with a smirk.

The sun was only just sending its rays over the edge of the horizon when he reached the shore. You were not at the seaside balcony of the palace, and he only lingered for a few minutes, eyes fixed on the spot where he’d held your face in his hands.

Two mornings after the shipwreck, the docks at the port were still busier than Bucky normally saw them. He had to stay further below and only came up to the surface twice, but that was all he needed to hear that the people’s princess was recovering without anything more than a nasty bump to the head and exhaustion.

He swam past and surfaced near the balcony again before heading back for another day of Asgardian life and duties. You weren’t there, of course.

But that night, you were.

He watched you watch the stars until you retired for the night.

Three mornings later Bucky was off for the day, so he ventured back to the shoreline mid-morning, hoping he would catch you at some point during the day. He had encountered you there a few times after all.

And you did not disappoint.

You sat on the top step that led from the balcony down into the water, pulled up your skirts, and began loosening the laces of your shoes. Soon you had them off along with whatever fabric was covering your feet beneath the shoes – he wondered what those were called. They looked delicate. Then you scooted down to sit a few steps lower, letting your feet dangle in the sea. Bucky dipped far below the surface and swam closer to the wall of the cliff. When he came up again, he slipped up onto an outcropping of rocks out of your view, leaning his bare back against the cliff face. He was only meters away from where you were still sitting. He could hear you idly raising and lowering your feet out of the waters as it was a very calm day for the tide.

After a long while, he heard you sigh. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I know I didn’t make it up. You aren’t a miracle or a myth, you’re proof the merfolk aren’t extinct and that they’re not dangerous.”

Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat. He thought he’d been silent or quiet enough with the other sounds of the sea.

“You’re out there somewhere. I’ll find you.”

He did not move until he heard you leave, then he slipped into the deep blue, a rushing in his ears, heart pounding, resolved to keep his distance.

Only that resolve didn’t last long. He was drawn to you as much as he was to everything above water, and within a week he was back, but he came at the end of the day. You weren’t there, but he hoisted himself back up on the same outcropping of rock at the base of the cliff near but still out of view of the steps. The view of the sunset was stunning, steeped with deep reds and oranges, and sitting there taking in the sight you might have been able to see was enough.

And better.

This was safe.

Then he heard the faint sound of voices far off, steadily growing, then footsteps descending on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps, and then finally he could make out the voices, recognizing both – yours and that of your Prime Minister.

“Everything is ready to receive the royal envoy. Prince T’Challa sent this letter ahead for you.”

“Oh.”

Bucky registered a hint of something in your voice even in just that simple sound alone that pricked at him.

“Oh,” your tone was even warmer.

“A good letter?”

“That is not really your business, Prime Minister,” you laughed, and he chuckled.

“A royal alliance in absolutely my business,” he said, though the Prime Minister’s tone was clearly in jest, ultimately content in deferring to your rank and privacy.

“I will say it is certainly a letter anyone could be fond of,” you offered in a gentle voice.

That consumed Bucky immediately. He didn’t want this prince to lay claim to your heart and draw this kind of affection from you. He wanted that chance. His tail twitched with his impatience, splashing up some water. Bucky instantly stilled, pressing back against the cliff face.

But neither of you seemed not to notice.

The conversation turned to more business about the visit, and Bucky continued to listen, wanting to hear your voice, but none of the words registered in his head.

After a while, Bucky realized the voices had stopped, but he had no idea when that had happened. The sun had disappeared completely, the celestial bodies of the night sky had come out and were shining brightly against the darkness. The position of the moon indicated it must be near midnight. Bucky groaned, his shoulders and back a little stiff after sitting so long in one attitude against the rocks. You must have gone away and to sleep ages ago, and he ought to follow suit. He pushed up and off the perch, making a small dive into the sea to return home.

What he did not know was that you had stayed long after dismissing the Prime Minister, watching the sky until the very last rays of the sunset, but as you were about to retire had heard the twitching of fins against the water close at hand and out of curiosity climbed down the steps to the water’s edge to investigate. You had seen only the end of a set of large, shimmering black and gold fins and the lower part of a black-scaled tail. Your breath had stopped, and you’d had to stifle your sound of shock. You hadn’t dared to get to the bottom of the steps and look around the edge, certain that if it was one of the merfolk you’d heard the myths of your whole life that they would retreat immediately if they knew you’d seen them, but you had moved as far to the other end of the balcony as you could to see more of that glorious tail – but still not revealing much more to your view – and waited.

And all your patience had been rewarded when you saw the arms, head, shoulders, and torso of a man dive into the water, magnificent black and gold tail with intricate and powerful fins following him in all his glory.

Now you knew they still existed.

No, Bucky knew none of that.

Bucky’s mind is singularly fixed on all the things he can’t have – things he’s wondered about since hearing about the human surface world as a merchild, things he saw during his observatory rite of passage visit when he turned sixteen, things he’s seen over the years since then through his own exploration above and below the surface, and the everything just out of his reach now with you. He goes first to his grotto, and here the number of things he’s collected from the human world far surpass the number of things he knows about you, but he can’t deny the draw he feels. His chest aches, and yet he’s forbidden from doing anything – if there even were anything he could do.

Being among the relics of the human world only serves to agitate him more, and so he leaves and makes his way to his home cavern in the city of Asgard. Sleep is impossible. He swims short, agitated lengths back and forth within his humble dwelling.

