snowneedsanap

[snowneedsanap]

I know I literally asked this as an anon but yes this was me :)

I love your work so much!! Thank you Clancy !! 🩵

I’m here to write more Kyle representation where it’s needed. 🫡

~Snow

hi! asking to a certified gaz writerz, how would you recommend new writers to appropriately write for gaz? along with watching cutscenes and gameplay, i wanted to ask how you personally write kyle ? i ask this because i don’t see a lot of kyle representation in fics and i wanted to ask of how to write him as a romantic interest and thought you would know best instead of just mischaracterizing him. i hope you understand that my ask is out of genuine curiosity and wanting a talented writer’s point of view. i appreciate your feedback. i hope all is well during your hiatus.

~ ☀︎ anon

hi anon! first of all, thank you for the message. it truly means a lot. i’m in no way that talented (that goes to my mutuals), but knowing i’m a certified kyle writer in your eyes delights me. <3

so in all honesty, i write kyle to be the characterization of my ideal lover—because he’s my ideal man. it’s not necessarily because he’s black, but because i think he has a stellar personality that matches my wants like a puzzle piece.

to make it known—i’m a white author who is kyle centric. i don’t see others flaming me for that, though, so i feel i am doing something right when i write him, lol.

when i write, i care more for personality and behaviors rather than skin color (hence why i keep reader descriptions as much of blank slate as possible). as much as my writing with him is really self-indulgent, i want others to enjoy my work while letting them put themselves into the perspective of myself. (does that make sense?)

i did learn about an account recently, and i feel it’s very beneficial for those that are curious about learning how to write a black character. i recommend @creatingblackcharacters if you ever want to get into writing for kyle yourself. :)

kyle is also a fictional character, so honestly, you can write him however you’d like in a romantic sense. meanie kyle? go ahead. whore kyle? go ahead. soft kyle? my personal favorite, so that’s what i go for.

i just think it’s best to be mindful when writing for a poc when it comes to describing the skin tone, colors, eyes, facial features, all of that. like how kyle doesn’t blush, per se, but rather his cheeks darken and heat up.

but in general, i write for kyle mainly because he’s pretty, he’s silly, he’s my type, he’s all i want. lmao. personality just differs with every author.

also, no kyle representation? say less, anon, i will gladly provide whatever i can. <3

[snowneedsanap]

sob i'm just thankful that the tumblr algorithm has put me out there !! i want to show my support back since y'all do so much!

TYSM FOR 50 FOLLOWERS WTFF

You guys are amazing thank you for the support <3

[snowneedsanap]

TYSM FOR 50 FOLLOWERS WTFF

You guys are amazing thank you for the support <3

[snowneedsanap]

Given' Me a Headache, Boys.

The Merman's Cove // Poly!Mermay!141 x Afab!Human!Reader // Ch. 3

Tags|Warnings // Reader is Afab with she/her pronouns, no use of Y/N, this is eventually a poly ending but starts with a Kyle/Johnny fic for the beginning, the boys are feral hunters, reader doesn't like fish (this is important to the plot line), I don't care if it isn't MerMay anymore I want Mermen, Reader is human interacting with feral beasts of the deep, protective mermen, biting, marking, clawing, Reader def has daddy issues, real slowburn baby, i think monster fucking if you consider it?, drowning, mentions of death, mentions of death of a family member. author is trying to use regional dialect, not proofread!!!

This chapter includes: clawing, blood, slight amnesia, reader's father thinks she is mentally ill, vomiting and hospitalization, medical inaccuracies

A/N: I didn't get a lot of notes on the second chapter so I was hesitant to make a third, not only that but my work schedule has been late at night so I go to bed late-wake up late- and then go to work. Anyway. no more excuses.

Holy mother of fuck it's cold.

Below than what you've been used to when you've been diving in the cold voluntarily, possibly because you had never expected to swim away from the cops.

Water fills your lungs before you expect it, and you start to sink into the depths that you've been so deathly afraid of.

Fuck, you realize, my bike is there.

They'll surely know you're here, ran off, or gone missing, possibly even swimming with the fishes. You think your dad will know- since you started investigating. But you know the librarian won't rat you out. Fuckin' hell.

Your mind is foggy. The water seeps into each neuron. Surely you'll drown.

Claws dig into your arms, making dark red incisions that bleed out your own blood. One swift and powerful motion pulls you out of the water, but it disorients you and makes your head land on a heavy shoulder.

Holy fuck, you think. Surely it couldn't get any worse. You think you just experienced hyperthermia, the bends, and a migraine all at being in the arms a merman.

"The fuck did you bring her up so fast for? You realize humans can't do that," You hear the muffled voice of Kyle, but not sure where he was to you since the echo of the cave disoriented direction.

"Te fuck ye mean?" Johnny talks right up in your ear, overwhelming you with his gruff voice. His powerful tail pushes you two together to the edge, where you feels his large body lay on top of you. His baby blue eyes stare into your soul. If you were more than conscious, you throw him back in the water.

Kyle joins the two of you. "Move, you're scaring 'er," Kyle moves closer looking into your eyes. "Just breath love, we'll find some warmth," he reassures, one of his webbed hands encasing your freezing cold one. Sure he was cold, but not as much as the trenches that were beside you.

Johnny moves your body closer to his, with your back to his chest. You could hear the subtle breathing behind you, but you weren't sure if that was you or Johnny down your neck.

A flicker of light lit up the cavern. Kyle had already started a flame, with a convenient pile of logs and sticks near you and him. You see a shadow move, seemingly like Kyle gets bigger as he looms over the flame, like he was standing.

Then your eyes closed.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

A warm body encased behind you with a strong arm wrapped around your waist. More warmth filled the front of you, where you could smell smoke and char fill your lungs. You were disoriented, dehydrated, certainly like how you imagined pirates at sea were like after days without seeing land. Except you were on land. Certainly, you were at the cave still, but when? Since when had you gotten here?

Barely remembering when or how you got here. The feeling of lightheadedness and a migraine combined into tossing yourself to the side of the ledge and throwing up your stomach. The sour feeling, taste, makes you gag and once tear up. Your cough caused an echo.

You feel a tightening around your waste.

"Easy girl," Kyle brings you closer to him and out of the ledge. You moan and groan in response. "H-huh?" you turn around. You don't remember him. The fuck did you do last night? Did they slip you something and bring you here? You don't remember going to the bar, hell you barely drink despite only going to bars for hanging out.

Your head pounds. You thought you were seeing two of him. A shiver runs down your spine when you remember the feeling of salt water filling your lungs. A powerful tail encasing your thrashing pair. But there was a man laying next to you, a handsome one the less, shirtless too. You blink like you're recalibrating.

"Doll?" The man you've turned to, the one you holds your waist, calls you as you look into his soft eyes. He's a man, how come you remember a fish tail?

You felt sick again.

You hear the shut of a car door. Kyle grabs you and hoists you into the water, which you were not at all prepared for, seemingly like he was trying to protect you from whatever was coming this way. Grabbing you harshly, you end up hitting your head against the rocks which has already left you disoriented from, it's all worse. You flail, head too heavy which makes you sink. Two more splashes join beside you, encasing you. Gunshots are fired, echoing. You feel a graze of a claw. A bite. You screech.

