#re: shadow & bone though

[flythesail]

I think a lot of what people were saying happened "too early" in s2 of shadow & bone was really the writers saying s3 is unlikely, so this is our chance to give everyone some of what would be to come :(

[hoshigray]

Been thinking about this scenario a lot, but ex-husband! Toji, where you two are pretty chill with each other, even after five years of divorce. But the feelings between you two start to parade back after all these years, and it all comes boiling over after spending one night together.

A/n: Been a while since I've done one of these scenario thingies, plus this idea has been rotting my mind for a long time, and I needed it to get out, lol. I pushed back my Gojo fic to tmrw or Thursday because my brain was not feeling like re-reading 3-4k words while running on one hour of sleep. So, instead, we're dropping this in its stead. Sorry about that, and hope you like this while I fix the fic up later today :) Any grammar/spelling errors on this will be dealt with tmrw.

Cw: ex-husband! Toji x fem! reader - implied that reader is entering their mid 30s - starts out cute the first half but smutty the next, so minors DNI - implied that Tsumiki and Megumi are around middle school age; 12 (T) and 11 (M) - pining; Toji is whipped for you, I fear - Daddy kink - prone bone position + mating press - pet names (baby, sweetheart, sweetie, mama, princess) - cervix fucking - praise - itty-bitty-tiny overstimulation - closure; happy ending (?).

Wc: 3.4k (wow, way longer than the last one, lol)

Ex-husband! Toji...

...who you've divorced after being together for four years. It was a marriage built on love, convenience, and heartache. There is no denying that Toji loved you very much; if anything, the man would set the world ablaze if anything were to happen to you. Especially when you were the sweetest thing that blessed his presence and his two children who were young at the time — Tsumiki and Megumi at age three. The fact that you loved him as much as he loved you is beyond doubt in Toji's mind. However, somewhere down the line, you felt a "shadow" that you could not surpass nor fill — the late wife of Toji.

You could tell that Toji still had a piece of him that just couldn't let the memory of his late wife go, and you understood that. Hence why you chose to leave him, which was glum for all parties, but Toji understood where you were coming from and signed the papers.

...who's still chill with you after the divorce. You two promised not to act like complete strangers, especially with Tsumiki and Megumi being close to you. Just because the ring isn't on your finger doesn't mean you must change completely. The two of you are comfortable enough to be in each other's company, taking turns watching over the kids and acting like you're still married by poking fun at one another like the good days.

"Hey, big guy," Toji turns to the kitchen hallway where you're looking at him, his usual black coffee in his mug still sheltered in your apartment cupboards. "You look like shit; too tired to go to the clubs to find some minx to wow you enough like you used to?"

He snickers at your brazenness. "Shut up, brat. I could ask the same fr' you. Got some good dick on the side to help that attitude of yours, baby?" After checking around to see if the kids are nearby, you give him the middle finger. He chuckles before sipping his coffee.

...whose kids adore and love you so much that they secretly try to have you and Toji in the same place, which the two of you are entirely aware of. Five years passed after your separation, though that doesn't hinder the children from wanting you back in their lives again. Because to them, you are always a Fushiguro, and the love for you will always be there. It's there when you go to Tsumiki's soccer games and drag your ex-husband to find a better seat on the bleachers to watch her play. It's there when Megumi tells his father he "accidentally" left his baseball bat at your place and "unfortunately" now has to spend the night there (and you always receive them). And it's there when you promise to come along on family trips, like going to the zoo and taking pictures by the Panda enclosure with his daughter or going to the aquarium and listening intently to his son explain all the different types of jellyfish.

Toji can't blame his own kin for being attached to you because you are still a mother in their eyes. And so to his.

...who has his wedding ring on his dog-tag necklace but always tucks it under his shirt whenever you're present. It gives him a peace of mind when it comes to you because if he can't be there for you 24/7, he knows you're under his protection whenever you need it. But the thought of you knowing he still wears it makes him anxious, worried that you'll take it the wrong way and request he never wears it again. So, for his sake, he keeps you blind to this secret. And he wonders if you ever wear yours...

...who welcomes you without hesitation when you have to spend the night at his place because he notices you're too exhausted to go home so late. The only problem is that there's no other room outside the kids and Toji's. And as much you protest, expressing your satisfaction with taking the couch, your ex-husband disagrees and will carry you to bed, sneering to himself as you try to wiggle out of his stronghold until he smacks the bedroom door closed with his leg.