He has a few relics here, too, but these are things passed down from his parents, including his grandfather’s combat spear. The royal armory holds weapons and all manner of protective outfitting for his majesty’s armies, but long past are the days when the kingdom issued gear to every soldier and officer. Many under the early days of Odin’s reign were issued personal pieces as a standard, but that ebbed away as the need and dangers faded or were conquered. The height of need had been in the early days of Bor Burison’s reign – Bor who had enacted the stringent regulations against fraternizing with the humans or spending any significant amount of time at the surface.

Bucky had naturally collected many pieces of the history of their people in relation to the humans, but he had never visited the royal archives. He’d always made at least a modicum of effort to keep his interest in everything looking exactly like that – an interest and not an obsession – and a visit to the archives to read and study the records of their interactions with the humans would not be seen as an idle interest.

Now he didn’t care. He needed to know everything; perception be damned.

He swam off some of his anxious energy making laps around the borders of the city surrounding the palace until dawn when the elders would open the archives. It was a collection that spanned art, statues, treasures, and artifacts, in addition to the records of the merfolk of Asgard. Some of their history had been created in murals along the walls of this hall, but there were also panes of etched glass and titanium for important long-term records, as well as various scrolls and sheaves of tough seaweed for maps and other documents. One of the elders pointed him to the area most applicable to their past dealings with the humans, and he started from the most recent records and started to make his way back through Asgard’s history. Bucky collection of events even more complex than he’d known began to coalesce as he combed through the accounts of things that played out over a few years, ending in a bloody battle between Buri – Thor’s great-grandfather – and the human king and his navy with many lives lost on both sides, including Buri, leading to Bor’s untimely ascension to the crown at an age earlier than anyone expected, and Bor instituting all the laws, principles, and practices to eliminate any contact with the surface world, deeming too much had been lost and that humans had become too dangerous to continue any dealings whatsoever if they wanted to keep the people of Asgard safe.

But Buri’s had inherited peaceful ties – positive ties even – with the folk on land, ties that had been forged by his father and grandfather before him. To say this was intriguing to Bucky would be an understatement. These ties were entwined with the selkies of Jotunheim.

Odin had beat back the selkies from their waters.

All except one.

Bucky knew of a selkie still in existence.

Exiled, but Bucky was fairly sure he knew where he could find the long-forgotten adopted brother of Thor, rumored now to be the warlock of the seven seas.

Bucky was questing for information, for answers, but tales of the things the former prince who had embraced his magic had done since leaving the gleaming halls of Asgard were whispered, and Bucky began to wonder if perhaps he could get more than he set out for by paying him a visit.

He need not have worried about finding him. As one of the pre-eminent cartographers on the royal guard, Bucky knew where to begin his search, but once he got to that point on the fringes, there seemed to be a myriad of elements to point him straight to Loki’s dark cavern.

There must have been enchantments to alert the sea warlock of his approach because Loki was waiting for him at the entrance to his lair. Bucky took in the sight of him as he drew near. Odin had invoked powers to conceal Loki’s true nature as a selkie and disguised him as a merman when he brought the infant into the royal family, and though Loki’s rebellion came during the early years of Bucky’s service in the king’s guard, Bucky had never seen him in his true form.

He was not that different from what Bucky had known him as before. The marked difference was that instead of scales and fins, his lower half was covered in the pelt of a seal, still beautiful and shiny in its own way, but with flippers instead of fins, and it was a skin that he could shed – for legs above ground. That and his flesh skin seemed sallow, but his eyes were still sharp.

“James, after all this time, and now you come to visit me,” he crooned. “You must be truly desperate to come to me for help.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, not anticipating this direct nature, and he was wary of what it meant.

In Bucky’s half-second of hesitation to answer, Loki’s face took on a dark grin and he continued his overture. “For that’s why you are here, is it not? No social calls on your part since I left the palace – not that we were particularly close. I didn’t expect overtures of our continued acquaintance since leaving Asgard, but seeing you swim into my waters at any point was certainly not something I ever predicted would happen.”

Bucky hovered near, but not within reach of the warlock. “It’s true I come to you with particular needs, but I harbor no bad blood for the past.”

Loki nodded, then turned and swam inside, calling, “Come in,” over his shoulder.

Bucky followed.

The circumstances surrounding the final confrontation that took place between Thor, Odin, and Loki during the latter’s rebellion were not public knowledge, and though Odin died that same day, Loki’s departure from the kingdom was a self-exile, and Thor and the then Queen Frigga maintained that Odin did not die at Loki’s hand and forbade anyone pursue the fallen prince. Thor had assumed the throne, Loki had wandered in mystery, as yet not returning to his once-home, and had settled now in this place.

They swam through a tunnel toward a faint glow ahead. Something continually reached out, whisping across Bucky’s skin as they passed, and he was unsure if it was plant or creature, but he had the distinct impression these were sentient and intentional touches. Bucky was forced to endure at the pace at which Loki progressed ahead of him.

They emerged into a massive cavern aglow with filtered light streaming in through gaps in the ceiling and glowing plants that cropped up in patches along the walls. One of the cavern’s faces was riddled with nooks and alcoves that were packed with bottles, pots, artifacts, tools, supplies – it was all an eerie collection Bucky imagined had been clearly amassed with meticulous obsession, knowing the habits of being a collector himself. Each spot his eyes darted to held both familiar and unfamiliar items.

Loki stopped, floating near the middle of the lair, and Bucky followed suit. The selkie swirled languidly around to look at him, and though his posture appeared relaxed, Bucky could see the true scrutiny in his eyes.

