#hanging rods for art

[oceanlovingcommunist]

i did so much work on setting up my bedroom yesterday and it’s FINALLY feeling Mine. it feels so good

[sorryclarence]

Dallas Study Space Kids Room

Kids' study room - large contemporary gender-neutral light wood floor kids' study room idea

[rhoddys]

the holidays are nice until every day I'm going to a new social event

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping water—deeper than anything. 

In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves. 

Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines. 

“I still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,” is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older man’s garbled words. “So cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?”

Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later years—one who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast. 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled face—the glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline that’s more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. “Gets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.” Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. “Isn’t it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.”

“Don’t need my blood pumpin’ harder,” the old man grinds out, scoffing. “Gonna make my fuckin’ heart stop, Girl…” Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. “And, no, I’m not listening to the birds—they’ll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.”

Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this place—to Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe. 

It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.

You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot. 

The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a grunt—a cracking of old bones. 

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back. 

You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.

“You’ll scare away the fish with all that blabber.”

A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath. 

“I’m as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Cheeky Bird,” Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. “You’re too wild for this place, then, eh?”

“For most places,” you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. It’s only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisher’s basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples. 

Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, he’ll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harriet—older than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a bat—and then, finally, you. After that you’re back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat. 

A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter. 

Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly. 

“Hey!” Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. “Watch yourself—you’ll send me overboard!”

“Did you see that?” Your eyes dart over the water. “I think I saw a fin.” 

“You got excited over a fish?” The older man’s voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. “Hell, I got three in the basket if you’re that bloody impressed.”

“Shh,” you wave one of your hands, unblinking. “It was bigger than a fish, Otto!” 

Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.

“Lost it,” your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. “Damn.” You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. “It was strange,” you admit. “Like a deep navy color—with specs of silver along the spine.”

Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back. 

You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. “Do you know of any animal like that around here?”

“No,” Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock. 

Your brows furrow after the silence falls stiffly—the boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air was…muddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water. 

Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver. 

“...Need help?” You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always. 

There’s something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselves—and it wasn’t only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Otto’s strange behavior. The man wasn’t one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings. 

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it. 

“Don’t need any help,” he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. “M’not in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mum’s womb.”

“Feel sorry for her.” Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paint—

The fin is back. 

“Otto!” Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. “It’s back! Look!” 

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away. 

Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, “Get back!” echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears. 

“Whoa!” You’re quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook won’t slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Otto’s curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong. 

Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life again—only ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all. 

“You go back to the ocean,” Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. “Go back to the bloody hole you swam out of! There’s nothing for you here! Nothing!” 

You watch, struck dumb. 

“...Mr. Whitworth?” Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the man—utterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?

Perhaps time had caught up to him—was he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fish’s fin, nothing more, nothing less.

“Otto,” you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. “Let’s just go.” Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. “Alright…? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, it’s nothing important.”

His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, “You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.” 

Withered hand connecting with your shawl’s edge, you’re dragged back with more force than you’d anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless. 

Looking at the water, there’s nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.

—

You dare to ask when you’re pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. “I never took you for someone to believe in spirits.” The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harriet’s back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.

The man’s back over at the sink tightens. 

“You watch yourself near the waters, Girl,” Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. “By God, you watch yourself. There’s things out there—terrible things.” 

“What kinds of ‘terrible things,’ Otto?” Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life. 

What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piqued—your curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. You’d only been here a year, that wasn’t enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles. 

Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dog’s visage—worn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. He’d been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually,  this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why. 

He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, “What’s it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what I’m telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You don’t go on the water,” he blinks, face grim, “unless I’m the one ferryin’ you through it, eh? That’s the end of it. I’ll say no more.” 

Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter. 

But a fire had been lit in your breast now—a low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place. 

To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any you’d seen before. 

Blinking to look out the window of Otto’s home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that you’d always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.

—

It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpe—a tiny, unimportant dot on the map—when the way of life you’d chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. You’d picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.

One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment. 

It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water. 

Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning. 

Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enough—the call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so. 

Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder. 

“What am I doing?” You ask yourself, shaking your head. “It was just a big fish—that old man was just being paranoid, anyways.” Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. “There’s nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.” 

Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really say—what can be known are only three things: 

One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip. 

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

Your head snaps up to the sound of a man’s voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before you’re suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water. 

The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendously—a flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp. 

Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown. 

Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first place—or who was poking a head out of the water before you’d gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.

You certainly weren’t going to. 

Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirt’s collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where you’re yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as you’re heaved to the rocky shore moments later.

Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly follows—all spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air can’t come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined. 

Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesn’t take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.

But there’s nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths. 

Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge. 

Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before it’s grasped from below and suddenly plucked—vanishing without a single trace.

—

The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and it’s not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still can’t stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat. 

Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after you’d stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal. 

There had been a man. 

The sensation of hands around your waist—the gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as you’d turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds. 

Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustache…square jaw…

“What in God’s name?” You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. “That isn’t possible.” 

Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; there’d be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and pallets—bottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks. 

There are paintings in the tens—in the twenties—hanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, it’s only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work. 

There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows what’s under that thin surface? Well…apparently, it wasn’t human. 

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin. 

The thing in the water wasn’t… unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose sat—full cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique. 

Spiney, nearly—four thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a ‘U’ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of being—for show in it…his?...species. 

Could you even assign it a human gender? 

You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. “What in the hell is going on?” Your voice is scratchy and low. 

Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldn’t be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings. 

Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace. 

“What has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?” 

More importantly…you had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.

With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet. 

But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus. 

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then. 

—

There was no question if you’d gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the ocean—the evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth. 

Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. You’re bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.

The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadn’t stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city. 

You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friends—at the very least acquaintances. But before long, you’re at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.

The library.

Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences he’d called out on the docks that day—You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.

Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answer—there had to be something about this person, ‘Eleanor,’ in them, right?

If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first hand…you’d rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first. 

Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.

“Oh,” the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. “Hello, Dear,” she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. “My, you look a bit under the weather, don’t you? Would you like me to get some tea going…?”

“No, thank you,” you wave an easy hand. “I’m here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.”

“Records?” The woman’s face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. “What kind were you thinking, then?”

After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. “Births and work records? Addresses?” You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. “I guess I don’t know…anything that might help me?”

The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. “How about you tell me what it is you’re looking into, and I’ll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. We’ll work together, then.” 

Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. “Deal.”

“Go on then,” she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. “Occupation I can start with, Dear?”

“Well…” you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. “No, unfortunately. Only a first name.”

“You’re lucky Redthorpe is small,” the woman laughs. “Otherwise I would have told you you’re lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.” 

“Eleanor,” you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled ‘1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpe’. “E-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least that’s the common spelling, I believe.” 

The librarian’s body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, you’re reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face. 

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. “There hasn’t been an Eleanor in Redthrope. You’re mistaken.” 

“Wait,” you follow, stuttering. “I don’t understand, there has to have been—Otto was talking about her not days ago!”

“You’re mistaken,” is the repeated, firm answer, the librarian’s body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. “Go back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that aren’t there. Don’t take what he says to heart—”

“I saw it!” You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadn’t formed a relationship with the people of this town. 

The woman’s mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expression…fear?

She backs up slowly. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dear.”

Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. “I’m done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!” Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what you’re telling her aside as she struggles to string words. 

“It…it wouldn’t do that—that’s not how it acts. You’re just imagining things; you’re under the weather!”

“Who’s Eleanor?” You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. “And what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?”

Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarian’s lips move up and down in a panic. 

“I…” she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. “I can’t talk about it. It’s not something to be said out loud—especially so close to the water.” 

You bark incredulously, “There’s a bloody monster that lives down in—!”

A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body. 

“Shh!” The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. “Stop it or you’ll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!” You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. It’s a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. “Do you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear. 

She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, “If you’ve already seen it, it wants you. Don’t go back to the water,” before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock. 

Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distress—this had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers. 

“Careful, then.”

You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coat’s collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.

—

Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.

No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could do—could speculate—before the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided. 

Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. It’s a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until you’re bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, there’s a point where a woman’s courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day. 

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where you’d been previously. 

“Don’t look at the water,” you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isn’t going to topple this way or that. “Don’t even think about it.”

But that tail…that face…

With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on. 

The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpe—dreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didn’t mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than you’d like to admit. 

The heat of protection, so to speak.

“Even a fish-man can die, I’d wager,” you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. “If I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,” you sneeze, shuddering, “if he even bleeds? If I crack his head open…will blood seep out, or salt water?” 

You shiver, and it’s not from the cold. “Fucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, don’t you.”

Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where you’d fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting there…but also your shawl. 

Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail. 

You aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.

Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.

“Grab it and run,” your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rain—the storm—would render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so. 

Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath. 

Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due to…your eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.

“Fingerprints?” 

Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do now—and, yet, there wasn’t an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared. 

Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting. 

Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running. 

He’d been going through your drawings—he’d somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.

Did he like them?

Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasn’t too important. 

Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelp…was it just under where you now study the waves?

So many questions, so few answers. 

You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. There’s magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.