"Holy mother of fuck... daughter, te' fuck?" You hear your father's voice through the muffled voices under the water. Your head lulls. He sees the seeping red from the top of your head.

"Shit!"

You feel him pull you by both of your arms up, taking you by your waist and laying you down. You remember this freezing feeling.

"Shit, shit, come on," your father's hand scoops behind your head, looking for any sign of life. "How are you still breathin...'" He checks your pulse. He looks down to your legs. "Mother of bloody pearl..."

The scars and claws run long, not too deep but superficial to leave a scar. There are punctures that form into a hand alignment into claws. "No," he's in disbelief. He fumbles for his flip phone. You here the muffled speaking of an operator, telling them they would be there any minute.

"Stay with me love," he cradles your neck tenderly. "Come on, you're gonna be okay, fuckin' Christ--"

You hear those bloody sirens again. Something like this happened not too long ago. This feels like a fever dream. A dramatic one. Your father holds your freezing cold hand. He curses over and over, cursing at what has hurt me. But what lurks just below him is also cursing him out for arriving and disturbing the peace.

Sirens blurt out onto the quiet town and drive through the rocky area. It takes them a while to get down there, but you feel lifted onto the stretcher and covered in sheets. It's cold outside and of course raining.

Not a hard pour rain, but you feel it against your cold flushed cheeks.

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Can you hear me?" The paramedic beside you calls out, which you recognize as one of your neighbors, a sweet lady a little older of your age. Shit. That was your friend.

She calls out your name and shakes your shoulder. Her look of concern was personal.

The sounds of the car ride are all muffled, their voices too. You feel your father's tight grip, wanting to ground you or himself. Your friend sits by your side, looking down. Fuck, how could you not remember her name? Was it the fact that you hit your head? Amnesia can do some fucked up things.

Fluorescent lights and sterilization creeps into your senses. You've always hated hospitals and going to the doctor as a child- so this was overwhelming. And the fact you could barely react to your surroundings was jarring.

You hated this. Hated the attention, hated the fact you weren't aware of what was happening, and hated where you were.

They brought you into the emergency room, laying you down in one of the white beds. People surrounded you immediately. Hands upon hands and no way to tell them to stop.

There was feeling to your hand where you felt a needle for an IV, disinfectant in deepened wounds that you couldn't remember where they had come from.

More mumbled voices crowd your head, but you can't help but feel the hand of your friend by your bedside, telling you it would be ok.

Hooooooolyyy fuck--

Goddamn. Fuck. Shit. Where am I? Ugh...Damn it was bright. Right. You were in the hospital, how the fuck did this happen again?

You tried to sit up. But a hand and a quick shush put you back down. "Don't even think about it. What the hell did you do this time to end up here?" Your friend, Olive, properly sassy and highly intelligent gives you a side eye, despite you just awaking and barely being aware of your surroundings. '"Fuck, gimme a break will ya?" You plead to her.

She scoffs, but listens. "Worried me for a hot sec. Severe dehydration, head trauma, deep flesh wounds and slashes.." She lists off. "Were you attacked? Did you go to the bar and someone..? And why the fuck is there a bite on your calf?" She was pissed, yeah, but you needed her to just let it go for now. Not like you knew what was happening either.

"No, no, I just, can't remember what happened. But that wasn't it," You replied, rubbing your head where you touched bandages.

"You don't remember?" She asks, confused and worried.

"No, not at all. I know.. I know my dad told me not to do something and then I did it," You hum, recounting vague details.

She laughs along, but also seems like she got a tail end of it, "Yeah, he told me he wants answers when you woke up. He was... incredibly pissed, to say the least," Olive sighs. "But, also as my patient, if he stresses you out at all you just let me know, ok? We'll figure out what happened," She patted your hands that laid on your chest.

"I'll go get him," you watch your friend get up and go grab your father, where you were about to be brought absolute hell.

A headache racked your brain, one that felt churning to your stomach. You search around for the 'call nurse' button on your bedside to ask for medicine, grumbling when you couldn't find it. Another grumble comes from the doorway catches your attention.

Your father, ready to raise Armageddon.

"What the fuck did I tell you about going out? What did I tell you about going into that bloody cave--" He snarls, infuriated that his own adult daughter can make her own decisions.

"And you end up in a bloody hospital. Huh? Who's going to have to take care of you when I go off to work--"

"Olive, will," you reply.

"Do not give me attitude miss, I know damn well Olive has more to do than to take care of your regretful ass," He points at you, shaking his head. "What the fuck have you done by not listening to my simple request? You have ruined our reputation, I'm goin' to be a joke at work for not simply looking after you when this was your fault-" he rants on and on.

You just bow your head.

Olive grabs your father's shoulder. "I think that's enough. I think.. I think your daughter has had a bit of amnesia," your friend tries to explain gently.

"Oh? Amnesia yeah? Are you telling me that as an excuse or did you really 'forget what you saw'? Are you fucking crazy? Have you not been taking your medication? Is that why you 'forgot'? Are you seeing those fuckin' things- What the fuck did you see--"

"Dad-"

"After all of these years I do so much for you and just this one time you don't listen to me-!"

"Dad! Enough!" You finally snap. You roll over to your side, sheltering yourself from him. He has caused enough stress already.

There's a pause of silence, followed by Olive asking your father to leave gently since he was causing such an uproar. He scoffs, but then abides.

She shuts the door.

"I'm... sorry, you shouldn't have to deal with him like that." Olive offers her sympathies.

"This happens a lot." You curled up, with your friend and only trusted person by your side, sitting in comforting silence.

[snowneedsanap]

What Lurks

The Merman's Cove // Poly!Mermay!141 x Afab!Human!Reader // Ch. 2

Tags|Warnings // Reader is Afab with she/her pronouns, this is eventually a poly ending but starts with a Kyle/Johnny fic for the beginning, the boys are feral hunters, reader doesn't like fish (this is important to the plot line), I don't care if it isn't MerMay anymore I want Mermen, Reader is human interacting with feral beasts of the deep, protective mermen, biting, marking, clawing, Reader def has daddy issues, real slowburn baby, i think monster fucking if you consider it?, drowning, mentions of death, mentions of death of a family member. author is trying to use regional dialect (i’m southern and don’t know shit), not proofread!!!

A/N // i'm so glad to see people still like mermen! this is a little bit heavier, since it contains reader's background. i am looking for muts btw :> this is long. i need some writers help too, i won't lie. plz give me proper feedback it will be appreciated

No, it absolutely, couldn't possibly be, not in anyway or anyhow does a fucking merman exist. But you saw one. All the fucking fairytales and stories you thought your father made up as jokes just for funsies, but nope! Oh yeah, the mystical creatures that are half fish half man that are larger than bull shark--no, whale sharks, are real. Absolutely fuckin' mental.

And mother nature is crying a sob story right outside the cove, where you're crouched over with the cover of the rocks barely keeping you dry. Unprepared as always, despite knowing you live in a wet environment. A small beat up pickup truck happens to just drive by, windshield wipers on frantically swiping back and forth and splashing you in the process. Saying, "fuck it," you book it to the passenger side with a swing of the door and a following slam. You sigh, looking over to the driver, your father. You sigh, somewhat drenched but relatively dry. Your dad hands you a towel.