He kept the silence, eagerly sowing the anticipation, before he spoke again. “Know that I entertain you only for the sake of my own curiosity.”

Ah, he understood, at least I know the approach. He opened his mouth, ready to unfold his explanation, but Loki abruptly raised his hand, and Bucky thought it was only to stop him, but then something entwined both of his arms out of nowhere, gripping him and drawing him nearly chest to chest with the warlock.

“No, no. this will be more satisfying for me than your words,” Loki said, then put his nimble fingers to Bucky’s temples, and closed his eyes.

Bucky winced as almost immediately he wasn’t in physical pain, but he swore he could practically feel Loki sifting through his head, extracting what he wanted from the memories that flashed rapidly across his mind – Steve, maps, the records, conversations with his father, pieces of his artefact collection, his trips to the surface, the shipwreck, and you. So many thoughts of you. Bucky tried not to move, not wanting to show any weakness.

“Mmm, I see,” he said, finally releasing him both from his own touch and from the grip of the enchanted seaweed.

Bucky was only too glad that Loki retreated. It was only a meter, but any inch of distance was relished after feeling so exposed. There was no taking back the flashes, but at least most of the concentration had been on the human things, a few moments of you, but not every memory he had of you.

He let the quiet permeate the space between them again. Then he turned around, a smile on his face, and it was nothing but unsettling, too relaxed for Bucky’s liking.

He knew he was being toyed with, but he had to play whatever game Loki was setting up.

Finally, he spoke again. “Clearly the way to get what you want is to become a human yourself.”

“And you can do that?”

“I fortunately knew a little magic, and my talent and knowledge have only grown in my exile, so I could, but what in the vast ocean is in this for me?”

“The challenge,” Bucky responded, employing a slight incline of his chin – a tactic he had used with others to inspire or sway them over the years.

“Oh, but I want more than that, and so do you, you want this with everything in your soul.”

Bucky could feel how much Loki was enjoying this. Loki literally had the power, but that put him in a position that Bucky still knew he could use in this game.

“Here’s my offer: you’ll get your legs, you’ll be able to breathe on land – so not under the sea – and by the time the sun sets on the third day, if you haven’t procured true love’s kiss –“

“True love’s kiss?” Bucky interjected.

“But, of course! That’s what you want anyway, is it not?”

The smirk on his face riled Bucky even more, but he was determined to appear as unaffected as he could, even though he knew they both knew Bucky was keyed up to great heights.

“Yes, you are intrigued by the life on land, but you’re here because you want the heart of that princess.” Loki pauses and tilts his head, demanding the admission.

Bucky nodded.

That kindled a spark of something more in Loki’s eye.

“You said I have until sunset on the third day. What happens if I don’t succeed by then?”

Loki shrugged. “You turn back into a merman and you serve me for thirteen years.”

Bucky blinked before responding. He thought he would say for life, but only thirteen years?

Loki chuckled. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, but I may not want you longer than that. Now, if you succeed, you remain a human and live a human life up there with your beloved princess for the rest of your days,” he concludes, almost bored by the end.

“No interference from you in the future?”

Loki waved his hand as he replies, “No interference from me. But,” and his tone switched, fully engaged again, “we haven’t discussed the matter of payment.”

“You can have any of my gold or treasures.”

“I have enough of my own. I want something more unique. I’m not asking for much, just a token really, a trifle.

He paused.

“What I want from you is your voice.”

“My voice?” Bucky’s mind worked quickly, trying to work out what he was missing if he agred to give up his voice. Aside from the logistical inconvenience and disadvantage it would present on his part, he can’t imagine what Loki would gain by having it – it seemed to be an eccentric choice.

“Your voice.”

Why ask for that? Bucky’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Clearly it was something to further taunt Bucky and entertain Loki.

Then Loki unexpectedly seemed to soften, relaxing his posture. “I understand perhaps more than you anticipated. I empathize with your unrest, the way you yearn to know a part of you that’s been denied.”

They didn’t have the same circumstances, but Bucky sees where they could draw parallels with each other.

“What you’re asking would enormously alter your destiny. Your voice is almost nothing if what you truly want is to become human and live out your days with that princess your soul longs for.”

Those words were spoken without flair. Bucky only needed to agree to get what he wanted – he couldn’t have crafted a better scenario considering what any of the alternatives could have been. It was a bizarre barter – his voice for a chance at life out of these waters – but it did seem to fit the weight of what he was being offered.

“Now, do you agree to the terms?”

“I agree.”

Loki’s wide smile reappeared, and he turned away to fetch and summon different items from his wall of endless supplies, and soon there was a round glass jar between them, just larger than the size of a head with a small spout meant for pouring things in and out. Vials, jars, and some loose elements hovered near Loki’s shoulders, and he waved his hand twice in a circular motion beneath the glass jar. The water there continued to stir, and Bucky could feel the warmth it generated. Loki began to add ingredients into the spout, and they swirled in the orb. Loki murmured a few short incantations, and there were cracks and rumblings from the concoction.

“Put your palms against the glass and hum until you can’t hum anymore,” Loki instructed.