“Thank you!” Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree. 

The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face. 

“Truly,” you shout to the wind. “You have no idea how much this means! If you’re listening, I’d like to extend my gratitude…” Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. “My artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!” 

A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldn’t drag you to the bottom of the ocean…right? 

Hell, he’d already had a chance to do that—a perfect one—and yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.

Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking. 

“You’re good at it,” you halt in a fraction of a second. “The images. Where’d you learn to do that?”

It’s a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.

A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.

Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shoulders—broad, of course—and the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before they’re gone again. 

“I…” you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. “I was self-taught, Sir.” 

Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and you’re near bursting with questions. 

But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.

“You pulled me from the water,” you state slowly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laugh—perhaps it was strange to him.

You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory. 

“I scared you,” he grumbles, sighing. “It wasn’t my intention to send you over.” Eyes still stay stuck. “My own fault.”

“I won’t deny you there,” you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thing’s eyes, and he hums. “Forgive me,” your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. “But I haven’t the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.”

“John,” is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesn’t waste his breath, seems. 

“John?” You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. I’ve met more than enough ‘Johns’ so far.”

“Funny, are you?” The response, however dry, is tinged with something you can’t name. 

“I try,” you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. “Just didn’t expect a man with a fishtail to act so….human. Certainly not be named like one, either.”

“Hm,” John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind. 

It wasn’t out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse. 

What would it feel like to touch it?

“You live here?” Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. “Right below the cliffs?” 

“You’re the woman that goes out in the boat,” John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback. 

“Yes, that’s me.” You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. “Otto goes fishing in the mornings—I like to sketch the shore. He isn’t the worst company, of course. He’s kind enough to let me along with him.”

But you won’t be kept down. There’s magical curiosity in your chest now.

“Your tail,” you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. John’s eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. “Forgive me, Sir, but I must know,” your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. “Is it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

John can’t find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You were…different, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old man’s boat—looking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes. 

The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated over—the skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.

He doesn't know why he’s speaking to you, truly. He’d done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesn’t dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldn’t leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as that—a woman of all things? A human one? 

Blue eyes can’t seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.

“No.” You blink, pulling back a smidge when John’s voice is low and graited. “Go back to your home. It’s late.”

“Hey, wait—!”

But he’s already gone under the waves, and you’re left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.

You stay there far longer than you’d like to admit.

—

You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and still…you were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting. 

In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snails—you had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a man’s face peeking above the water. 

Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasn’t any wind in here—and you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didn’t know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didn’t erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. 

Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.

You turn in a half-circle. 

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing. 

Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and weary—shaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.

When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child. 

Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until you’re inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty. 

“What are you doing in here…?” You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces. 

Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, it’s as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.

Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water. 

You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently. 

“One day you’re going to make me keel over,” your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his. 

“A thief as well as an artist?” John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coat’s pocket, glaring lightly. “You left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.”

As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before you’re left breathless. 

Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tail—that was something you could never describe. 

The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You can’t see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the water…but even this was enough for now.

This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity. 

It’s only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.

Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The being’s beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes. 

“If someone’s avoiding you, Sunshine,” he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. “They usually don’t want to have a conversation.”

“I think it’s fair,” you huff. “You can’t just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.”

John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was so…stoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusement—even annoyed interest. 

“I don’t have time to fuckin’ entertain others,” he thins his lips. 

Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. “And what else is so much more important, then?” You raise a brow. “Scaring other women into the water?”

He huffs under his breath. “It was an accident—wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so jumpy, eh?” 

“It’s not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,” you defend. 

“Mer-man, Love,” he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.

“Well,” you chuckle. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

An emotionless glare is all you receive. 

It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiry—what does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?

You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations. 

A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; John’s hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone. 

“And the rings?” You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. “Do you find them out there? Keep them?”

John tilts his head in an affirmation. “Shipwrecks. There’ll be hundreds of them—I’m not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.” He sighs. “Seemed a waste to leave them down there.”

You huff a sound of amusement. “I see. Fascinating.”

In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when you’d first entered. 

You blink. “You live here?”

“Affirmative,” John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours. 

Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. John’s face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.

“And…” you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. “If I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?” 

There’s a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face. 

The man was anything but small—everything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. You’d never imagined that you’d find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than you’d care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

“I’ll be here,” John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.

Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.

“...Okay.”

—

And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fear—nor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got. 

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks. 

The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might be—what correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didn’t have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself. 

Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the merman’s rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, John’s face tightens as his eyelids narrow. You’d been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, John’s ears hadn’t twitched to it. 

He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dull—he knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns. 

He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you don’t look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.

“You’re quiet today,” he starts, frowning. 

Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at John’s face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, and the man’s face pulls. “You can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Love, yeah?” John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” your lips mumble, and you shake your head. “It’s one of my questions again.” You pause, closing your book. “A difficult one.”

John’s lips flicker. “Well, we’ve been at this for ages. Can’t see how this one is more difficult than the others.” He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like this—having you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest. 

John hums and swallows stiffly.

“Why not?” His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. “Something going on up there?”

Up there. 

The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.

“More so in here,” you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot. 

“Then speak to me,” John frowns, trying a low smirk. “Think we both know I’m a good listener then, Love. There’s time,” he glances at the entrance. “Won’t be near dark for a few more hours—don’t want you climbing at night.”

“Awe,” you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.

Not yet. 

“Hurry up, Sunshine,” John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy. 

There’s a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simply—so near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted. 

Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, “You’re going to get cold.” 

“It’s not as cold here as it is out there,” you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. “Besides, I’m right next to you—you’ll keep me warm, won’t you, John?”

“Fucking hell,” he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet. 

You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of John’s tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch John’s left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks. 

“There’s a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,” you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. “Eleanor.” 

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

“And for some reason,” you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. “Everyone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I don’t know if she’s missing, or…”

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

Not noticing any chance on John’s face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. “Hey, are you alright?” Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.” Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. “I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were some murderous creature,” you shrug, “I don’t think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.” Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” the man huffs, quirking a brow. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Knew it,” you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.

John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. “Gettin’ cheeky, are you?” 

If you were a bird, you’d be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps, John.” 

It is a wonder, then, that the two of you don’t lock lips that very instant—long fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, John’s head is already moving back and his spine is straight. 

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull. 

“I knew of a woman named Eleanor—she would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.” Dark brows tighten. “Found her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.” Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. “Interesting that I’d be roped into it, but it’s understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?” 

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper. “That must have been horrible.”

Blue slips over to you silently, and it’s a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly. 

“Scared me when you fell in.” Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.

“Well,” you lean into him, face on fire, “it was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.” 

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

“Oh, very,” you joke. “The tail is a bonus.” Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. “Since when did you know that navy is my favorite color?”

The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way John’s fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin. 

“Bugger off,” he grunts. 

You’ve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.

—

Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact. 

John’s appearance in your work had started small—a glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the water—and had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought. 

Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didn’t was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the ‘strange fish-man’ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks. 

By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarian—

The bell of your shop dings.

Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy. 

“How can I help you today, Sir?” Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, there’s the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch. 

“I’m here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.” He’s well-spoken as well, and you’re shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpe—he doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Of course,” you nod, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I think I missed your name.”

“Noah Moore,” is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. “My neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.”

Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasn’t that Eleanor’s husband?

“Thank you,” your lips move, thinning. “That’s very high praise, Mr. Moore.” 

“This creature,” Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. “The man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?”

Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way he’s trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isn’t right.

“Seen him?” Chuckles echo off the walls. “Who? The beast? No, Sir, that…thing…is just something I made up.” You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. “Oh my, clumsy me.” you laugh stiffly. “Apologies, Sir, but that’s the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.”

Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely. 

“Ah,” he huffs, “of course. It was silly of me to ask.” Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. “Though,” Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer. 

Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and there’s a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. He’d find you—you know he would.

“Though,” Noah continues, tilting his head. “There is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wife’s body was found at the rocks.” 

Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs. 

“As far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,” he hums, “you weren’t even here.”

Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. It’s why they’re so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left her—they saw him bring her body to shore.

It’s a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure. 

“John would never kill an innocent woman!” 

It’s as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, there’s a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noah’s wrist, clawing until there’s blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, there’s wild screaming, and you can’t tell if it’s the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear. 

Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noah’s hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you can’t as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side table—searching fruitlessly. 

“John?” Noah sneers, holding tighter. “The thing has a name?”

Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinct—breaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.

“It was perfect,” Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. “I had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!” 

Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anything—anything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You can’t even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision. 

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

“Two years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?”

Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noah’s head. 

Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping. 

Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead. 

Running, you don’t know how to stop, and it’s even harder to catch your breath by the time you’re down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasn’t—but the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of John’s cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.

There’s a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hear—whipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking. 

“Love!”

Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue that’s a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck. 

Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.

“Hey,” John breathes, having dragged himself at a moment’s notice across the floor of the cave. “Hey,” he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury. 

His hand is outstretched, but he doesn’t try to touch you again seeing how you’d jerked away. The man’s heart had stopped at that—his concern shooting up similar to how he felt when you’d raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.