While you dry off you sigh, having gone through so many emotions all at once, your father speaks up as he puts the truck in drive.

"Seen any otters?" His deep voice rumbles alongside the rain that pummels on the top of the hood. Thinking of the mohawk merman, you just nod and stutter. "Y-yeah. They were... clingy." You make up a short lie, obviously not being very good at it. He catches on.

"You didn't see any otters, did ya."

It wasn't a question. He knows something. He knows that you've seen it.

You didn't want to lie, but you almost felt like that hook that was caught in that merman's gills was the fishermen's fault out at sea. While not directly your father's fault, he knows of the urban legends, he spends his days at sea, and his sea-mates most likely talk the hottest gossip to hit the small coastal city.

But if you talk, you risk them knowing that there is something out there, you risking them knowing, hunting, a creature that does not need to be hunted. You continue with the lie.

“Yeah. I did. It was just one though… just wouldn’t stop squeaking and crying for more mackerel. I swear, one of those otters are going to be the death of me one day,” You chuckle lightly, hopefully that plays off with the lie.

Your father buys it, smiling and chuckling lightly along. “You love those otters so much why don’t you join them in the ocean?” He jokes along, to which you laugh lightly too, knowing this lie will go on for way too long. You move on for this, since it stresses you out way too much.

“How was work?” You ask, genuinely wanting to catch up.

“Interesting, to say the least. One of the boys caught a massive tuna after losing an expensive bait. Like the sea was sorry about that hook,” He carries on, then starts to blab on about why the hook was so expensive to who lost it to then it sparking a whole debate of someone stealing it, really you just wanted to go home and eat dinner and forget about the whole mess. With the mention of the lost bait, you can’t help but think on the hook stuck inside that merman’s gills. The hook was all that was left, he couldn’t have possibly been caught on one of your father’s set-mate’s lines? God, you didn’t even know anything about mermay life in general. What language did they speak? What was life like? Did they have, mer-children? No, that’s ridiculous. What the hell were you thinking about?

Genuinely, what the fuck was going on?

Finally arriving home, you immediately jump out and go inside, begging to find some answers on the internet. But answers are few and slim, and the ones available are all silly conspiracies. Except when you pull up a PDF of a newspaper cut out. The headline read, “Ireland Woman convinced of Mermen life, abandons newborn and husband.” No fucking way.

You zoom into the small text, but it’s poor quality. But then you read the name, the one of your mother’s. This… no! This was just a silly lie. Right? Right…?

You get off the internet for the night. You felt like you were going crazy. You didn’t know anything about your mom, just knowing that she died when you were born. Your father barely spoke of her. Just only said that she loved the sea. Maybe she loved it too much.

No, you didn’t want to believe it. Pressing on about it with your father would just bring in more utter confusion, more stress, all of that which you don’t need right now. Thank the heavens it was summer and you didn’t have to do any online college classes right now.

But what meant as your summer hideout may now be where those mermen lie. And you don’t want the attention, nor do you want anything to do with those fishy creatures. The last thing you wanted was to be surrounded by the one thing you hate, except, you already were. You begged to your ancestors to kidnap you and take you away from this hellish place.

Sitting back in bed, your elderly chubby calico cat Grunchy, that was named when you were a child, hops up onto the bed, sitting right by your legs and purrs like a motorboat. You sigh, grabbing her and placing her on your chest. Maybe some of those healing frequencies that you’ve heard that cats produced will take all of this sudden overwhelming information.

Your dad knocks on your door to drop off chicken strips and crisps in a plastic bag right by your door, to which you eye but enjoy the cat time. Grunchy starts to lick your nose, her nasty ass breath stinks so you take that as a sign to feed her and feed yourself.

Tsking the familiar meal out and eating it the way you enjoyed, when your father stood right in the door unannounced with a straight face.

"What the fuck did you see this afternoon?" He asks once more, to which you swivel in your chair with a mouthful of chicken tenders.

"Fuc'uf mean?" You ask sincerely, but wanting him to get off your back.

"I want you to stay away from that cove. There's been some strange sightings lately of... sharks. Don't even think about swimming either. Shits dangerous.....Al'righ, love ya," and he shuts the door abruptly. You know he doesn't mean that. He just doesn't want you around the "sharks".

Whatever.

Finishing up eating your meal to then feed your cat, of course you were going to go back to the cove later. You needed to know more. You wanted to ask your father questions, but you know he would never answer him. You know who would?

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The town library was always a second home to you. The old librarian was the mother you never had who would always babysit you when your father would work the late shifts out at sea, sometimes feeling like he forgot about you for days on end.

The books she had were always well kept thanks to your hands and the shop always remained afloat with your savings.

Walking over in the humidity late at night with the toads croaking was a familiar feeling and experience during those late night walk back from the shipping docks to home late at night with your father.

Pulling on the door on the dimly lit library door, you're greeted by the smell of lavender and cat hair sticking to the windows. Not seeing the owner, you move to the back where you know where she might be. As frail and old as she is, she still manages to keep active and this shop afloat.

Moving past the dusty shelves, you find her taking a nap with one of her many cats. You sigh, knowing this was the usual, and place a blanket over her. Wanting to find something on the town's history, knowing that the owner keeps a well documented archive of all important news headlines. Searching through sections from twenty-five years ago, you surely do find a small cut out article in laminated paper to protect it, the same headline as the one you read earlier about your mother. You bag it immediately.

"Now dear, you got to tell me what you have," the bookkeeper stirs, knowing you took something. Flinching, you grab the small piece of paper out. You hand it to her. She smacks her lips, slowly raising her spectacles to her pale blue eyes. "Ah yes, the one about the your mother," she hums as if the story of a woman abandoning her child and husband to live in the sea with suspected "seamen", yeah right. You stare at her for answers.

"Glad you found out eventually. Those Mermen sure are nasty creatures, but want nothing but love," she hums on, earning a confused look from you.

"Your mother caught on to tha', they're lonely little ones, bein' caught in nets day to day, being hurt, caught in hooks, they'll lure you in. But do I blame them? No, dear." She slowly turns to you. "They love women, but women don't understand they can never love them back," she give a cautionary tale, still leaving you confused.

You blink rapidly, speechless. Old people, yea?

You just play along.

"Righ', so my mother fell in luv with some mermen?" You ask for clarification.

"Oh yes. She thought she could become one of them," She smiles innocently and leaves it at that. You smile back slowly but apprehensively. Gods does she make you scratch your head.

"And how do they lure in the women?" You ask, needing to know more.

"Oh, by many things. Pretending to be injured, giving you soft, luring eyes, bringing your shiny objects like the common crow, dear. They'll do anything to want you."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Absurd. Absolutely, fuckin' absurd. Did she deny them? No! She knows they're real. But if you ask any other townsfolk they'll bow their heads in submission like a goddamn puppy seal or ignoring you, or even telling you to get out of their fuckin' cafe. Absurd.

You leave the library with more books then you need about sea life, probably more books than a child with a marine life hyper fixation, and that says a lot.

The librarian told you one last thing before you left, and that they were more active at night. Perfect.

You dropped off the books at home, hiding them away from your father, and then grabbing your bike and medical supplies, since 'the mermen lure you by acting injured', and by being overly curious, of course you were going to lure them on purpose.