It was yet another peculiarity, but Bucky didn’t question. He placed both hands as indicated and started to hum. He could feel the heat immediately, and as he continued to hum, he could sense the exchange as his voice was drawn continuously from the depths of his chest and magic slithered through his veins. Once he felt it seep into every inch of him, the energy surged suddenly. His throat seized, there was a searing pain through his lower half, and he wanted to withdraw his hands to clutch at his neck, to kick away, but whatever magic was brewing prevented him from pulling back at all. His chest tightened painfully. There was a flash of light that rivaled the violent flash in the sky that struck the ship the night of the shipwreck, the searing pain burst in his tail, and then all at once he was released.

The discombobulation was overwhelming. His powerful tail and fins were gone, and he realized how unsuited for this setting he was, the new limbs altogether inadequate, and his lungs were desperate for air. He kicked and surged upward, but he’d even lost the slight webbing between his fingers that had helped him glide more quickly through the water.

Loki’s laughter followed him as he made his escape from the depths of the sea.

The octopus companion that had peculiarly clung to his shoulder on one chance expedition and rarely let go unfurled itself and diligently aided Bucky in swimming to reach the surface where he burst into the air, gulping in lungful’s of air. It was crisp and immediately quenched all of the dread and desperation that had filled his being.

Then the next breaths soothed and then invigorated him. He laughed with relief.

Only there was no sound.

For he had no voice.

to be continued...

A/N 3: SHUT UP, YOU GET A THIRD AND FINAL NOTE FROM ME TO YOU! This - clearly - is part one of two. I dove DEEP into this (shush, puns) and to tell the story I know I will feel satisfied with in the end, I got to this point and joked that maybe I should just stop here - who needs to resolve any plots, he got his legs, right? - but then the joke became the option I genuinely liked because I was getting overwhelmed by how this story had grown. And so, dear readers, keep a weather eye on the horizon for merBucky to reappear with the tide.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #merbucky #bucky barnes x reader #mermay #bucky barnes x female reader #navy and roo's sleepover #buckybarnesbingo2023 #bbb2023 #connect4au #female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #mer!bucky #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x reader

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rayshippouuchiha · 10 days

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Ray - Kakanaru prompt.

Uzumaki Naruto had a lot of fears growing up. Fears like ghosts, thiefs, villagers, him fading away and no one noticing, him losing people he considers his family, needles, for a while Orochimaru and snakes etc.

The one fear he was never able to outgrow, a fear that unlike everything else didn't fade away or turn into a life lesson, despite facing missing nin, reanimated PPL, tailed beasts, controlled allies, sentient plant matter, and a freaking alien is the fear of ghosts.

It would all have been fine. Maybe even something the others could have an incredulous laugh on except it's not fine when this critical information is revealed in the midst of a C turned deadly SS rank mission with Kakashi and Naruto separated from the rest of the team and transported to a new place,facing what is essentially seeming to be an encounter with the paranormal.

It is certainly not hilarious when someone who is essentially the saviour of the shinobi world starts collapsing at the seams, his body, mind and chakra reacting catastrophically to a threat only he perceives. The worst part is that Kurama isn't putting a stop to his host's idioticy. (Not my personal pov. This is strictly from Kakashi's view)

Or- Kakashi is a bastard. Naruto keeps way too many things hidden. Their relationship suffered and since then never repaired when Naruto met Tsunade and Shizune and understood the true meaning of the term sensei and mentor. And Kakashi- like every other time in his life - when he saw one of the few good things in his life spilling from his hand like grains of sand didn't bother closing his fist until it was too late.

Or- Naruto has Phasmophobia and much like everything else this ties back into his shitty childhood in Konoha. Kurama knows everything. And there have always been spirits and supernatural at play when it concerned Naruto. It was not sheer dumb luck or resilience that helped him survive Konoha after all.

There is a reason children shouldn't be left unsupervised. And now the others can only watch as these forces take away what is rightfully theirs.

fuck I'd read the shit out of this

#RayRambles #Naruto #KakaNaru #prompt

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wedonthaveawhile · 1 month

Text

Baby Garreth, and where to find him.

Garreth Weasley x MC

Inspired by her desire to see mermaids, Garreth brews his Herbology partner a potion as a gesture of his affection. Cue the inevitable chaos and peril.

AO3 // Word count: 4.4k

Can be a standalone fic or read as a prequel to Crimson and Clover

Had Garreth been asked for his opinion on the Heroine of Hogwarts a few months back, you likely would have been treated to such eloquent critiquing as: "Bit of a teacher's pet."

There was never any intention to offend; tactful words simply weren't his forte—as proven by the way he inadvertently voiced this opinion directly to her face on the day they were assigned as Herbology partners.

He was only teasing, possibly with an underlying motive of reverse psychology. He had felt her eyes drilling into him while his own ogled the snakeweed—a rare ingredient, almost impossible to obtain by non-thievery means. He thought implying his witness was a snitch might prompt her to look the other way to prove him wrong.

When he tried to execute his nifty little scheme: Pocketing the goods while hoping fifteen students and a professor weren't looking (a tactic that boasted a commendable twenty-three-percent success rate), the snakeweed had vanished—as had his partner.

A middle finger if he'd ever seen one.

Her assault on his pride. Her flawless execution of theft. Her exemplary eye for valuable plunder—It was one step shy of a strip tease, and Garreth had been chasing her tail ever since.

These fresh circumstances might offer insight into why he was currently trudging through ankle-deep mud on yet another lap of the kneazle pen.

His timing had been impeccable—A passing stroll coinciding perfectly with the end of her Beast's class, setting the stage for a spontaneous walk to Herbology together.

Professor Cockblock must have had some trivial errand to palm off to a trustworthy student and was holding back the obvious choice for a briefing.