But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.

“What is going on,” he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. There’s only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant. 

Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is John’s outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jaw—the eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.

Openly gazing, when John sees you’re back, his blues slip to a softened caress. 

“Love,” he mutters, face tight. 

You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang. 

“Shh,” John breathes, knowing that he’d get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. “I’m right here, Sunshine. Breathe, then…I’m right here, yeah?” 

His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fish—no air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.

John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.

You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm. 

Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth. 

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

When it became apparent you couldn’t speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool.  

Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks. 

“Careful,” John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. “Let me get it, eh?”

Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate. 

“I’m not glass,” you croak, one hand near your throat. 

Blue eyes blink at you. “Never said you were,” he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adam’s Apple bob. “Don’t like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.”

Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, “And stop talking—you’ll make it worse.” 

You hadn’t explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time you’d been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.

The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you weren’t blind. 

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat. 

He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment. 

“...Can I?” You pause, swallowing as the burn persists. 

Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefully—not tightening, not holding you there—resting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose. 

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

“Easy,” John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. “When you’re ready, explain it to me, eh?” His head tilts, voice a low tease. “Glass or not.” 

Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, “Quietly, now. Can hear just fine—don’t push yourself.” 

Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back. 

All you say is one name. 

“Noah.” 

There’s a moment of confusion on John’s face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftly—he wasn’t a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. It’s of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog. 

A dog with scales, that is.

Your body is still running hot—your heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. You’re tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again. 

When you shift your body, the man’s eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.

A noise exits the back of his throat, and John’s mouth moves in serious question. “What are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at you—”

Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck. 

You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a merman’s tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. John’s chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.

You both say nothing, and it’s a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.

—

When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch you’d strung together in the meantime.

You fiddle with one of John’s rings—the emerald one—as you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.

“I think he killed his wife.” 

By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.

“Hm,” is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.

He shakes his head, growling out, “You’re not going back up there. Not while he’s still walking the streets.”

You frown, but John glares without any venom. “It wasn’t a question, Love.”

“What will you do,” you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. “Run after me, John?”

The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. “If I have to.”

Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as John’s fingers once again continue their touching—as if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins. 

“You don’t have legs,” you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply. 

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

His face is immobile. “Then I’ll bleed.”

Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expression—the pull of the crow’s feet beside his eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of a joke in John’s eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low. 

The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.

John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green. 

“Keep it,” he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. “More of a use to you.” 

Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you. 

John shrugs. “The rest of ‘em, too, if you want the damn things.” His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things he’d seen from far distant waters. 

Oh, but they’d pale in comparison to how you would wear them. 

A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait. 

A women to the water.

He’d seen your latest sketches—you’d brought them down to him here—and when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. He’d not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as he’d listened to you explain it. You’d told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.

You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciation—a voiceless devotion. He’d never been…captured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didn’t even know himself, and yet there they were. 

Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that he’d all but forgotten about, the list was endless. 

But he looks at you now, and he can understand why there’s a draw to immortalize the mortal. 

His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. There’s little air to be taken in between the two of you. 

“John,” you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips. 

He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you don’t want to fight it, you don’t want to think about the strangeness of this predicament you’ve found yourself in—a creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.

When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself. 

Head snapping up, John’s body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, it’s not long before you realize what’s going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse. 

The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls. 

“John,” you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. “You need to run,” you choke out. “Go! Quickly!”

You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows it’s fruitless. He won’t leave you here alone.

“They’ll kill you!” Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will. 

“Stay under me,” John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows there’s little that he’d be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones he’d yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a ship—a spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter. 

There was a sharp feeling in John’s chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment he’d seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers. 

He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was. 

“John!” You try to bark again, growing desperate. 

Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadn’t shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell.  They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.

Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something you’d keep for a home invasion beside the bed—the Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story. 

He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves. 

Half of Mr. Moore’s face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the ground—skin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup. 

You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and John’s glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him. 

“There!” Noah shouts, balking closer. “See! I knew it was here—seducing the next woman to take to the ocean!” 

Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. John’s face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noah’s visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the merman’s waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go. 

“Girl!” Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, you’re not sure you would. You wouldn’t even know what to say. “Get away from it!”

“I’d put that down,” John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. “‘Fore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.”

“Otto,” you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in question’s face pulls, wrinkles thinning. “You have to listen to me, please, it’s not how Mr. Moore told you—”

“It speaks!” Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. “Freak of nature, it already has its hold on her.”

“Oh my,” the Librarian gasps. “Noah, it’s horrible—look at the tail.”

Your eyes flare with rage as John doesn’t react.

“Hey!” You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but you’re already pushing until you’re on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.

“You watch your bloody mouth,” you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.

 Steady. Keep your head on.

Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.

Your eyes glint. “Drop your weapons,” your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. “Leave. John is innocent—he told me all of it.” You turn to Otto. “Mr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.” Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers. 

“Noah killed Eleanor,” you breathe, John’s grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls. 

“Absurd—!”

“He pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,” you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. “You all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.”

It didn’t surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dull—he never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.

Hands whipping to snare around the merman’s shoulders, you’re only able to get a quick breath in before you’re completely enveloped in water, with John’s hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine. 

You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noah’s muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Otto—held at his sides. There’s a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then John’s fins hide the rest as they slash through the water. 

When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the side—always having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below. 

“Lier!” Noah screams, face contorted. “She’s lying!”

You look at Otto and see the grim way he’s already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian did—believe a woman who’d been here a year or someone they’d known nearly their entire lives.

“Noah,” Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. “Breathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speak—”

The knife in Noah’s hands slashes the air, and suddenly there’s a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood. 

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching. 

The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate. 

“Don’t move,” he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. “Keep still. Focus on my words, Love.” Under his breath is a tight, “Fuck!”

John speaks above the gargling—the spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes. 

“Don’t look,” John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The sounds…oh, the sounds were horrible. 

But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.

Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.

“That’s it,” John’s fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “That’s it, then. Doing good, don’t move until I say so, alright?”

When you don’t answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You don’t have to say you know him to understand that he’s only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.

Otto was dead.

John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil. 

John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.

“Hey, hey, you hear me?” John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smile—a flash nothing more. “There she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; don’t look until I say so.” Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead. 

The man that brought you out on his boat—the man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you can’t stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood. 

“There’s nothing out here that can hurt you,” John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. “So long as I’m here, I won’t let it.” 

He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears. 

Noah is still screaming, but now it’s for help.

John’s voice lowers as he utters, “Hey,” the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes. 

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss that’s leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, John’s already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film. 

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice. 

The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck.��

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple. 

Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarian—attacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, he’d walked into the sea and had taken his own life. 

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it. 

You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as he’d named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, he’d been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth. 

Harriet stays in the shop with you, where she’ll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. She’s quite fond of the fireplace. 

Most days, people find you near the water, and it’s something that wasn’t going to change even after Noah’s body was found in the rocks—freakishly close to where Eleanor’s had been. Some were calling it poetic and you’d have to agree…but for different reasons.

“You shouldn’t be giving me all of these,” you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of John’s trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.

John’s lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer. 

“Want to,” he grumbles. 

Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the man’s scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicated—lifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below. 

Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. He’d let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his life—the softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well. 

Shivering, John’s breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.

Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to ‘paint’ him, he’d allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distraction….but because he can’t bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.

“Where do you come from, John,” your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull. 

That near kiss.

“No answer, Love.” You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. “I won’t be going back to distant waters anytime soon.”

John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Unique—made for one another despite the obvious. 

He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.

“Getting water on you, Love,” he breathes. “New painting soon?” John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isn’t sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind now—instinct.

“Mhm,” you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. “I think I’ll make this one a portrait.”

John blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Portrait? Why’s that?” 

Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant. 

For a second, the man’s surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.

“I have a subject that’s caught my eye.” You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on. 

“And I’d be a fool if I let him swim off.”

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

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

[cutetanuki-chan]

wanna compile all arts on marcanne mermaid au 

story:

Marcy's a mermaid, and Anne lives in the town near the sea, they met when they're kids and Anne was fishing with her dad near the shore, while he went away for a bit something caught on the fishing rod, Anne tried to pull it out but it was too heavy so she peaked underwater and saw Marcy

that's when her father came back, so Anne pretended that she drooped the fishing rod into the sea, she got scolded for it cause it was a pretty expensive one, but later that evening Marcy came to give it back while Anne was sitting sulking on the docks

so they started hanging out after that, Anne tried to explain that's dangerous to swim around here since there's a lot of fishermens, she showed her one underwater cave not so far away from her home and Marcy snuggled there Marcy can turn into a human but only with a potion, and one of the ingredients for it grows only in one place near Anne's town, but the other in deepwaters, so from time to time Marcy had to swim away for some days to get it, she always brings a lot of pretty stuff she found in the sea to Anne

also if too much water gets on her feet she'll turn back to mermaid again, and potion isn't permanent, just for a several days

Anne works as a delivery guy, riding around the town on her scooter, delivers her parent's stuff and Plantars’ and whatever town's folks might ask

Marcy and Anne dating now, but only Anne and Sprig(maybe Polly too) knows Marcy's a mermaid, nobody from the town has no idea (Mr and Mrs B knows too but Anne doesn't know that)

one day mayor of the town strikes a pretty good deal with one company to build one of their branches in the town, and together with this Waybrights who works for this company come to live to town

but construction means that some of the plants that Marcy needs for the potion might get destroyed and who knows, maybe with time water near the town won't be as clean as before

[samimarkart]

In preparation of my show in July I am trying to raise some funds for the “finishing” side of my art process - buying dowel rods and fabric for hanging sleeves for my quilts, administrative things like printing more business cards and similar expenses. I am really excited for this opportunity but the reality as an emerging artist is that I probably won’t earn back much money from the pieces in the show. If you’ve ever had your eye on something I made this would be a really great chance to support me monetarily! I will list places you can find my art below and if you have the means to purchase something, thank you in advance!