You grab a headlight while you were at it at start riding into the dark fog. It wasn't something you were unfamiliar with, just something you didn't want to do.

Riding down the ramps with only the streetlamps lighting your way. You have yet to turn on your headlight to save the battery. Rolling down the hills, you're finally met with the familiar rocky cove.

Hopping off your bike, you drive it to the cove with the medical kit in the basket, along with some bratwurst the nearby deli made for bait. You park the bike outside and bring your 'lures' in, sitting down at the edge of the rocks, fixing the headlight and turning it on, setting it to where you threw in the sausage. You watched patiently for something to bite.

Something zooms by, definitely one of the mermen. The one you met earlier that day pops his full head up, looking straight at you with his baby blue eyes that were so alluring. He gurgles something at you, to which you tilt your head at. He points to the bratwurst, to which you roll your eyes at and throw in another, and he catches immediately.

Another head pops out. Another merman, darker, possibly a even more handsome friend of the mermen you already know. His black curly hair was short, his eyes too were alluring. Maybe this was the siren effect you've heard of. He too looked a little bit beat up from the sea's battles, but definitely kept his beauty protected. His fins were a blend of deep purple and black, reflecting off of the headlight. He has a top fin like his friend on his head, but it was shorter, although his ear fins were longer. He wore pearls in them, and they absolutely bring out his eyes. The would certainly look better under the sun. If they would look so beautiful under the sun--

"Oh, hello," you introduced yourself with your name, even though they probably didn't speak English at all.

"Hello," He responds.

You choke.

And pause.

"Heh, what?"

"What? Johnny over here never speak to you?" The handsome mermen turns to his beat-up friend. The friend scoffs. "Weel? I didnae' trus a human," He speaks in heavily dialect.

"You're Scottish...?" you ask in slight shock. Nothing has really shocked you as hard as learning about mermen.

"Aye," He responds. "Toss anotha," he mentions to the bratwurst again, to which you give in and give him the serving.

"Sorry about him. He's... apprehensive. I don't blame him," The friend of Johnny's apologizes. "Oh, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Kyle. I appreciate you helping my friend with the hook in his gills today. Neither of us could get it out..."

"Oh it's really no issue," you brush it off, but also remember what the librarian's warnings were.

But you want to press on something. But you want to be on their side.

"Look, I am not a fishermen. Nor do I even like fish. I am just trying to figure out where my mother went," you leave it at that, most likely knowing that they will not know anything.

"Your mother? Are we supposed to know her?" Kyle asks, to which you weren't surprised.

You sigh. "Don't-Don't worry about it..." your head hangs. You notice they look at each other.

"Was she a...mermaid?" Kyle asks.

"No, she was human. But she was lured by a merman, is what my town believes." You shrug, knowing it was the only thing to believe. "She went missing shortly after I was born. Abandoned me and my dad," you continued. Why were you telling them this again?

"Oh yea, that lil' miss," Johnny turns to Kyle. Your head perks up.

"You know where my mom is?" You ask, persistent. Kyle sighs. "Don't think she is here with us anymore, luv."

Your heart sinks.

"What? What... What do you mean?"

A siren sounds. The police siren. It's growing closer. It's coming, for you, you know. They're looking, your father knows you went out despite his warnings. Although you're a fucking adult--

You dive into the cold water.

||

Don't forget to read my Author's note! and don't forget you're loved<3

Oh, taglist question mark?

||

Part 1 || Next Chapter ->

[snowneedsanap]

This is genuinely heartbreaking. I didn’t know him at all, but from what I can tell from other people’s comments who worked with him, he seemed like the sweetest man alive. His impact was enormous to the COD community and I’m sure many of his fans like me know that he was loved. I hope he can rest easy.

Whether or not his family decides to share more about him, I hope people continue to respect him and his family’s wishes to stay secret if they so choose so.

I have some very sad news to share for those that follow the NSFW audio community. A beloved voice actor and lovely human, Badjhur, has passed away. The details of his death are unknown, and I believe his friends would prefer it be kept that way.

These are two different announcements from two different platforms. One from X as a group announcement from some of his mutual friends, and one from a friend of Badjhur's and a fellow NSFW audio creator. Several more verified VAs and creators have confirmed this on their own socials. Given that Badjhur was deeply secretive about his personal life and details, I'm not entirely sure if we will get official confirmation as in an obituary or announcement from his next of kin.

What an absolutely tragic loss for the community. Badjhur was such a sweet and tender soul who was so kind. He genuinely seemed like such a sincere and thoughtful person. I hope he was peaceful in the end.

If you need to reach out to someone, please know there are resources available for you. Please take care of yourselves and remember you are not alone.

US Crisis Lifeline: 988 or text TALK to 741741

UK: Crisis Resource Options

[snowneedsanap]

MDNI (18+) ; thought of more daddy dom!gaz (without the daddy) giving aftercare! look, bel (@girlfromflor) told me to post it. when my girl tells me what to do, i do it. <3 (/platonic)

you plop down onto the toilet lid with a quiet thud. your hickey-covered thighs still felt like jelly, quivering with remaining aftershocks of your most recent orgasm.

kyle only leaves your side briefly to shift the shower curtains and peek inside, twisting the knob until the shower head spurts to life, sprinkling a light ring of water down into the acrylic tub.

he returns to you, his upper half bending down to level with your face. his head tilts, observing you fondly. you can’t quite hold eye contact, vision slightly blurred, and eyelids heavy with mild exhaustion. “can’ quite sleep yet, sweet pea,” he hums, his palms grasping your hips. “gotta wash y’ up.”

without protest, you start to push yourself onto your feet. kyle guides you, his touch firm and grounding, before you’re flat on your toes. “‘m tired,” you grumble quietly, bringing a hand up to rub your eyelid with the heel of your palm.

he pulls the curtain further to the side, giving you a gap to step through. “i know, sweetie. we’ll be quick this time, ‘kay?” he helps you step inside first, letting your body slide under the warm spray of water before he steps in beside you.

you practically sink into his arms, the warmth of the water coaxing your muscles to ache, exaggerating their soreness. toned arms wrap around you, palms sliding up and down your back, dragging you closer, until your chest brushes against his own.

“hm-hm sleepy baby,” he chuckles softly, nudging your head to the side with his chin, ducking down to kiss your temple. “jus’ stand still, i’ll clean you.”

giving him a nod of approval, he plucks a loofah from the shower caddy. his hands move effortlessly, pumping a few globs of body wash onto the loofah, and gliding the brush over your skin, letting suds gather and clean your sweaty flesh.

he starts with your upper back, sliding down to your sides, your arms, to the sticky mess along your inner thighs, and lastly, in between the plush skin. you visibly shiver when the material grazes your still-sensitive extremities. “kyle,” you utter wobbly.

“sorry, honey,” he coos, giving your skin one last swipe before pulling you closer to let your body linger under the spray of water.

the loofah’s discarded, and his hands return lathered with shampoo. his fingers work into your hair, blunt nails scraping your scalp so deliciously, you can’t help but sigh deeply into his shoulder.