Just because Garreth had formed new opinions didn't mean he'd relinquished the old ones. Teacher's pet was, unfortunately, terminal.

At long last, the tardy witch bounded down the steps of the hut. Considering Garreth's feet were now encased in a three-inch layer of sludge, he was surprisingly light on them. She remained oblivious to him sauntering up behind her until his shoulder met hers in a clumsy bump.

He grinned as she shot three inches skyward with a hand clutched to her chest. The profanity-laden gasp that followed was the cherry on top.

How she wasn't routinely dismembered during her trips into the forbidden forest was nothing short of a miracle.

"Surprise."

She branded him a twat, delivering a retaliatory shoulder-bump with a slight more force than necessary. "What are you doing lurking around out here?"

"Quidditch practice wrapped up early, so I figured I'd take a stroll."

"A gorgeous morning for it," she chirped as drizzle splattered their faces.

"Caught sight of my favourite botanist and thought I'd put her survival instincts to the test."

"Results?"

"Atrocious."

"Blame it on my hunger," she sighed, booting a pebble in frustration. "Do you think we have time for a detour to the kitchen? I'm starving."

Garreth couldn't relate; he was stuffed to the brim with sweeties. The head of Gryffindor always whipped up a batch of red velvet cookies for their Quidditch meetings—something to do with flying the house colours and fostering team unity. A cloying sentiment, but if they earned him brownie points, who was he to complain?

Quite the wingman was Aunt Matilda.

"Fear not, sunshine. I've got you covered," he declared, fishing around in his pocket and producing a stack of the stolen treats.

"Oh, you do come with perks, Weasley."

"In Garreth, we trust."

The primary ingredient of his perks was fluff from his pocket lining, but she graciously overlooked that detail.

"How did the meeting go?"

"Eh, alright," he shrugged as he shouldered open the door and used a drying charm to restore his sodden hair to its usual wayward refinement. "Team building can only get us so far when the entire Slytherin team is equipped with the latest Nimbus."

Her proceeding moan could have been interpreted as one of sympathy or indulgence as she took a mouthful of sickly scarlet sustenance. "You could shave off your mane; you'll be more aerodynamic."

"Genius. I happen to be a dab hand at hairless potions, ask Leander."

Her ensuing sideways glance was a sly one. If Garreth were a presumptuous man, he might have thought she was checking out the ginger vista.

"Don't, though," was her conclusion.

"But I want to be a speedy boy."

"On your hair be it. I hope there's a nice-shaped cranium underneath all that," she said with a swooping gesture that implied his hair was three-feet wide.

"And if there isn't? How do I make egg-head look good?"

"Ask Leander."

Garreth glanced at her with a grimace of guilt. "He did not make it look good. Poppy mistook him for a golden snidget on three separate occasions. And a testicle on one."

His face lit up as he bathed in the golden glow of her laughter.

Professor Garlick was palpating leaves as they descended into the greenhouse—regaling her students on the metamorphosis of herbage as the wind slammed against the windows and sent the trailing plants into a wild frenzy.

They bypassed the lecture and gathered the equipment to carry out their assignment. Garreth watched the analytical projection suspended over the plant pot twinkle in his partner's eyes as she assessed the growth since its last inspection.

She was a vision.

An english rose.

Worthy of a Chocolate Frog Card.

Probably already on one.

He ought to go find it.

He unwillingly shifted his attention downward when asked his opinion on its condition.

"Beauty in its purest form," he declared as he twiddled a leaf between his fingers, though the sentiment wasn't directed at the foliage.

"Do you think?"

"The crème de la crème of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

"I didn't know you were so fond of mandrakes."

"Mm-hmm, marriage material if you ask me."

He went too far with that one, and she shot him a strange look, "Is that a joke?"

"Dead serious, sweetheart."

Her cheeks flushed at his honeyed words, and she hid it by bobbing under the desk to fetch the cotton balls.

"Here," she declared to the underside of the table. "You'll need some ear protection; we need to repot your wife."

"Saucy. We've been looking for a third."

She muttered a phrase popular among the muggle-born students—something about God giving her strength.

Garreth dismissed it as a term of endearment.

Having successfully ploughed his wife, the witch bent over the worktop to scribble down some notes for their theory assignment. As luck would have it, Garreth found himself conveniently positioned behind her. In a moment of whimsy, he indulged in a passing fantasy wherein the screaming atop the bench wasn't solely the mandrakes' doing. Their fictitious romp was cut short when she turned to Garreth with an expression implying he had just been posed a question.

They locked eyes for a transient moment.

"Hello."

"What can be brewed with mandrakes?" She repeated, fluttering the quill over the title of her notes: Potions.

The blood ascended back to Garreth's brain, which he used to fuel a monologue. He began with healing elixirs, then progressed to combative and defensive tonics. She was very impressed by his knowledge of the animagus potion, so only after he'd soaked up every drop of attention from that did he segue into miscellaneous potions…

"Younger or older?"

Garreth halted his steady stream of words. "Come again?"

"You said age potions. Is that for becoming younger or older?"

"Both."

"Got it," she transcribed the information onto the last remaining sliver of parchment before duplicating the notes and handing him a copy. "That should be enough for now."

"What would be your preference?" Garreth asked as he scanned her hasty summary. “If you had an ageing potion, would you go older or younger?"

"Younger." Her reply was instantaneous. "I'd sign up for first-year classes. Did you hear they get a class trip into Black Lake now that Nerida Roberts has made peace with the mermaids?"