Available originals

Etsy

Print shop

Wallpaper download

[yawnderu]

Attention — Keegan P. Russ x Fem!OC

Using my queens @moosch's OC Nameless for a trade we made! Go check out her amazing drawing of K-9 as an OC and her art<3

Life works in mysterious ways. One day you're helping kill 500 enemies with your bare hands alongside your comrades, and the next one, you're cuddling up to a tiny brat rescued from no man's land 3 years ago.

Keegan's hold tightened on her, hand running gently up and down on her back as she returned the favor, a much smaller hand tracing lazy circles on his back while they laid next to each other. It was one of the few moments of peace they could get, both as touch starved as they come and with a need to keep someone close.

His mind was blank for once, void of all the gunfire and images of the devastating non-stop war, simply focusing on what another person's warmth felt for once. His lips lightly touched her forehead as his eyes closed, taking a deep breath and holding onto her like a lifeline, making sure not to hurt her. It doesn't take long for Keegan to fall asleep, relaxation taking over his body before he realizes it.

He wakes up to an empty bed, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the realization that Nameless is no longer by his side. He gets out of bed hesitantly, stomach rumbling as he makes his way to the kitchen. A small smirk tugs on his lips as he sees Nameless struggle to get something out of the cabinet, approaching her before anyone else does.

''Hey there, little one... need help with getting this from the top shelf?'' She tenses up when his warm, big hand makes contact with her head, hesitantly turning around to look up at him. All he can do is offer him a smile so kind and nice that instantly makes red flags go off in her head, though she gives him the benefit of the doubt.

Keegan grabs the box she was trying to get, holding it close to her before pulling it out of her reach when she tries to grab it. His smirk grows wider when he sees the expression on her face, a slight grimace mixed in with frustration at his annoying behavior. He only relents once he sees the frown on her face as she she's about to turn around and go tell Elias he's bothering her again.

''Wait.'' The bastard was clearly holding back his laughter at the fuming expression on her face, a few chuckles managing to escape out of his lips even when he was trying not to.

''Here.'' He offered her the box and this time— despite the temptation— didn't pull it away. He noticed the fishing rod hanging over her shoulder and the stare she gave him for a few seconds before grabbing the box. He simply nodded his head, starting to get ready himself, a rifle thrown over his shoulder. What kind of man would he be if he's not there to protect the young girl? Bullshit, he just enjoys being annoying.

He grabbed a book on the way out, knowing he'd just let her fish in peace while he's keeping watch, making sure no enemies sneak on them despite the area being relatively safe.

''Let's go.'' She follows after him, staying quiet the entire walk and simply looking everywhere around her. The area was surrounded by nature, enough to give them privacy and cover in case anything goes down. They make their way to a lake Nameless found on one of her many expeditions, Keegan sitting down near the shoreline as he watches her remove her shoes, soaking her feet in the water.

''A young girl walked to the witness stand.'' He began reading, her attention now on him as she tilted her head, looking at the book he was reading. To Kill A Mockingbird.

''As she raised her hand and swore that the evidence she gave would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help her God, she seemed somehow fragile-looking,'' He looked at her with a small smirk, making her roll her eyes and a small chuckle to leave his lips as she got knees-deep into the water, trying to find fish she could miraculously catch with her hands.

''but when she sat facing us in the witness chair she became what she was, a thick-bodied girl accustomed to strenuous labor.'' There's a small smile on his face as he reads to her, voice deep and leveled to make it more pleasant.

''In Maycomb County, it was easy to tell when someone bathed regularly, as opposed to yearly—'' He's interrupted by water splashing, baby blue eyes looking up just to see her holding a big carp in her hands, a bright smile on her face as she looked at it as proud as one could be.

''Attagirl!'' He put the book away, leaning closer to ruffle her hair despite her silent protest, a smile on his face matching hers. Not even Keegan being annoying on purpose could ruin her happiness at catching the damn thing on accident.

''C'mon, I'll cook it. Think you can catch another one?'' Keegan's annoying smirk was all the motivation she needed to take the challenge.

[444rockstargf]

reqs still open 👀? i want 2 req somno with jack :3 but specifically him waking you up with his cock in your mouth !!

thank you both for the jack requests! i decided to merge the two because they kinda went with each other :))

"talking in my sleep again." | jack thurlow

in my feelings. - lana del rey

✮⋆˙ [tags] @faesucksass @lustkillers @angelsanarchy @mayathepsychic1999 @josibunn @livingdead-materialgirl@romanroyapoligist @oliviah-25@si1nful-symph0ny @auggiethecreator @vanlisbon@livingdead-reilly @imoonkiss @lankysimp @nom-nommmm1 @xxbl00d-cl0txx @k1ll3rh0rr0r @wildathevrt @mommymilkers0526 @greenxgloss @wild-rose-35 @areuirish

female!reader x reader

word count: 929

contents: somnophilia, blowjob, cum eating, jack is an incubus, cnc

incubus!jack thurlow who decides to drop by on a lonely night…

the truth was, you were partially at fault for keeping your window open just a crack on all the nights you couldn’t bring enough pleasure to yourself. but his visits were the one thing you could consistently look forward to.

you fiddled with a lock of your hair as you glanced at the clock. it flickered 1:32am in neon red printing. you sighed deeply, rolling over as your purposefully short nightgown clung to your figure.

you didn’t consider yourself to be desperate, but what could a girl do? jack had spoiled you by waking you up to the feeling of his vast rod pumping in and out of you while you were simply too tired to fight. your clit throbbed as you envisioned him in his usual attire: fingers adorned with metallic rings, hair slicked back in a tight bun with a few rogue strands hanging free, and his body clothed in nothing but a pair of jeans that gave you a peek into heaven.

you were tangled up in your sheets, picturing how pretty you’d look in his arms, clinging to his heavily muscled biceps as he claimed you and treated you like the whore he always knew you were.

your heavy-lidded eyes fluttered shut, catching one last glimpse of the flowy curtains that framed the window, jack’s choice. you fell asleep with your hand clasped around the inside of your thigh, trying to calm the pounding sensation in your core. you drifted off, waiting patiently for his arrival.

your beau made his grand appearance shortly after, standing right in front of your bed with his imprint pressed against the jeans that rode dangerously low on his hips. he gazed at you through his eyelashes, reaching a hand forward to gently caress your cold cheek. “couldn’t wait up for me, my angel?” he cooed, using his thumbs to part your lips.

he knelt down next to you, pulling the blanket off of your body and drinking in the sight of you. you looked so ethereal, like a piece of art the no one would dare to touch with their bare hands. your nightgown, the white silk giving you a pale glow, giving him a view of your erect nipples and trembling hands. he loved the way he had inched himself into your mind like this.

he got back to his feet, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he slowly began to palm himself through his jeans. seeing you in this position of purity only fueled his desire to destroy you and at this moment, he just couldn’t resist. 

he whipped his cock out of his pants, giving it a few lazy strokes as short gasps slipped from his lips, eyes locked on you with that lust-filled haze as he touched himself to the sight of you. he brought his tip to your lips, tracing small circles onto them and watching the way your body repsonded to it.

your hot breath hit him on a sensitive area, making him swallow a groan. the last thing he wanted to do was wake you up. he grabbed the back of your head with one hand, using the other to open your jaw just enough to let his wide girth slip in.

he pushed in one inch, then two, until the bulge in your throat ran all the way down to your collarbone. he stayed still for a moment, making sure you could readjust and were able to breath through your nose. once he got the green light, a malicious grin lit up his face.

with a strained grunt, he positioned himself in a way that made your tongue rub against the underside of his cock. he slowly began thrusting his hips, feeling himself throb inside of you. your throat was warm and soft, just like a good dream.

he wrapped his hand around your hair, groaning lowly as he fucked your throat, his balls slapping against your chin as spit and precum bubbled from it. you were already making such a mess, your bedsheets getting sticky as he pushed himself into you, a gag erupting from your throat.

he tossed his head back, hissing as your teeth scratched along him. precum dripped down your throat and you slowly started to regain your consciousness. jack was fucking you aggressively now, using you as a toy that could be summoned upon to bring him pleasure.