"I told you I was fine sleeping on the couch, Toji." You complain to him, yet your back is pressed against his chest with his arm around your waist.

"And I told you not gonna happen, princess." his hold around you gets tighter, pulling you closer for him to rest his chin on your shoulder. "You'd probably fall off and smack that pretty face of y'rs on the floor."

"I would not—You know what," you stooped from saying anything further to the man grinning behind your ear. You shift a bit to make yourself comfortable. "Goodnight, Toji. And thank you."

It takes every fiber in his being to not kiss your cheek then and there. Exhaling softly through his nostrils as he lays his head back on the pillow. "No problem, sweetheart."

...who the last time he had someone after your separation was not feeling it at all. You even said he is free to do whatever he wants when moving on to the next minx that caught his attention. You two are adults and shouldn't feel entitled to putting each other on a leash. Despite that, he knew moving on from you wouldn't be easy — especially in the bedroom.

The women he's had after you can only be counted on one hand. No matter how good the fun was with the others, his mind would always crawl back to you. It didn't matter how different their hair was, what they dressed that night, or how fucking good the sex was; you would cloud his mind in some way. They weren't you. They weren't his sweet thing.

...who's extremely perplexed in a nightclub when he sees you. He didn't want to go in the first place until Satoru Gojo barged into his apartment, dragged him out in his best attire, and left Nanami (another victim of Gojo's foolishness) to babysit Megumi and Tsumiki. And it was bad enough that Gojo snaked away from Toji to the dance floor the second they got inside, the raven-haired man almost popping a vein in vexation.

So the older man resorts to just doing the usual gig: walking around before sitting at the bar to ask for a regular beer. He stays there for nearly half an hour, taking sips of his bottle while sweet-talking to the ladies that occasionally find him and give him his number. Things got really loud when the DJ at the discothèque played "Up!" by Lil Vada and DonnySolo, all the party people crowding the floor, bumping and grinding each other while singing the lyrics. It was at this point that Toji had enough of the massive headache growing in his head, so he was about to down his beer and leave the club; Gojo be damned because the fucker could find his own way home and then some.

But midway through putting the beer bottle on his scarred lips, something in Toji's peripheral captures his attention. And his jade eyes go wide at what he sees.

Down to the right side of the dance floor are booths catered to bigger parties, so it's obvious to notice when a single person sits alone on one of the round tables while everyone else is dancing their hearts out. That one person was you, observing the dance floor with your head on your hand resting on the table.

To say that Toji was flabbergasted by the image of you in a place like this after all these years was tough for him to comprehend. Yet what really had him in a chokehold was how stunning you were. From where he stood, he could tell that you dolled yourself quite a bit. Your hair was kept in a style that displayed your face wholly, and you were wearing a beautiful halter-neck dress with slits revealing your thighs deliciously.

He forgets how to breathe when your eyes drift in his direction and find him. You're just as surprised as he is for a short moment, but you offer him a familiar smile and beckon him to come to your side of the club. The older man wastes no time, paying the bartender and making his way through the crowd to your table. When he's close enough, he can tell that your dress is backless, exposing your smooth skin that calls for him to touch.

And when Toji notices the ring on your left hand — the old wedding ring he gifted you — the world around him comes to a complete standstill.

"Hey, big guy." He snaps back to look at your beautiful face, your smile still there to blind him, and the booth far from the dance floor and music so he can listen to your sweet voice. You move to the side to make room for him to sit. "Didn't think I'd find you here."

"Me neither." He admits to you as he takes a seat, his green orbs never leaving your figure. "What are you doin' here?"

"Some friends dragged me out here for one of their birthdays. I figured I'd be here for a few hours and loosen up a bit, you know? But I don't know, I guess I'm just so used to being at my place that I'm out of practice with clubs."

Toji nods at your answer. "Yeah, I was dragged here, too. I'm with—"

"Gojo? Yeah, I thought so. He's right there dancing with my friends." He pans around to the dance floor to see commotion at the center. The snow-haired man was dancing as a crowd formed around him, getting grinded on by a woman with a "happy birthday" headband.