“feel good, baby?” he murmurs into your ear, his hands retreating to let the soap set into your locks.

you hum in response. “mhm.”

kyle waits a few beats longer, before he gingerly cups the nape of your neck, guiding your head backward. “close your eyes,” he presses, and you obey.

regardless, his other hand closes over your eyes, shielding them as the shampoo slid down your face once the spray hit your head. you giggle when the hand on your neck slides upward, assisting the water in washing out your hair, tickling you for just a moment.

he snickers through closed lips with approval. “tha’s it. almost done.”

as the suds slide around his fingers, you feel him shift closer, followed by the soft peck of his lips against yours.

“gotta make sure m’ baby’s nice n’ clean before bed, yeah?”

gaz masterlist

[snowneedsanap]

When a Character Is Grieving Someone They Never Got to Say Goodbye To

✧ They talk about the person in past tense… then correct themselves. Then stop talking entirely.

✧ They touch things that belonged to the person like they’re fragile, sacred, about to disappear.

✧ They hoard the last voicemail, last message, last anything. Play it. Don’t play it. Just knowing it exists hurts enough.

✧ They leave something untouched, an empty seat, a half-packed bag, a coffee order that isn’t theirs.

✧ They get irrationally angry when someone else seems to be “moving on.” As if forgetting is betrayal.

✧ They don’t let themselves cry all at once. It comes in pieces. Like they’re afraid too much grief will drown them.

✧ They over-apologize. For being quiet. For being distant. For not being okay.

✧ They become hyper-aware of time, dates, anniversaries, time zones, the exact moment everything ended.

✧ They get superstitious. Ritualistic. As if doing things "right" might reverse something.

✧ They smile when they talk about the person. But it’s brittle. And it never quite touches their eyes.

[snowneedsanap]

What Lurks

The Merman's Cove // Poly!Mermay!141 x Afab!Human!Reader // Ch. 2

Tags|Warnings // Reader is Afab with she/her pronouns, this is eventually a poly ending but starts with a Kyle/Johnny fic for the beginning, the boys are feral hunters, reader doesn't like fish (this is important to the plot line), I don't care if it isn't MerMay anymore I want Mermen, Reader is human interacting with feral beasts of the deep, protective mermen, biting, marking, clawing, Reader def has daddy issues, real slowburn baby, i think monster fucking if you consider it?, drowning, mentions of death, mentions of death of a family member. author is trying to use regional dialect (i’m southern and don’t know shit), not proofread!!!

A/N // i'm so glad to see people still like mermen! this is a little bit heavier, since it contains reader's background. i am looking for muts btw :> this is long. i need some writers help too, i won't lie. plz give me proper feedback it will be appreciated

No, it absolutely, couldn't possibly be, not in anyway or anyhow does a fucking merman exist. But you saw one. All the fucking fairytales and stories you thought your father made up as jokes just for funsies, but nope! Oh yeah, the mystical creatures that are half fish half man that are larger than bull shark--no, whale sharks, are real. Absolutely fuckin' mental.

And mother nature is crying a sob story right outside the cove, where you're crouched over with the cover of the rocks barely keeping you dry. Unprepared as always, despite knowing you live in a wet environment. A small beat up pickup truck happens to just drive by, windshield wipers on frantically swiping back and forth and splashing you in the process. Saying, "fuck it," you book it to the passenger side with a swing of the door and a following slam. You sigh, looking over to the driver, your father. You sigh, somewhat drenched but relatively dry. Your dad hands you a towel.

While you dry off you sigh, having gone through so many emotions all at once, your father speaks up as he puts the truck in drive.

"Seen any otters?" His deep voice rumbles alongside the rain that pummels on the top of the hood. Thinking of the mohawk merman, you just nod and stutter. "Y-yeah. They were... clingy." You make up a short lie, obviously not being very good at it. He catches on.

"You didn't see any otters, did ya."

It wasn't a question. He knows something. He knows that you've seen it.

You didn't want to lie, but you almost felt like that hook that was caught in that merman's gills was the fishermen's fault out at sea. While not directly your father's fault, he knows of the urban legends, he spends his days at sea, and his sea-mates most likely talk the hottest gossip to hit the small coastal city.

But if you talk, you risk them knowing that there is something out there, you risking them knowing, hunting, a creature that does not need to be hunted. You continue with the lie.

“Yeah. I did. It was just one though… just wouldn’t stop squeaking and crying for more mackerel. I swear, one of those otters are going to be the death of me one day,” You chuckle lightly, hopefully that plays off with the lie.

Your father buys it, smiling and chuckling lightly along. “You love those otters so much why don’t you join them in the ocean?” He jokes along, to which you laugh lightly too, knowing this lie will go on for way too long. You move on for this, since it stresses you out way too much.

“How was work?” You ask, genuinely wanting to catch up.

“Interesting, to say the least. One of the boys caught a massive tuna after losing an expensive bait. Like the sea was sorry about that hook,” He carries on, then starts to blab on about why the hook was so expensive to who lost it to then it sparking a whole debate of someone stealing it, really you just wanted to go home and eat dinner and forget about the whole mess. With the mention of the lost bait, you can’t help but think on the hook stuck inside that merman’s gills. The hook was all that was left, he couldn’t have possibly been caught on one of your father’s set-mate’s lines? God, you didn’t even know anything about mermay life in general. What language did they speak? What was life like? Did they have, mer-children? No, that’s ridiculous. What the hell were you thinking about?

Genuinely, what the fuck was going on?

Finally arriving home, you immediately jump out and go inside, begging to find some answers on the internet. But answers are few and slim, and the ones available are all silly conspiracies. Except when you pull up a PDF of a newspaper cut out. The headline read, “Ireland Woman convinced of Mermen life, abandons newborn and husband.” No fucking way.

You zoom into the small text, but it’s poor quality. But then you read the name, the one of your mother’s. This… no! This was just a silly lie. Right? Right…?

You get off the internet for the night. You felt like you were going crazy. You didn’t know anything about your mom, just knowing that she died when you were born. Your father barely spoke of her. Just only said that she loved the sea. Maybe she loved it too much.

No, you didn’t want to believe it. Pressing on about it with your father would just bring in more utter confusion, more stress, all of that which you don’t need right now. Thank the heavens it was summer and you didn’t have to do any online college classes right now.

But what meant as your summer hideout may now be where those mermen lie. And you don’t want the attention, nor do you want anything to do with those fishy creatures. The last thing you wanted was to be surrounded by the one thing you hate, except, you already were. You begged to your ancestors to kidnap you and take you away from this hellish place.

Sitting back in bed, your elderly chubby calico cat Grunchy, that was named when you were a child, hops up onto the bed, sitting right by your legs and purrs like a motorboat. You sigh, grabbing her and placing her on your chest. Maybe some of those healing frequencies that you’ve heard that cats produced will take all of this sudden overwhelming information.

Your dad knocks on your door to drop off chicken strips and crisps in a plastic bag right by your door, to which you eye but enjoy the cat time. Grunchy starts to lick your nose, her nasty ass breath stinks so you take that as a sign to feed her and feed yourself.

Tsking the familiar meal out and eating it the way you enjoyed, when your father stood right in the door unannounced with a straight face.

"What the fuck did you see this afternoon?" He asks once more, to which you swivel in your chair with a mouthful of chicken tenders.