his hands firmly gripped your head, your throat bruising as his lustful moans echoed throughout the room. before you knew it, his molten hot cum you cascading down your esophagus, all the way down to your stomach. you broke into a coughing fit, finally letting him know that you were awake. 

his thrusts became sloppier as his deep groans turned into shaky whimpers, his cum pouring down his legs as he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you. then he met your doe eyes looking up at him, mouth stuffed with his cock as cum leaked from the corners of your mouth.

he pulled out, panting like a starved dog as he shoved his cock back into his pants and tucked it away. you spat out a few bubbles of cum, sitting up and meeting the grin on his face. “rise and shine, angel. just thought i’d drop by to say hello.”

he gave you a pat on the cheek, kissing you sloppily before fading away, leaving you desperate and alone until the next time he decides to visit.

author's note: in my lust for life era.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥'𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Diamonds and glamour, fancy gifts and galas — all superficial and superfluous when you had him at your every whim and him at yours, it’s how you learnt diamonds weren’t as superior as you had first thought.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✦ Mafia!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✦ 2.3k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✦ Angry!Bucky (not at reader), tension ჻჻჻ SMUT: Thigh riding, choking ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, daddy, dumbification

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✦ My first bingo fill and I have no idea what came over me, but this is... a lot — If anyone wants to yell at me, I will be at church in a confessional booth ✌🏻

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ✦ 7 rings by Ariana Grande

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✦ @allcapsbingo 𝗜𝟭 — Mafia AU — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The halls of Bucky’s home were vast with floor to ceiling works of art hung on burgundy walls, soft lighting that led to the open living, dining, and kitchen - each space as luxurious as the last. Your bare feet padded softly against the dark herringbone floor until you reached the kitchen, where black and gold marble countertops shone under downlights.

Soft voices were coming from the double doors to the left of the living room, too low to make out but the tone was clear; business, not pleasure. The soft whirr of the coffee machine drew your attention from the expansive view, and you smiled as you grabbed your favourite mug from the top cupboard, the fabric of Bucky’s shirt riding up your bare thigh with the stretch. 

“You know what-” A smash of glass echoed from the closed doors and you startled. “I fucking told you to keep your fucking nose clean!”

“Oh, boy,” you murmured. Bucky was angry, but at who–your endless guesses may not even come close, he had many men under his command being at the head of the mafia empire he built from the ashes. 

Abandoning your mug of steaming coffee, you tiptoed to the door and pressed your ear to the cold wood. There were shuffling sounds, a hiss of annoyance, and a grumbling voice that sounded like Steve. Bucky spoke up again, this time his tone measured and tense. “When I tell you to do something, I mean it. I am fucking sick of cleaning up after you two.”

“Yes, boss,” another voice spoke, almost too softly to make out.

“Fuck it,” you whispered, glancing up and down your body. “They’ve seen worse.” 

The door opened smoothly and you peeked inside. Sam was by the door, his posture screaming ‘fuck around and find out’, and Steve was pacing behind the two seats where two men sat, straight backed and tense like a rod had been shoved up their ass. 

And to be fair, having an angry mafia boss targeting his considerably controlled rage at you - that would make anyone shit bricks. 

“Not now,” a voice whispered and you looked at the source to find Sam staring at you from the corner of his eyes. “Later.”

You nodded once and backed away from the door when Bucky’s voice suddenly piped up, hostility null and void. “Hey, baby, c’mere.” The door opened further, and you looked inside properly, still hanging back in the doorway - just in case. “I missed you,” Bucky breathed, the honeyed sound of his voice your calling card, and without thinking you stepped into his office where every eye landed on you. 

The diamond necklace that Bucky had gifted you was cold between your fingers when you fiddled with it, a calming presence in a much too heated environment. It was a nervous tic that Bucky had known, and picked up on very quickly.

Bucky’s seat scooted back on the wooden floor, and he pointed to his lap. “C’mere, sit down.”

Silence pressed against your eardrums while you moved around his desk and sat on his thigh, the corded muscle straining against the black fabric of his slacks. Once settled, you leant against his chest and rested your head in the crook of his neck, facing forward to look at the two men staring in absolute shock at you. 

A cold hand rested on the small of your back and Bucky’s chest rumbled under your ear when he spoke. “Good girl.”

You shivered, but not from the sudden cold of his prosthesis. 

“Now,” Bucky began lowly, a dangerous undertone to his authoritative voice. “Where were we?”

The men spoke and you tuned it out, preferring to stare with curiosity at the seated men while they spoke, studying their faces that were twisted in distress at was evidently one hell of a fuck up. 

The one on the right was built like a bear with dark blond hair down to his ears and a neat beard, he was staring pointedly at Bucky with unwavering conviction and determination to right his wrongs. Beside him sat a man that looked smaller but not by much, his hair was dark like Bucky’s though he had strands falling over his forehead. The nonplussed expression and relaxed features of his face came as a surprise. 

You shifted to get more comfortable and gasped, the sudden change of pressure against your clothed heat on Bucky’s thigh taking you by surprise. “Easy, kitten,” Bucky drawled, loud enough for the room of men to hear and you whined low in your throat - a sudden need to move consumed you and set your body alight. “Be a good girl for daddy.”

“M’kay,” you whispered, settling down with a huff. This was business, not pleasure, you reminded yourself. Bucky’s left hand suddenly cupped your ass and you whimpered when he squeezed once, twice, three times before he relaxed his hold. 

“Behave,” Bucky purred, quiet enough for only you to hear. “And I’ll give you a treat.” 

They continued talking for a while - Bucky’s hand moving up and down your back as they discussed deals and partnerships. You focused on Bucky’s voice, still clipped and tense, though you sitting in his lap seemed to abate the worst of his anger. He hated having you witness his violent bouts of rage, especially at the incompetence of his men at their worst moments.

“I expect this to be fixed before the end of the day,” Bucky snapped, his arm momentarily tightening around you. In an act to soothe him, you placed an open palm against his chest and shifted even closer so your knee was on the edge of his seat and closer to his crotch. 

“You got it, boss,” the dark-haired man said, saluting.

Bucky snarled, a low growl building in his throat and you tensed. “Hal, quit the-”

“We’ll take our leave now, boss,” the blond interrupted, sending a sharp glare at his partner, who shrugged lightly and the two rose. 

“Ari, I expect a phone call no later than sun down with the news that this fucking mess is fixed,” Bucky called, his cold hand creeping up your back while his tattooed hand pointed right at Ari, his pinky ring shining in the light of the sun from the window behind him. “Do you understand?” Ari nodded and pulled Hal from the room and Sam finally moved, a nod of his head and moving to stalk after Hal and Ari to escort them out. 

“Stevie,” Bucky asked, looking at his most trusted man, his voice rumbling in his chest. “That deal that they fucked up, make sure they actually fucking fix it. I don’t want another loss or it’s their heads.”

“Got it, Buck,” Steve answered. He smiled at you softly and strode from the room, closing the door with a click behind him.

The chair holding the two of you scooted back even further and Bucky’s hands, one warm and tattooed, the other metal and cool, moved down the back of both your thighs and dug in. “C’mere,” he murmured. You squeaked in shock when he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips. “You behaved for me there, what’s goin’ on with you, hmm?”

Your breath hitched at his lowered octave, his accent shining through with the heady tone of his voice. Entirely unbidden, your cunt clenched with want when he lowered you both onto the couch against the far wall by the fireplace - it wasn’t your fault when he showed off his strength that it awoke something within you. You were straddling one of his thick thighs now, and you exercised every last slither of self-control not to sit down, not before you were told to.

“Wanted to be good for you-”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Bucky interrupted. His right hand cupped your jaw and he ran his thumb over your bottom lip, his cerulean eyes blown and eclipsed with lust. You opened your mouth and swirled your tongue around his thumb like it was the head of his cock. “You wanted to behave for daddy?”

You moaned and nodded, not breaking eye contact as you sucked at his thumb hard. “Oh, baby, you were such a good girl for me.” His left hand gripped your hip and pushed you down roughly against his thigh. “I want you to sit.”

“Ah! Daddy, please-”

“What? What is it, kitten?” Bucky pouted, his mocking tone only serving to send a fresh wave of heat through your body. “You can’t be stupid for me yet; I haven’t even touched you.”

“N-No,” you whimpered, clutching at the lapels of his suit jacket. “Please, I was good, I-I want you, to– fuck-” The sudden heat of Bucky’s mouth placing open mouthed kisses on your neck made you whine loudly. 

“So sensitive, aren’t you? Poor thing,” Bucky sneered and you nodded feverishly, unable to move from the bruising grip he had on your hip. “Goin’ all silly on daddy, huh?”

“Ye-Yeah,” you gasped, Bucky had moved his right hand from your jaw and placed it on your hip in line with his left. “Oh, god, daddy, please!” 

Bucky hummed and pushed your hips down, the pressure against your clit now becoming unbearable and you cried out, a sound thin and high that bounced off the walls of his office. 