"I heard the rumours, not the confirmation that they're true."

"Well, Mr. Moon has been preparing the boats for their afternoon class, so it's likely."

"Criminal. Why do the ankle-biters get to go?"

"The younger the human, the less likely they are to get eaten." She looked crestfallen at having involuntarily aged into mermaid fodder. "I'd do anything to see one in the flesh."

Anything?

Garreth tucked that juicy little nugget of information into the corner of his brain for future reference.

As he began to tidy up their tools, he hesitated as he reached for the mandrake. Since their last class, it had flourished quite spectacularly. Ripe leaves were unfurling, and fresh sprouts were vying for their place in the renewed soil.

The potions that could be concocted with all this deliciousness.

It made Garreth's thumbs itch.

He leaned on his forearms, knocking an elbow against his partner in herbology/crime. "Might I trouble you for a favour?"

"Another heist?"

"You know how it is."

"You still owe me for the last one."

"What's your price, sunshine?"

After a moment of consideration, she swiped her quill's bristles against his jaw and told him: "Surprise me."

Garreth's heart skipped a beat, then kicked up again at an alarming rate.

Fucking titillating.

"I'll wrangle you a mermaid," he stated succinctly, embodying the charismatic gentleman he was known to be. His words absolutely did not stumble out in a jumbled lump.

"Ambitious."

"And, on second thought, kind of inconvenient," he added, mulling over the logistical implications of housing a mermaid. "Fine, I'll wrangle you a glimpse of a mermaid."

"Still ambitious; how do you plan to pull that off?"

"I have my ways," he said, tapping his nose. "Meet me in the boathouse after lunch?"

She narrowed her eyes, scouring his features for any trace of dubious intentions. The boathouse was a notorious hook-up spot and had been the subject of a few too many jokes (that perhaps weren't entirely jokes) suggesting they relocate their study sessions there.

He kept quiet and tried to look like he wasn't harbouring several ulterior motives. Her curiosity evidently outweighed her better judgment, because she agreed.

With their tasks completed, the distraction sprang over to Garlick, loudly inquiring about the "breathtaking" new assortment of plant life on the opposite side of the greenhouse.

Garreth carried their mandrake over to the shelves.

In a moment of clumsy misfortune, he fumbled with the pot, inadvertently grabbing the plant by its sprouts and plucking off several leaves in the process.

In sheer happenstance, these fallen leaves found their way into his cloak pocket.

Completely unaware of the faux pas, Garreth quickly skedaddled out of the classroom.

The potion prodigy dropped a pilfered leaf into a steaming cauldron. It belched up a scalding mist of fuchsia fog, and Garreth ducked to avoid it with a triumphant grin. As the potion simmered, he envisioned what tantalising rewards awaited him for bringing her dreams to fruition.

It was an odd sensation—having impure thoughts whilst mashing troll bogeys into a fine paste.

Their fictitious romp was cut short once more, this time by the intrusion of an abnormally long nose topped with impeccable hair.

"Hello, Prewett."

Leander sidled up to the desk, two ice-cold butterbeers floating behind him. "Have you been here all morning? I thought you were joining us in Hogsmeade."

"An opportunity arose."

Leander looked a combination of curious and suspicious as he surveyed the array of grimy receptacles. He kept himself and his hair at a safe distance. "What's going on?"

"Just brewing a gift for someone."

"Who?"

"Someone."

Leander didn't waste time guessing; he jumped straight to the correct conclusion and informed Garreth that he was a soppy bastard. Garreth didn’t dispute it; she occupied his mind far more than any previous passing fancies.

Turning the notebook around, Leander scanned the nearly indecipherable process for age potions. "How far back does she want to turn the clock?"

"Seven years, give or take," Garreth replied, watching his friend sniff a jug of a failed experiment. “I overshot it with that batch. Best not ingest it; you might turn into a sperm."

Leander tossed the potion back onto the table and scrubbed his unsullied hands on his robes. "Are you sure about this? Sallow will have your head if you turn the heroine of Hogwarts into seminal fluid. Then Gaunt will harvest your functional eyes."

Garreth waved those minor concerns away, his focus honing in on the most critical point. "Don't call her that; she hates it."

"She'd also hate being jizz."

"Trust me, it's going to be a wild success. I have a secret ingredient," Garreth declared, jabbing a bogey-stained thumb to his chest.

"Heart?" Leander asked with a stifled sound of disgust.

"No, me. Garreth Weasley. Most of what I do results in the desired outcome, one way or another."

"Just with several explosions along the way."

"It's called pizazz, Prewett.”

"Well, I can't say I didn't try. I'm leaving before I'm implicated." Leander plucked one of the butterbeers out of the air and slid it across the table. "Best of luck, Weasel."

"Cheers, buddy. For the beverage and soon-to-be-forgotten advice," Garreth raised the drink to his lips and chugged half. Appeasing ladies was thirsty work, and he had begun to resemble one of the sweaty puddles forming on the counter.

He lowered the cup and was met with Leander's horrified visage.

"What…" Garreth's lips curled in disgust; he smacked them together in response to the cataclysmically putrid aftertaste. Had Leander fermented the beer in his arsehole? Bloody hell, it was foul. He opened his mouth to demand answers, but it remained agape as the tabletop began to rise.

Garreth watched in dubious disbelief as his full and frothy butterbeer, alongside a half-empty beaker of defective potion, ascended past him.