"Fuc'uf mean?" You ask sincerely, but wanting him to get off your back.

"I want you to stay away from that cove. There's been some strange sightings lately of... sharks. Don't even think about swimming either. Shits dangerous.....Al'righ, love ya," and he shuts the door abruptly. You know he doesn't mean that. He just doesn't want you around the "sharks".

Whatever.

Finishing up eating your meal to then feed your cat, of course you were going to go back to the cove later. You needed to know more. You wanted to ask your father questions, but you know he would never answer him. You know who would?

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The town library was always a second home to you. The old librarian was the mother you never had who would always babysit you when your father would work the late shifts out at sea, sometimes feeling like he forgot about you for days on end.

The books she had were always well kept thanks to your hands and the shop always remained afloat with your savings.

Walking over in the humidity late at night with the toads croaking was a familiar feeling and experience during those late night walk back from the shipping docks to home late at night with your father.

Pulling on the door on the dimly lit library door, you're greeted by the smell of lavender and cat hair sticking to the windows. Not seeing the owner, you move to the back where you know where she might be. As frail and old as she is, she still manages to keep active and this shop afloat.

Moving past the dusty shelves, you find her taking a nap with one of her many cats. You sigh, knowing this was the usual, and place a blanket over her. Wanting to find something on the town's history, knowing that the owner keeps a well documented archive of all important news headlines. Searching through sections from twenty-five years ago, you surely do find a small cut out article in laminated paper to protect it, the same headline as the one you read earlier about your mother. You bag it immediately.

"Now dear, you got to tell me what you have," the bookkeeper stirs, knowing you took something. Flinching, you grab the small piece of paper out. You hand it to her. She smacks her lips, slowly raising her spectacles to her pale blue eyes. "Ah yes, the one about the your mother," she hums as if the story of a woman abandoning her child and husband to live in the sea with suspected "seamen", yeah right. You stare at her for answers.

"Glad you found out eventually. Those Mermen sure are nasty creatures, but want nothing but love," she hums on, earning a confused look from you.

"Your mother caught on to tha', they're lonely little ones, bein' caught in nets day to day, being hurt, caught in hooks, they'll lure you in. But do I blame them? No, dear." She slowly turns to you. "They love women, but women don't understand they can never love them back," she give a cautionary tale, still leaving you confused.

You blink rapidly, speechless. Old people, yea?

You just play along.

"Righ', so my mother fell in luv with some mermen?" You ask for clarification.

"Oh yes. She thought she could become one of them," She smiles innocently and leaves it at that. You smile back slowly but apprehensively. Gods does she make you scratch your head.

"And how do they lure in the women?" You ask, needing to know more.

"Oh, by many things. Pretending to be injured, giving you soft, luring eyes, bringing your shiny objects like the common crow, dear. They'll do anything to want you."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Absurd. Absolutely, fuckin' absurd. Did she deny them? No! She knows they're real. But if you ask any other townsfolk they'll bow their heads in submission like a goddamn puppy seal or ignoring you, or even telling you to get out of their fuckin' cafe. Absurd.

You leave the library with more books then you need about sea life, probably more books than a child with a marine life hyper fixation, and that says a lot.

The librarian told you one last thing before you left, and that they were more active at night. Perfect.

You dropped off the books at home, hiding them away from your father, and then grabbing your bike and medical supplies, since 'the mermen lure you by acting injured', and by being overly curious, of course you were going to lure them on purpose.

You grab a headlight while you were at it at start riding into the dark fog. It wasn't something you were unfamiliar with, just something you didn't want to do.

Riding down the ramps with only the streetlamps lighting your way. You have yet to turn on your headlight to save the battery. Rolling down the hills, you're finally met with the familiar rocky cove.

Hopping off your bike, you drive it to the cove with the medical kit in the basket, along with some bratwurst the nearby deli made for bait. You park the bike outside and bring your 'lures' in, sitting down at the edge of the rocks, fixing the headlight and turning it on, setting it to where you threw in the sausage. You watched patiently for something to bite.

Something zooms by, definitely one of the mermen. The one you met earlier that day pops his full head up, looking straight at you with his baby blue eyes that were so alluring. He gurgles something at you, to which you tilt your head at. He points to the bratwurst, to which you roll your eyes at and throw in another, and he catches immediately.

Another head pops out. Another merman, darker, possibly a even more handsome friend of the mermen you already know. His black curly hair was short, his eyes too were alluring. Maybe this was the siren effect you've heard of. He too looked a little bit beat up from the sea's battles, but definitely kept his beauty protected. His fins were a blend of deep purple and black, reflecting off of the headlight. He has a top fin like his friend on his head, but it was shorter, although his ear fins were longer. He wore pearls in them, and they absolutely bring out his eyes. The would certainly look better under the sun. If they would look so beautiful under the sun--

"Oh, hello," you introduced yourself with your name, even though they probably didn't speak English at all.

"Hello," He responds.

You choke.

And pause.

"Heh, what?"

"What? Johnny over here never speak to you?" The handsome mermen turns to his beat-up friend. The friend scoffs. "Weel? I didnae' trus a human," He speaks in heavily dialect.

"You're Scottish...?" you ask in slight shock. Nothing has really shocked you as hard as learning about mermen.

"Aye," He responds. "Toss anotha," he mentions to the bratwurst again, to which you give in and give him the serving.

"Sorry about him. He's... apprehensive. I don't blame him," The friend of Johnny's apologizes. "Oh, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Kyle. I appreciate you helping my friend with the hook in his gills today. Neither of us could get it out..."

"Oh it's really no issue," you brush it off, but also remember what the librarian's warnings were.

But you want to press on something. But you want to be on their side.

"Look, I am not a fishermen. Nor do I even like fish. I am just trying to figure out where my mother went," you leave it at that, most likely knowing that they will not know anything.

"Your mother? Are we supposed to know her?" Kyle asks, to which you weren't surprised.

You sigh. "Don't-Don't worry about it..." your head hangs. You notice they look at each other.

"Was she a...mermaid?" Kyle asks.

"No, she was human. But she was lured by a merman, is what my town believes." You shrug, knowing it was the only thing to believe. "She went missing shortly after I was born. Abandoned me and my dad," you continued. Why were you telling them this again?

"Oh yea, that lil' miss," Johnny turns to Kyle. Your head perks up.

"You know where my mom is?" You ask, persistent. Kyle sighs. "Don't think she is here with us anymore, luv."

Your heart sinks.

"What? What... What do you mean?"

A siren sounds. The police siren. It's growing closer. It's coming, for you, you know. They're looking, your father knows you went out despite his warnings. Although you're a fucking adult--

You dive into the cold water.

||

Don't forget to read my Author's note! and don't forget you're loved<3

Oh, taglist question mark?

||

Part 1 || Next Chapter ->

[snowneedsanap]

This is so adorable. Mermay is never over!

I’m afraid I’m going to need roughly a million more Ghoap mer-may drawings from you because omg that first one was AMAZING 😍

aaahhhh thank you so much! though mermay is over i will prevail in drawing this au because I LOVE IT! here is a lil sneak peek of a bigger art im making of em but the doodle version 😗

[snowneedsanap]

Snow Needs A Nap Writer's Page

Hi there! I am Snow, and I definitely need a nap. I am very new to writing but enjoy it when I have free time. Updates are when I can post. This page is to help you find specific chapters to my works. Thank you for being a supporter! 💙 I'm going to go take a nap...