“What do you say, kitten?” Bucky snapped, his left hand suddenly grasping your throat so the cold metal shocked your skin. His right remained on your thigh, controlling you like a rag doll to grind back and forth, back and forth, again, again, and again.

“Fuck! Thank you, daddy, oh fuck,” you sobbed.

Bucky smiled like a predator - a wolf who had caught the lamb. 

The force of his hold on your hip began to smart and you whimpered, bringing your hands from his chest to his left wrist and holding on for dear life. “Please, I need more- daddy-”

“Aww,” Bucky cooed. “No, kitten, you know that daddy knows what’s best for his girl, and right now she’s being a fuckin’ little slut for her daddy, isn’t she?”

“Yes!” You cried when a tendril of pleasure wound up your spine. “Yes, for you, only for you!”

“Atta girl.” The grip around your throat made you wheeze in sharp pants that fanned over Bucky’s lips when he pulled you closer. A sharp stab of pleasure coiled low in your stomach and you broke out in a sweat, the diamond necklace underneath Bucky’s wrist clinking against the metal with your forced and desperate movements. 

“Ah- ah- oh, fuck, please,” you moaned, and Bucky chuckled darkly. He squeezed your hip in warning when you tried to move faster.

“You wanna ride my thigh? Is that what you want?” Bucky asked. His chest had begun to heave with heavy breaths that showed he was only barely holding on himself. “You just need that pretty head of yours empty while fucking my thigh, huh, baby girl? Don’t worry, daddy’s got you.”

The relief of hearing Bucky’s promise was overwhelming. His grip around your throat loosened until he only squeezed the sides while his right forced you to move in earnest, the pace of your hips brutal to the already tight coil. 

“‘M gonna come, daddy! Oh- fuck, oh my god,” you babbled, hysterical on a high you had tasted many times before. “I-I can’t stop-”

“I know, baby, I know,” Bucky soothed. “Such a good girl for me, c’mon.” 

You gasped loudly when Bucky pulled you forwards, his brute strength forcing you closer and in turn, your thighs clenched around his to keep you balanced. 

“I know you’re close, kitten, fuckin’ look at you–such a slut, and you’re all mine, fuck,” Bucky breathed, his claim ending in a chuckle when you whined loudly at the change of position. “Be a good girl for me. I want you to come, now.”

The words leaving his lips were the catalyst of your release. You screamed when it hit you all at once, far too much and far too little in its devastation. 

“That’s it, that’s it, oh, baby, look at you,” Bucky breathed, his tone hoarse with restraint when you could finally hear him over the dull roar in your ears. “You were so good for me, ‘m so proud.”

You fell boneless against Bucky’s chest and his arms wound around your waist, hugging you tightly while he whispered praises and soothed you from your high. His tattooed hand cupped the back of your neck where the clasp of your necklace sat against your sweaty skin, and he heaved a happy sigh through his nose. “Do you think they heard you?”

“Probably,” you giggled, moving to sit up so you could look into Bucky’s face. The diamonds adorning your neck were warm and misted with sweat while you fiddled with them. “Why?”

The dangerous glint in Bucky’s eyes and the devilish smirk was all you needed to know to understand why, if his hard length brushing against your thigh wasn’t enough of a hint; after all, his hard cock was better than a diamond by far.

“I need you to scream a lil’ bit louder for me this time, baby,” Bucky said impishly. With a grunt of effort, he lifted you again and stood from the couch. 

“Bucky!” You squealed, hanging on for dear life around his broad shoulders. The damp patch on his slacks brushed against your thigh with his sudden movement and you giggled - that was you, you had made a mess on his ridiculously expensive pants. You had marked him.

It was a vice, the possessiveness he held over you and you over him, and parading his come-soaked slacks where his men would see?

Oh, god, you thought.

“Nope,” Bucky sighed, his hands gripping your ass tightly in reprimand. “I’ve gotta fuck you until you don’t know nothin’ but who I am, kitten. Besides, I have time to kill until that idiot calls me with good news, and I wouldn’t wanna waste an opportunity to be buried so deep in your fuckin’ cunt that you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed]

saw some things on the other side [61K, Larry, M]

Louis can vaguely hear the grandfather clock chime downstairs, signalling the start of the ghost hour, and a shiver runs up his spine as he pushes the door open.

Part of him expects it to be jammed like before, but instead it swings open easily, and for a moment Louis’ eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. Holding up his phone with shaky hands, he shines the flashlight over the furniture in the room, the curtains that in the daylight had looked so vibrant.

They look tattered now, hanging limply from the rod. The wooden armoire and the bed are ornate and beautiful still, but even from the doorway Louis can see a thick layer of dust, undisturbed for what has been probably the better part of a century.

Louis isn’t sure whether he feels relieved or disappointed, but he definitely feels unsettled. Because this room is what he’d expected to find this afternoon, and yet he can still see the boy he’d met then so clearly now, even when the room looks different from the way it had back then. He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to envision the way it had looked earlier today, and surely it can’t have been a dream, right? Had he gone into this room, expecting to find something more than just dust and forgotten furniture, and had his dream made up for the disappointing ending to a mystery that had only existed in his head?

When Louis moves into the mansion he’s inherited from his great grandfather, he has a plan that consists of three things. One, he’s going to finish writing the next novel in his series. Two, he’s finally going to get over his ex-fiancé. And three, while battling writer’s block and having to resist the urge to kill off the main character in his books – the hot detective based on his ex-fiancé – he’s going to restore the mansion to its former glory.

Unfortunately, Louis’ plan doesn’t take into account the fact that instead of writing murder mysteries, he will find himself in one.

Written for the @onedirectionbigbang with art by the amazing @monpetithl

Read it now on AO3!

[isa-ghost]

Could I mayhaps have some hc!philza headcanons? Could be him in his hardcore, or how his time in hardcorr affects him now maybe? :D

OUGH YES.

So these will be operating off the theory that qPhil is hcPhil with his memory fucked up by the Federation. I'm gonna aim for "pre island, this is how qPhil was" but we'll see what happens as I actually write these LOL

What if I call these Pre-Dilf Edition in the masterlist SKFJSKFJSKFHF

10/10 would read the hardcore deity set I did recently to go with these :D

qPhil headcanons masterlist

He either had a flawless sleep schedule (early to bed early to rise ass mf) or no sleep schedule at all (spending 3+ nights hyperfocused on smth). It made for a very loopy Phil sometimes, which his murder of crows very much enjoyed

This man can fit so much joy and whimsy in him. Everything is awesome, everything is a breathtaking work of art and everything is decades of rich history to uncover. He loves life, he loves the passage of time, he loves teaching the murder about what he finds & restores

That's his main hobby besides being a survivalist, restoration and an informal form of archiving. He sketches the builds, takes notes on the deities, adds his own little touches to each place to make it a little prettier

He could fly for hours. Sometimes he'd fly aimlessly into late into the night, too immersed in sight-seeing and chatting with the murder

He had little altars in Flowerfall, Nether Void & Greater Spawn Islands for OO, BE, and Rose respectively. He'd leave little shiny things, trinkets that made him think of them, offerings like cooked fish or blaze rods or flowers in little offering bowls. Just as a nice, more direct way of giving them thanks for creating something so beautiful and allowing him to restore it to its former glory

He fucking loves swimming and fishing and hanging out at Endlantis, he'd just very aggressively avoid the cave that is EK's tomb. It was extremely haunted, he never got good vibes down there

He sometimes considers making his own remarkable build as a sort of "I was here, I too am a mark upon this history" but looks at his house and is like "mmmmbetter not" (he's an idiot, he could 100% build something cool, just probably not on the scale of the builds the gods have created. He'd probably create it for Goddess of Death, not even himself 💀)

Obligatory gapple addiction mention. It didn't start because of the murder, but he definitely used them as an excuse to further indulge once he started devoting eating one to the crows who'd been in the murder for a year. He never really had a reason to quit, or worry about the addiction, so he never experienced negative effects from it. Gapples aren't exactly harmful, just.. tinged with just enough magic to infect the brain. (He never experienced withdrawal misery on QI bc the Feds wiped his memory so his body had no idea it should be having a bitch fit =) )

Semi-related, he loved the days where he and the murder lacked the motivation and focus to do restoration things so they'd just fuck off in a random direction for ages and go on loot sprees. Nothing more exciting than hunting for more god apples :D

He started out liking fishing. The murder got too obsessed and it became the bane of his existence. But he loves the murder, so he does it anyway. Besides, he wouldn't trade chill talks with them for the world. :')

Btw he doesn't know this but it was equal parts the Ender King & the Feds ripping rifts between the universes that got him caught and taken to QI. EK didn't plan for that to happen, he just wanted to escape to a new reality to find a vessel to come back to power. Which is why once Phil was on the island, EK went "Fuck it, I'll use that asshole since he's not only compatible, but from the same plane of existence"

Mobs never scared him much (except Enderman) despite the fact that they were very dangerous and he's a survivalist. He was practically a mob whisperer, it's how he trapped trophy ones, made certain farms and why he was 99% fearless when farming charged creepers. QI has so many mobs he's never seen in his life that his chill instincts are suddenly like AAAWTFWTF

He never felt truly alone despite being the only humanoid. He felt like Rose was always with him, very rarely OO, and the murder ofc. He could understand them and he'd talk to them all day every day. Not only that, he had pets like Pog and Champ and there were quite a few times he'd humanize inanimate objects, which scientifically helps keep you sane in isolation such as survival. He always felt like he had Something to socialize with

That said, he IS still a bit weird socially on the island. Socializing with humans is way different than crows, other animals, gods, and objects.