Oh shit...

No matter how much Garreth thrashed, pushed, and grabbed at the thick blankets swaddling him, he seemed to be making no progress towards freedom.

A refreshing gust of fresh air greeted his face as someone whisked the material away from it, and his vision adjusted to the gangly thing staring down at him. Bony hands were clamped over its mouth, muffling its irritating bleating, save for one vaguely familiar sound that slipped through the cracks.

"Weasley?"

Garreth had no clue what it meant, nor was he really listening.

His attention had been lured upwards to something familiar and profoundly comforting. It called to mind dreamy memories of tight cuddles and the aroma of freshly baked cookies. With his chubby arms eagerly extended, Garreth reached towards the glossy mass of ginger hair.

"Mama."

Mum's immediate response was a stiff: "No."

She lifted Garreth's arm and began probing the joints while letting out a string of confounded noises: "Well, at least you're not a sperm. How old are you?"

Ah, Garreth knew this trick well. He withdrew his fingers from his dribbling mouth and proudly brandished the moist digits—quantity unknown.

"No, you look younger than four…"

Garreth was actually trying to display eighteen, but that was by the by, as his stomach interrupted the goings-on with a grumble of protest.

Some absolute cretin had failed to provide him with sustenance.

"Don't you dare…," said mum.

Garreth sucked in a deep lungful of air, mustering every wisp of it to articulate his plea: "Mother, please. I'm famished." Except it took the form of a skull-splitting scream.

He cracked open an eye in hopeful anticipation of a succulent meal being bequeathed to him to find a stick hovering an inch from his face.

It looked delectable—a gourmet feast of the highest quality.

He took a hearty bite but was promptly shoved away by Mum. She wiped the resultant drool off on Garreth's hair, which felt uncalled for, before making a noise that shrunk his blanket into clothes befitting his podgy form. He was then scooped up haphazardly, his body contorting at a crooked angle as Mum's lanky fingers awkwardly gripped his limbs.

Her attempts to keep him upright were clumsy and uncoordinated as if she'd never held a child before. Something seemed fishy, but before he could assign any brainpower to the feeling, they were transported through a doorway and absorbed into a bustling crowd.

What were all these people doing in Garreth's house?

He caught snippets of his name, each time prefaced by words beyond his current comprehension like: "Is that..." and "What the fuck have you done..."

A few intruders waved, and Garreth returned the gesture despite Mum's increasingly laborious efforts to prevent him from tumbling to the ground.

Garreth realised it had been some time since he travelled by way of arms, and decided then that he must get back into it.

And so, after that fine voyage (during which he only vomited twice), they landed in a lush field. Overhead, people dressed in vivid green costumes whizzed around on brooms, overseen by a man to whom Garreth was unceremoniously presented.

The man's piercing eyes roved over Garreth's fiery red hair, then lifted to Mum's.

"Prewett, is this your foetus?"

Mum looked freshly displeased and dumped Garreth into the man's much sturdier arms.

A dark line was carved across his eye; it piqued Garreth's innocent curiosity. He reached out to touch it gently, but his new-fangled toddler strength drove his tiny fist to inadvertently deliver a solid punch to the man's nose. Garreth instinctively grasped out as he teetered on the recoil, knotting his hands in the man's thick brown hair.

It looked delectable—a gourmet feast of the highest quality.

Garreth tried to indulge in a munch, but his efforts were met with resistance as his fingers and mouth were gradually, and by all accounts, painfully, pried away from the tangled strands.

This scene unfolded as the man flagged down his airborne squadron. Many pointed gestures were exchanged among the teams' objections before they dispersed towards Garreth's house—except for one dark-haired girl, who stood on the brink of delivering the man's second solid punch of the day for reasons unknown.

Her shrill cries of "You can't cancel our Quidditch practice because of a baby; we're only three days away from a match!" did nothing to alleviate Garreth's confusion.

As they deliberated, he was placed onto the ground, where a grassy banquet awaited him. A fitting compensation for his ordeal in the hair.

In a fit of anger, the girl hurled her broom to the floor, which was promptly confiscated from Garreth’s reach. In the interim, he had chewed a dandelion into a pulp and was now squeezing it until the juices mushed out from his tightened fist. With pride, he handed it to the man for inspection.

Rudely, his attention was elsewhere.

"Up," Garreth called, his stout arms extended as he slapped his soggy green fingers against his palms.

He wasn't spared a glance.

"Up!" he insisted, baffled when his efforts to raise himself three centimetres didn't result in being catapulted straight into awaiting arms. With a disappointed whine, he stretched his limbs higher.

"Quiet, Weasley."

Not one to shut up on command, Garreth rose to his unsteady feet and supported himself on the broom the man held loosely in his hand.

"UP," he commanded.

Up he went.

Draped over the broomstick like a towel hung out to dry, Garreth levitated until he reached a midpoint of the multicoloured spires surrounding the field. The broom purred between his fingers as he hooked an ankle over, the trembling coursing up his arms and animating his fleshy cheeks with a lively jiggle.

A sharp scream rang around the meadow from somewhere far below him.

Mama?

Garreth glanced down. It wasn’t mum—it was the man. His arms outstretched and calling his name. Alas, Garreth's interest in uppies had withered away, for an instinct was awakening. He was somehow aware that if he adjusted his posture...

His cheeks, bereft of their former jiggle, now thrashed against the back of his head as he shot off at breakneck speed.