//

Fandoms:

//

Call of Duty

DC

[snowneedsanap]

Feed a guppy, will ya miss?

The Merman's Cove // Poly!Mermay!141 x Afab!Human!Reader // Ch. 1

Tags // Reader is Afab with she/her pronouns, this is eventually a poly ending but starts with a Kyle/Johnny fic for the beginning, the boys are feral hunters, reader doesn't like fish, I don't care if it isn't MerMay anymore I want Mermen, Reader is human interacting with feral beasts of the deep, protective mermen, biting, marking, clawing, Reader def has daddy issues, will later build on once I get to writing ok loves<3

A/N // possibly smut? i am still a baby writer you guys. I don't know, this is hopefully my first longer fic and it catches on b/c I'm going through a mermaid phase.

Buying or really stealing a bucket of mackerel from your father's fishing boat was a daily habit since you remembered, since he would take you to the cove where the sea otters stayed. Their chirps and squeaks, clawing and pawing to the slippery and small fish was the only tolerating part of handling fish. Ever since living on a port city that thrived off of it's fishing exports, you could never quite enjoy the delicacy the locals enjoyed. The texture, the olfaction, the taste, you could never get over. No matter if it was grilled, baked, stuffed, raw, or cooked, any sort of fish could never be to your liking.

So, imagine to your father's surprise, as an owner of his own fishing company, when his own daughter doesn't enjoy the food he catches and how he smelled at the end of the day coming back from sea. When you were younger, he would shower right as he got home to then prepare chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese right when you came home from elementary school. But as you grew and he spent more time out at sea to pay for your primary education, he would never even have the chance to see you nor even have you smell him to know that he was home.

When things hardened and after you graduated from primary, you decided to help his business by working in his store, no where of the sea and their smells and harm, and surely you kept it that way. But today, and with most days, it was raining. The small Irish island was notorious of their rough seas and torrential rain, but today was a light drizzle. With said light drizzle, and the fact that the island was home less to 400 people, all spaced out too, no one was out. Grabbing a bucket from yesterdays catch of mackerel, you sought out to the comforting cove with the smelling fish bucket to the even more smelly cavern with the salty sea otters. Making sure to watch your step, your slowly made your way to the watery and rocky seats you've known. Throwing a slippery mackerel in to attract them, despite them not already being here was offsetting, you threw one it and it plunked right in. Within a blur and not breaking the surface, a whir of black and deep green snatched the dead fish. Immediately knocking the bucket back and leaning down over the rock's edge to get a quick glimpse, of what you've thought could've been a tuna, but definitely was not the coloring, you peered down into the dark waters. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of bright blue, starking humanoid eyes were staring right back.

As you stared into the murky waters, wondering what sort of fish could possibly be larger than the size of a shark but also not break the surface tension.

A splash of cold water broke your attention, making you take a step back and wipe the nasty salty sea water off of your face. You blink a few times to make sure nothing is in your eyes, you look back to the waters to see a head with green iridescent scales aligning the scalp, pointed high with one large fin down the middle. It's hair was, odd, the sides were shaven and had given it the appearance of a mohawk. It's eyes pierce to yours, a glare sending a shiver down your spine.

It was humanoid. No, it was a merfolk. The one your father always warned your about, whenever he would tell you stories out at sea, where he would see half fish half women, but you would always laugh and call him delirious, tell him to take his vitamin c pills so he doesn't get 'scurvy' like a real pirate.' What a joke.

What a joke you seriously thought when this merfolk stared you down. You felt choked, bewildered, and creeped out to find out that your father's stories were somewhat, factually true. Barely moving a muscle, the merfolk dives back in. In a flash, the same shadow you saw snatched the dead mackerel swam by. Then, it's head popped back up, closer. It eyed the metal bucket by your side, where it's dumped contents laid out by your side. Without words but understanding, you threw another fish. The merfolk jumped out and caught it with it's razor teeth, almost full body propelling itself up. Toned with white scars that had never healed properly, a strapped leather weapon to, to his chest, you realized. It was a merman.

Wanting to know more about this merman despite your father's previous warnings, you threw in more mackerel. It went back in for more, swiping each one. Peering down over the edge, his head moved back up. Then he swam closer to get a closer look too it seemed, to where you saw a large fish hook in the corner of his right gills. They pulsate from the lack of water but also the pain from the metal imbedded into the flesh. Frowning, but also having experience with unhooking and releasing, so you motion for him to move closer to hopefully remove it without anymore pain.

Begrudgingly, he swims forward. Swiftly without another blink, the hook is removed without anymore harm to the flesh. Smiling, you throw the rest of the fish to him. He stares at you, shocked as you removed the hook effortlessly. His siren eyes stare a while before you catch on, where you then realize you have befriended a fear of your father's.

Chapter 1 || Next Chapter ->

[snowneedsanap]

Gemstones

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth (mentions), the good ending to this (if only he behaved), simon is a good husband and a good dad

Masterlist 🦊

Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.

He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than later—easier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.

Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.

Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.

The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.

Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyes—never fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.

Nothing quite fit the plan.

Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards — the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.

The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.

Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?

Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.

He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.

He shuts it all off and drinks on it—paradoxical as it may be.

And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chest—

A spark. A light.

Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing danger—though this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.

A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.

Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.

A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.

He's heard fuck all.

"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"

It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.

Simon opts for the latter.

Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.

Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.

John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.

You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.

He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.

But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.

You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.

Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.

Your number penned on it. Your name right below.

Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.

It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad person—he doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.

He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.

He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.

Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in it—let it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.

Sex is a good, perfect balance.

It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.

Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of it—to be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.

But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.

He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.

He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.

The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.

The I love you you whisper that first time.

His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.

Something in his heart, too.

Life gets harder, though—practically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.

Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctly—the visit to his father's grave has got to wait.

It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.

He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.

He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despised—pop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.

Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not home—at least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or two—still, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.

Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more space—hell, better sex for when you're both up for it.

Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.

Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no. 

However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.

The unmistakable joy.

No one believes him when you say yes—though truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.

Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyes—gemstones, as precious as can be.

A hand on his cheek, a kiss on the lips.

The last as his fiancée, the first as his wife.

Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.

Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.

What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.

It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.

"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take out—I knew we should've cooked."

He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.

He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.

You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.

Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.

It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not… rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bones—to disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.

It's worth it—fucking hell, really worth it.

Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.

The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.

Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.

You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.

And it's worth it again.

Worth it, worth it, worth it. 

Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.

Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.

Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.

Worth it. 

Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.

Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.

Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.

"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.

She answers every time.

He kisses your skin. "My little bug."

Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as well—beating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.

Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.

Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.

Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.

But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.

There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.

And it's so, so worth it.

Worth it all—just to hold her that first time.

Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.

He could, surely.

He doesn't.

No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.

In his, too.

Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get home—no, scratch that.

Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.

Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.

Good for his heart.

Get the job d—call you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.

Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.

His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.

Might as well play along.

Back to his plans.

Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.

His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.

He knows it's not easy for you either.

Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.

He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he is—unbelievable to even think about it.

Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.

He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.

The man he is.

Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.

His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.