Btw Ian is God of Chaos (a lesser god like Goddess of Death) and other mods like Birder, D3 & Wolfy are notably larger or perhaps a different species of corvid that hang out among the murder :D

[empressofthewind]

Fun Facts About Mello:

He is the third youngest character in the series - a little less than 6 months younger than Sayu, and 50 days older than Matt.

His highest rated skill in Volume 13 is his initiative at a 10/10, equal with Misa, Watari and Gevanni. His second highest is his social skills, rated at a 9/10.

He died in a church in Karuizawa, a resort town about 170km (~106mi) out of Tokyo.

His first appearance in the manga is in chapter 59, and his last is in chapter 104 in a brief flashback sequence. He appears in a total of 24 chapters and 244 panels, excluding Linda's drawing of him, his photograph, and any official art separate from the plot. Factoring in all of that, he appears in 266 panels across 28 chapters.

He has his facial scar for 101 of the panels he appears in.

He makes the most appearances in chapters 70 and 77, appearing 27 times in each. Including the official art and the photograph of him, chapter 77 wins by a count of 1.

Of his 244 appearances, Mello can be seen eating chocolate in 88 of them, or 36% of his total screentime. With the inclusion of three panels in which the chocolate itself is not shown (panels of him with crumbs falling from his mouth, a crumpled wrapper in his hand and licking his gloves respectively), this rises to 37%.

The most panels of him eating chocolate take place in chapter 70, with a total of 22 panels showing the chocolate bar in some capacity.

The hand Mello uses to hold his chocolate bar frequently alternates, with 42 instances of him using his right hand and 40 with his left hand. In the other 6 panels, he has it hanging from between his teeth.

He typically bites off the corners first and demonstrates a fairly even split between the decision to bite off the right corner or the left corner, with a slight preference for the right. On one occasion, he chooses to lick the chocolate instead, and on two occasions, he breaks off a piece with his hands.

There are 178 total panels of Mello talking, including dialogue delivered over the phone and other conversations in which he is not visible. 19 of these panels include him talking with his mouth full.

He talks the most to Soichiro Yagami, with 57 panels involving dialogue from Mello directly addressed to him. The next highest is President David Hoope, with 19 panels, and a close third is Near, with 18 panels.

He specifically addresses only 4 of his mafia associates; Kal Snydar/Jack Neylon, Roy, Skyer and Jose. He only speaks directly to Rod Ross twice, and never addresses him by name.

Aside from the flashback in 104, the last person he can be seen talking to is Takada. His last words were "And I don't want to hear a peep, got it?"

[intersectionalpraxis]

this was posted nearly a month ago by amal, a Palestinian lifestyle influencer/creator on tiktok, and i wanted to share this here as a reminder that this is the HOME to millions of Palestinian people. seeing Palestine through the gaze of Palestinian people -the beauty, the warmth, the peace and joy in their daily lives, their infrastructure and historic sights and buildings -matters so deeply. it has always mattered, and their resistance and strength is important to share too.

as always, my utmost solidarity and love to Palestine.

[video description: the camera rolls with the caption "The Palestine I saw," with images of the places, amal, a Palestinian lifestyle creator shows us. The first image is a view of some buildings in the distance with some cars on roadways ahead. The next, we see plates of food -falafel, watermelon, and meat sizzling on a rectangular cast iron pan, with a plate of greens nearby. The camera then captures the streets, monuments, and a gorgeous wall of fuchsia-pink flowers, cascading down. There are parts of the city that amal shows us -small businesses; an image of them walking in a flowly dress during the day; the camera then captures night lights hanging above trees -below the lights is a sidewalk. There is a floral shop filled with flora, a restaurant serving an array of sauces and perhaps hummus with fresh chickpeas atop, alongside a serving of an iced, creamy coffee or latte. An image of the setting sun appears before the sunrises; there is a long stair case ahead. Then, the camera pans over more food at local restaurant; someone is dipping bread in olive oil. Then gold jewelry appears; an array of necklaces, rings, and earrings on top and under glass cabinets. There is a monument, art and photographs being displayed next; and finally a basket full of fruits- such as apples, plums, apricots; meat spinning on a metal rod, and an image of a restaurant's sign.]

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Mosaic - "Gone Fishin"

Originally posted on November 2nd, 2009

Story - Jon Rist Art - James Cox Colours - Josh Burcham Letters - HdE

deviantART | TFW2005 | BotTalk

wada sez: The vignettes in this one all set up scenes from the beginning of The Transformers: The Movie, with Kup directing the other Autobots in setting up a roadblock, Blaster chilling in the communications tower, and Wheeljack and Windcharger hanging out before they’re both brutally killed side-by-side by the Decepticons. Hot Rod’s line opens his first scene with Daniel. Josh Burcham had already coloured an official adaptation of the film for IDW and a tie-in story by Simon Furman for Australian home-media company Madman Entertainment, so this fits nicely in that vein; he’d go on to colour the pack-in comic for the Reveal the Shield Rodimus vs. Cyclonus two-pack.

[surreal-duck]

screw it. midoyuzu sdv au (very long bullet point post warning in advance)

midori inherits his late grandpa's farm. parents' greengrocers shop in the city used to get a good chunk of their crops from there til his passing and the farm was since abandoned

kanata is definitely handling the fishing shop. though he spends more time in the water puka pukaing than actually fishing and manning the store but its fine she manages somehow. when midori gets the fishing rod kanata just straight up pops outta to water to give him the rod and floats away 👍 souma helps out there also

chiaki owns the saloon and bartends even if he does Not drink himself and the only thing that ever plays on tv are tokusatsu shows

as for the others i havent thought abt as much and subject to change. kuro blacksmith with his apprentice tetora maybe . nagisa the museum and library curator (and by extension i think itd be really funny if ibara was a joja executive. mostly to keep an eye on nagisa but also keeping the yzib hostility). eichi is the mayor though keito his vice mayor does most of everything and his boyfriend wataru organizes the town events and such like the valley fair etc!! natsume is the forest wizard w his apprentice sora and tsumugi comes by weekly in that traveling cart thing. madara owns the ranch probably.

everybody else is probably just normal townsfolk, among others hajime and hinata take care of the towns plants n stuff!! tatsumi priest, mayoi is half shadow person and hangs out in the sewer (of which noritama at some point explore together and shinobu befriends and invites to visit the surface). i said i didnt think about this much but thats a lie at this point. mika stays in an atelier in the forest (owned by shu whos in the city but does visit on occassion) to cultivate his own art, still best buds with arashi. jun koga adonis and maybe hiiro part of the adventurers guild, trick5tar are their own lil band!!

some charas r not present most of the time or yet like tori who is off at uni w his longtime academic rival and childhood friend and also now roommate tsukasa. their presence is very important for later trust me. rich family rivalry still remains here (along with military camp Because)

due to tori being at uni and learning independence yuzuru is off of his usual butler work for a while and working in the general store owned by the himemiyas! partly to pass the time partly encouraged to find something new to do outside of his servant duties. he calls and nags at tori regularly to make sure hes fine and such

the request board outside of the store is always a good source for side jobs and one day a request for foraged spring onions is pinned up with a terrifying drawing scribbled on it. midoris head over heels Immediately and she already has a good amount to spare so why not take it

hes probably a week into living in the valley already? while yuzuru had just started working over at the store therefore she wasnt aware of this yuzuru fushimi and finds the very one while looking for who put up the request!! the master artist + fan dynamic goes from then on

other than the usual chitchats and more requests with encouraged atrocious drawings accompanying them, been thinking a good amount of the specific town events that happen through the year!! other misc things are various quests and errands from each of the characters, like helping mika gather cloth or hajime requesting various flowers to brighten up the town

Y1 Spring: egg festival, noritama hanging out, shinobu sweeping the egg hunt; flower dance , as they havent gotten to know each other to well enough to actually dance (just like in the game) (haley please. anyways) its mostly just small talk and maybe including some other side pairings i like djdhhfjdj chiaki with a suspiciously soaked kanata and hina dragging off tetsu

Y1 Summer: acquiring the rusty key from nagisa, noritama sewer exploration and befriending mayoi; luau, nothing special particularly for this one; dance of the moonlight jellies, from here yuzuru and midori get a lot closer playing in the sand and just getting along (a bit like siosai marina)!! probably some background drop for the both of them like takamine gramps' farm and yuzurus actual role as a butler while telling him about tori as well dkhdhdjs. they spot the rare green jellyfish together here too