With a twitch of his finger, he manoeuvred the broom to narrowly avoid smashing into a row of seats—it was a reflex, a memory ingrained deep in his muscles.

He streaked over the team in green, their yelling and leaps onto their brooms signalling their intent to challenge him in a race.

Oh, what delightful fun.

The wind carried away Garreth's gleeful shrieks as he weaved through a narrow waterway flanked by the castle walls. The roar of his peers from walkways spanning the passage propelled him onward. He was a creature of speed—a blur of motion—and, as always, thriving in the presence of an audience.

He ducked beneath a stone bridge and burst across open waters, escorted by a pair of majestic snowy owls gliding alongside him. The birds dropped to the surface of the lake, skimming their wings against the mirrored reflection of the sky before soaring up into the billowing clouds.

Oddly, their shadowy doppelgängers remained by Garreth’s side. His toes grazed the waves as he strained to catch a glimpse of his companions beneath the waterline when a sleek fin sliced through the water, while something breached entirely on the other side of him. Their playful dives splashed icy water across his face before they vanished into the depths. Garreth laughed as he extended his hand and squealed at them to come back.

Glancing up, he realised that his beckoning had summoned a building instead, and it was hurtling toward him at a frightfully rapid pace.

A fish erupted from the crest of a wave, snatching him off the broom seconds before it splintered into a million pieces against the bricks.

Garreth plunged into the water, ensnared in slippery arms.

The biting chill was only a passing thing as the fish breached the surface, clutching Garreth by a pudgy leg and hoisting him above the waterline. It rotated him this way and that, inspecting him with hungry eyes.

Garreth could relate; dandelions had been a sub-standard excuse for nourishment—he much preferred fish.

He grasped what he initially mistook for a writhing mass of serpents, only to discover it was sinewy strands of fish hair. Undiscouraged, he sank his tiny teeth into the gleaming scales. He was torn away, the fish's reprimand manifesting as a bone-shattering wail that shook Garreth to his tiny core.

Upset, tired, and starving, Garreth attempted to deliver a solid punch to the fish's face, but his new-fangled toddler exhaustion hindered his little fist, and he petted the slimy creature instead. On the verge of an imminent nap, Garreth curled into a ball and utilised ropey grey fish hair as a pillow.

He was vaguely aware of some heated commotion around him; at one point, a hungry fish snapped its teeth in his direction while another held him at arm's length. He dismissed this as irrelevant to his situation, providing the offending party with a slap before settling back into his nap with a grumble of irritation.

His consciousness ebbed and flowed with the undulation of the water. A serene fish guided him towards the building he had narrowly avoided colliding with. The lake rippled around them, while boats knocked against each other as they bobbed in the surf.

A delighted gasp stirred him as a figure waded up to her knees to reclaim him from the fish.

This new resting place was the essence of luxury—her familiar, soothing voice a balm to his weary senses. This divine ray of sunshine shrugged a blanket off her shoulders and wrapped Garreth in its warmth, granting him the comfort he needed to indulge in the finest siesta.

He awoke to the jarring sensation of a turbulent ride, his eyes rolling in their sockets as he wobbled around on a skeletal hip.

Merlin, Sharp's built like a sack of razor blades, Garreth grumbled inwardly.

Wait...

His body expanded moments after his mental faculties did.

The flickering flames beneath the cauldrons danced in and out of focus as his vision swayed. Finally it settled on the scene: his body sprawled across Sharp’s lap, both on the floor, scraps of a size 18-24 month Hogwarts uniform strewn across them like confetti.

"Hello, Professor.”

Sharp shoved him off and flung an abandoned cloak in his direction. "Put some clothes on, Weasley."

Garreth felt as though someone had scooped out his brain, used it in lieu of a bludger, and then poured the battered remnants back into his skull.

The soft twinkles of floating candles were like fireworks to his bloodshot eyes, magnifying the relentless throbbing behind them. Everywhere he looked, countless pairs of eyes stared back at him, accented by whispers interwoven with giggles.

An audience during dinner was an unnerving affair he wasn't accustomed to.

He turned a deaf ear to the hearsay that he'd smashed up Imelda's Nimbus. He had enough to bury deep down without living in perpetual fear of a hex taking him from behind. He employed his Gryffindor bravery to bolster his confidence and strode through the great hall his with chin up. If nothing else, it was a great story, albeit a slightly mortifying one.

He caught sight of Leander perched on a high horse. No doubt poised to unleash a storm of I told you so's and serves you right for the bald thing. Before Garreth could muster his wits and rustle up a selection of witty retorts, he was knocked sideways in a flying embrace.

"You're you again!"

He glanced down at the figure clinging to him and Merlin, the smile.

"I was always me, sunshine."

"I can't believe what you did. You brought mermaids into the boathouse, real ones!" Her tender hug was replaced by a firm grip on his tie and a pointed finger jabbing against his chest as she scolded him. "Don't you dare pull a stunt like that again. The whole school thought you'd drowned, but, gosh, it was incredible…"

Garreth's mind spun as her voice gained momentum with each euphoric word until everything froze, and she was touching his cheek—a fleeting, electrifying brush of her lips against his skin before they were torn apart by Poppy and her rapid gunfire of mermaid-themed questions.

His knees turned to mush under the weight of endorphins drowning his system. He slumped onto the bench opposite Leander, who had undergone a mood shift and now radiated a deliciously palpable rage.

Garreth smirked at him.

"Desired outcome achiev—"

"Shut the fuck up, Weasley."

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