Like her mum, he reckons.

She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.

Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.

A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.

Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.

Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.

And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.

It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.

There she is, standing on her own two feet.

Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.

Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.

Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.

He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.

Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.

He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.

Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her again—small fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful one—it's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.

You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.

"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.

You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."

There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny step—a tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.

Like her dad, he reckons.

She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hers—solace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.

Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.

You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.

It has Simon's heart in a clutch.

He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.

His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.

His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.

"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."

Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.

His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twin—smaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.

A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joy—aquamarine tears, glowing from within.

His little bug might look like him, but she's just like you—eyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.

"I love you," he mouths to you.

Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.

You say it back.

His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.

Not his problem. Not anymore.

You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.

Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".

Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.

But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.

[snowneedsanap]

Can you enjoy CoD whilst knowing it's imperialist propaganda?

Previous CoD Critique Posts: Certain CoD missions imitate real war footage and they do not inform you of this Where Bad CoD Writing Comes from _______ One last post on the topic of war propaganda in CoD before I go radio silent on the posting front for a while. I just want to say this, you are not a bad person for liking the Call of Duty games and thinking that they are fun. We are talking about a video game series. Nobody is actually getting hurt by you gunning down npcs in a video game. Even so, it is important to do outside research and exercise critical thinking. Media Literacy is incredibly important, but it is a muscle that must be trained in order to be strong. A problem in this fandom is that it is a common practice to disregard the canon and not pay attention to it because it's war propaganda. While you shouldn't believe war propaganda, you shouldn't disregard it either because the actions of the military are the actions of the government. And the government is certainly something that warrants your full attention. Listen to what the propaganda is trying to tell you, hear its words so that you can respond accordingly. Really look at these games, search through their text, and see what they're trying to justify or minimize as a "necessary evil". This is a necessity if you want to enjoy the story telling in CoD. As for my fellow fanfiction writers, I will say this: there is nothing wrong with writing fanfics for CoD, but do not substitute that for critique of the source material. Fanfiction, and all fan content, will always be an alternative to the source material and it will never supplant it. Please actually play the games or watch playthroughs (I can not emphasize this enough). To actually be media literate, you need to know the story and its moving parts. I encourage you, through your fanfiction, to be critical of the source material within your own work. _______

Here's some really good political CoD critiques to get you started:

This is unspecific to CoD but is good for getting the bigger picture:

[snowneedsanap]

//was very surprised to see the interaction for the one shot and glad to see it too. here is part two :> (not proofred)

husband!price x partner!reader pt.2

Waking up to your husband after he was gone for weeks is the most rejuvenating experience besides a spa day. Of course, you have to hear the complaints of his 'poor back', and more complaints of his 'old age'. You ignored the repeating words, sliding a hand onto his bare hairy chest as a good morning greeting.

He chuffs, looking down at you with a sweet smile. "Mornin' bird," he lays one of his hands on top of yours, rubbing it gently with his rough calluses. There was nothing more satisfying to have him in your hold once more, safe. But of course he was. He promised you this when you first were married, with his vows explicably saying that he will always return home, with no promises of being hurt or not. Despite the worry of his pain, you could always count on him to return back to you.

John looks away for a second, sitting up for a bit to stretch out his aging limbs, ever so slowly sitting up. He exhales dramatically, looking over to you as you respond with a laugh. "Getting old?" you ask, knowing the answer already. Your husband responds with an eye roll.

You playfully hit him, and he responds with an act of being hurt, "I have a bruise there bird," he pouts, acting juvenile despite his appearance. You respond, "Oh yeah, of course you do. You always have bruises," You lead on, realizing it wouldn't lead anywhere. You change the subject.

"Want a cuppa? Coffee?" You begin to get up, swinging around to get out of bed. John finally slides out with a string of groans, finally joining you with the walk to the kitchen with a hand on your ass. You jolt, somewhat expecting it but yet surprised. "Jus' so ya' know," He leans in with a gruff whisper. With a playful giggle, you lead your sleepy husband to the kitchen.

Turning on the coffee pot and putting on the kettle for yourself, you grab the matching mugs he gifted for the holidays, setting them out and preparing his coffee how he likes it. Once it was done, you set down the ceramic onto the kitchen island where he sits at with the cup steaming hot. He smiles at you and the mug, drinking it with the temp still scolding hot. You never understood it, but that's how he liked it.

You turn to him, a little giddy as you start to brew your own cup of tea and standing across from your partner. He looks up, confused by your demeanor. "Bird?" He calls, and you respond. "Yes? You know what this weekend is right?" You ask, with an obvious imply.

He blinks, and you think maybe, he has something in his eyes. But no, you can see that he has no clue what you're talking about. You play along, maybe thinking there is a surprise waiting for you that he doesn't want to discuss. You laugh emptily. He still stares at you, confused. "Uh, not a clue bird."

Your heart breaks. How could he forget? Was it something you did? How could he possibly forget? You question, holding onto the mug with a tight fervor. Your grimace.

____________

So.... part 3?

:>

[snowneedsanap]

husband!john price x partner!reader

When you decide to get John a gift for your anniversary, the only thing that can come to mind about what to get him -- a customized initial on a new boonie hat. The one he wears when he is out doing yard work, probably cutting the grass or making the flower beds neat after the wind blew off some soil away, the ratty thing is on it's last thread. You've fixed it so many times, after he asking, "Please, it's a fav'rit." You've noticed over the years of your past marriage with him that the dark khaki has started to fade as well, and new stains and old ones adorn it. Of course, he barely washes the thing.

So, for your five year anniversary, you scroll threw online websites to find the most similar looking hat to the one he has now. You customize it to have his initials, 'JP', with a heart between your initials. Under the brim, the thread will say 'Always with you.' You add it to the cart, excited that the idea of getting him something so sentimental will bring a smile to his grumpy face.

After waiting a week for a hat, it finally arrived at your doorstep. Of course, when John comes home right at that time when the package was at the doorstep and you didn't notice.

He comes in as your are busy cooking away his favorite brisket and russet potato meal for him, smiling to both ears as he comes in. He then sets the package that you know the hat was in, looking at him like you had forgotten what you ordered. He shrugs, obviously not caring since you order packages all the time.

He sighs, sliding off his heavy gear onto the kitchen counter. John receives a glare from you as a recall to a previous discussion of, 'No Captain Price in the house', implying that all of his work should be left at the doorstep. He removes it slowly and brings it all outside.

When he returns, he comes back to encase your waist with his burly arms, He exhales into your neck, "Missed ya missus," his scratchy beard up against your soft neck comforts him so much. He gives you so many kisses, it seems he has never kissed you before. You absolutely loved your affectionate husband, and had no issues with his clinginess when he returned home.

After finishing the meal, you serve him his hearty meal, and then send him off to his shower. As you clean the kitchen, you cut open the package and inspect the boonie hat. It was perfect. You wrap it up nicely with a bow, setting it into the coat closet for your anniversary next week.

With a smile, you return to your shared bedroom, happy to have your husband home.

______________________________

something different, and comforting thought. haven't written in so long, hope it wasn't bad. part 2 for price's reaction? ...this stemmed from shopping at costco, btw.

[snowneedsanap]

Mama Mia…

happy mermay! one sturgeon soap for you <3