Y1 Autumn (yeah im calling it autumn sue me): valley fair commences, led by everyones own wataru whos hopping here and there somehow managing three attractions at once. yuzuru obliterates the shooting game; spirits eve, chiaki is desperately being clingy out of fear. just more shenanigans in this one

Y1 Winter: festival of ice!! i kinda want to recreate the snow bunny/cute critter scene in jingle bells here, while the fishing contest isnt even a contest at all except between souma and kanata; feast of the winter star ill probably keep somewhat similar to that in the recent luck fest campaign gift exchange!! midori -> hajime and yuzuru -> kanata at the very least. just good vibes all around. community centre would also be finished by then so while joja closes, ibara ends up assisting at the museum w nagisa instead jshshdh

Y2 Spring: only thing of note is that This flower dance they do get to dance together!! 👍 had to get those hearts up beforehand sjhdhdjshd midori at this point fully realized he really does like yuzuru, but kind of the calm before the summer storms

Y2 Summer: gets a bit (a lot) more complicated from here. yuzuru receives word from tori that he'll be visiting from midsummer til the beginning of autumn, and coincidentally tsukasa is tagging along to meet up with his pen pal and friend sora!! bickering the entire way there and due to circumstances yuzurus hosting tsukasa as well in the end, having to share toris room with him aksjdhjwjs

tori gets introduced to midori. the famed young master of midoris crush and this random farmer boy tori had heard so much about for some reason. midoris rather intimidated in the end but it ends up not Horribly to say the least. didnt quite help how tori had noticed how yuzuru softened up even just a bit when interacting with him. sora as well finally meets tsukasa and "the torikun he's heard so much about through tsukasas letters" 🎉 toris awfully smug and tsukasa tries to salvage it saying he was badmouthing him the whole time (not completely a lie but definitely not completely the truth either. dork)

with toris arrival inevitably comes yuzurus duties as a butler, its plain to see his priorities and out of consideration midori backs off a bit. she thought he'd only have to keep his distance until tori's gone back but little did she know toris main reason for coming not only was to assess how yuzurus faring (well and to meet eichi again) but had planned on bringing yuzuru back with him too to which yuzuru of course though not without feeling a tinge of pain for a reason unknown to him agrees to it

midori hears this from tsukasa, how he didnt think yuzuru would stay in town for much longer. and of course midori ended up pretty devastated at the news but who is he to stop yuzuru from leaving? in the end yuzuru would all but abandon his duties, and after all that same diligence and devotion is what midori had fallen for in the first place. if this short year really is all he'd get to spend with him then at the very least she'll have to make the most of what time they have left

the moonlight jellies come around again, probably one of the last times they both thought they'd be able to spend together and went off with just the two of them. a bit of an awkward air around them, yuzuru comments on how toris been complaining about the sand and other attempts at casual small talk as usual but its painfully obvious theres still that tense atmosphere

midori finally asks if yuzurus really leaving after all, to which she got a yes. midori simply nods and had long since accepted that inevitability, and already resolved that when the time comes to put an end to his feelings and get rejected properly. and so he confesses, and while saying she didnt need yuzuru to give him any proper answer in return, all yuzuru could really say was an "i'm sorry" while finally realizing what that awful ache that has been eating at him the entire time was. even if he did realize he felt the same, no matter how much he wanted to say it back theyve both resigned to the fact that its not something that could or would really ever happen between them

once the jellies have all left, their parting was pretty awkward, with that one goodbye feeling a lot like their last. tori notices something off about yuzuru and that something had probably happened between them, but didnt pay it much thought until a while later

yuzurus made more mistakes than whats normal, miscategorizing the stock or putting salt in his coffee, tori and tsukasa are both shocked and tried to pry it out of him but hes a brick wall that wont budge even a bit. it was only when midori came around for his usual errands and groceries that tori could note how distant and awkward theyre both being and that slight bit of hurt behind yuzurus all perfect mask

after much uncomfortable tension and quietly longing gazes enough is enough amd tori eventually confronts him, that while he did say yuzuru could come back to the city asks him if thats really what he wanted. and of course, all hes ever wanted or rather, knew how to want was to be able to serve tori to the best of his ability and really theres no other reason to stay anyways. even more frustrated now tori brings up midori, if he really wont regret leaving things like that when theyll surely drift apart to the point of no return if he keeps it up

argues that whatever was between him and midori has nothing to do with it!! tori is Mad and says if yuzuru is hiding behind his role to run away from the depths of his own feelings hes being a freaking idiot. eventually tori calms down and while he did want yuzuru to come, never wanted him to tear himself apart so much and that he didnt need to sacrifice his desires or getting close to anyone else for his sake, and how before being a servant yuzuru is his family as well and he just wants him to be happy too. then asks one last time if leaving the valley really what he wanted

yuzuru finally thinks it over again and apologizes first. for letting himself get so caught up and carried away for even daring to get close to someone else (tori glares daggers at him. he stops) and affirms that while he did wish to stay, theres still nothing more important to him than tori and his wellbeing and even should he open up and find more people in his life its not gonna change that fact

toris finally satisfied, reminding him again that even if he were to run off to be with some farmer boy hed still be his butler and that he wishes them the best. then proceeds to grab the bouquet from over the counter, shove it into yuzurus hands and lock him out of the store until he has a proper talk with midori. yuzuru tries to argue but it all goes one ear and out the other with tori he is Not gonna let him back inside until then

eventually gives in and goes looking for midori. he asks all around town and seems to just miss him each time, til eventually it starts pouring and into a pretty hard rain. at this point all he could rly focus on though was wanting to see him so pushes on until running into her taking shelter in the forest. yuzuru is Soaked and disheveled and with the wind and rain the bouquet is stripped down to only a few of its flowers left but he does not care at this point

midori is understandably shocked and tries to dry him off with what he had, lending her jacket and asking what he was doing out in the rain like that. well with yuzuru only being able to think about wanting to meet him had completely ignored the rain and brushes it off saying there was something more important he wanted to say

even knowing that he'd (somewhat) rejected midori before, asks if he could give him a proper response this time if midori would give him another chance. she agrees, yuzuru lets him know he wont be going back to the city after all to midoris surprise. goes on that before he knew it midori had become important to him as well and that he truly does adore him, and if his feelings havent changed would like to court him properly. midoris just processing the entire thing before crying. never thought his feelings would be reciprocated and between sobs hugs him. rain clears up, a nice rainbow arches over and while midori accepts what was left of the bouquet they almost had a moment until yuzuru starts sneezing. cue them running back to the store before he gets sick

while yuzurus taking care of himself it leaves midori and tori in the store together. tori gives her a bit of a shovel talk and if he dared do anything to hurt yuzuru he could have his entire farm shut down. and asks to take care of yuzuru for him too. they do talk a bit and end up getting to know each other a bit more before tori and tsukasas impending departure

once midori leaves, tsukasa, having seen the whole conversation, asks tori if hes really okay with it and while tori cant say hes absolutely happy is glad someone cherishes yuzuru just as much. and even if he is a bit lonely will always have tsukasa anyways half as a tease and half being genuine

Y2 Autumn: tori and tsukasa leave the valley, promising to come back next year!! theres a lot more ive planned out from this point out but i am keeping it to myself for now. or maybe forever it depends 👍 my apologies if youve read this far you deserve a medal thank you for listening to my silly rambling 🏅

theres some other things like mini chara arcs/episodes and such (or stuff like specific "heart events" of a sort) i thought abt but among them is tatsumi and mayoi meeting and [omitted] or tetoras apprenticeship under kuro, or shus visit to observe mikas progress and [omitted], and specifically a certain trks episode also

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

⚔️ 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Faithful Hound's Fetching Femur
Rod, very rare (requires attunement) ___ This rod is actually a large bone from a nondescript beast. A small bell and engraved tag hang from its side by a leather strap. The rod can also be used as a magic club that grants a +2 bonus to attack and damage rolls made with it. The rod has 6 charges and regains 1d6 expended charges daily at dawn. While holding the rod, you can use an action to expend 1 of its charges to cast the "faithful hound" spell with the following changes: • The spell ends early if you cast the spell again. • The hound has an attack bonus of +10. • You can use a bonus action to move the hound to another space that you can see within 30 feet of you. • You can use an action to look through the invisible hound's eyes until the start of your next turn. The hound has darkvision out to 30 feet, can see invisible creatures, and can see into the Ethereal Plane. During this time, you are blind with regard to your own senses. • You can use an action to throw the rod at a target that you can see within 30 feet of you (attack bonus +10). On a hit, the rod deals 1d4 + 2 bludgeoning damage, plus your Strength or Dexterity modifier (your choice), and the hound immediately moves to the target's space and attacks it. Hit or miss, the hound then returns the rod to your hand or drops it at your feet (your choice). It then remains in a space of your choice within 5 feet of you until it's moved again. When you expend the last charge from the rod, roll a d20. On a 1, the hound wrenches the bone from your hand and runs away with it, ending the spell early and wasting the action to cast it. The bone then reappears in a random location 1,000 feet away from you after 1 hour. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!