Gojo notices the raven-headed man staring his way, pulls down his shades, and winks. That's when the reason why Toji was brought here in the first place hits him. Gojo knew you would be here tonight because of your friend's birthday. And now that you two are sitting alone, the wink signaled Toji to make his move.

"....Wanna get the hell outta here?"

You giggle at his suggestion. "Yeah, I don't feel like watching my friends get pregnant on the dance floor."

Toji snickers and grabs your hand to lead you out of the booth. He then drapes his denim jacket over your shoulders to cover your exposed shoulders and back, and the two of you leave the club without anyone noticing a thing.

...who spends the rest of the night with you as if you two are on a date again. It's late, so many shops around the area are closed already, but that doesn't stop the two of you from having fun. From sharing a meal at a nearby diner, walking around a shopping plaza admiring the silent ambiance, and listening to old tunes in his car as you two share stuff about your day while holding hands. And the change of mood completely baffles Toji. Nevertheless, when he sees the smile on your face and hears the sweet tune of your laughter, the grasp on your hand gets tighter with every minute. All his intentions go into enjoying having you with him like this again.

...who stays by your side until he has to drop you off at your place, parked his car to walk you to your apartment door. It's 1 o'clock in the morning, way later than Toji ever intended to stay out. Not that it matters now, because it's all worth it being able to walk with you. He doesn't let go of your hand even when his heart dies a little when you two arrive at your door.

"Had a good time?" You ask while unlocking the door; your eyes showcase subtle exhaustion but are overshadowed by your smile.

"Sure as hell did since I saw you at the club." He confesses, your chuckles casting a spell on him.

"Hmm, I'm glad you were there too, Toji." You meant those words, your eyes gazing into his, and the man's plunged deep into your gorgeous orbs. A feeling that he now realizes he wants to be the only one experiencing with you.

An awkward silence for a few seconds prompts you to snatch your hand away from his, causing his stomach to drop. "Sorry, your jacket" is what you use to excuse yourself, moving to take off the denim jacket. But Toji stops you, his hands stationed on your shoulders to keep you still.

"No, it's cold, sweetie." His voice is hushed, only for you to hear. "You can give it back next time."

Silence comes back again, but the air is heavier this time. The awkwardness is replaced with something more solicitous, more affectionate. You notice it when Toji has yet removed his hands from your shoulders, his large palms warming you up to the touch.

"Toji—"

"It's alright, baby." His gruff tone is still a whisper, and butterflies flutter in your stomach. "I won't do anythin'."

"No, no," you don't know what came over you, but you place your hands on his chest. Then your finger touches something from underneath his turtleneck, having you pull his collar down to pull out the dog-tag necklace that still harbors his old wedding ring. Toji's blood shifts to ice cold when you see the accessory — his anxiousness spikes up to an all-time high, only mere seconds from combusting based on whatever your response will be. And it comes.

"I...I want you to do something, Toji." It felt strange saying those words with your shaky confidence, though it's what you wished to express. "I want you..."

And just like that, whatever restraint that the older man had for you was butchered away. Emerald eyes take in every feature of your anticipating expression, and his lips come crashing down on yours.

...who couldn't care less how late it is right now because he finally has you where he wants you after all these years. It's 2:30 in the morning, way too late for loud noises as they'll disrupt the neighbors next door. But, again, Toji doesn't care about that. When he finally has you lying under him on your stomach, screaming out his name while he drives his cock deep inside you, what is there to care about?

The two of you are in the prone bone position, where you lie flat on your belly on the cream-white satin sheets of your bed, your legs in between Toji's and bare ass out for him to have easy access to your creamy cunt that hugs onto him all so well.

Tears paint your wet and sweaty face, drool escapes from the corner of your mouth and meets the sheets beneath you. The harsh thrusts of Toji's pelvis hitting your ass with such precision have you see stars, and his big hands keep your arms still. All you can hear are the ecstatic cries of your voice and the noises of skin smacking together.

"Nnmph!! Haaaah!! Ahhhh, yesssss, Daddy, just like that," your voice feels strained from all the screaming you've been doing for the past hour. Lips are swollen from the constant biting, your butt stinging from the intense contact with your ex-husband's pelvis. It's hard to think of anything but the man above you and his dick rearranging your slit like his personal toy. You never thought you'd experience this exhilarating and rewarding sensation again. And now that you do, it's all you want to indulge in. "H-Harder, pleaseeee, I want mo—Ahhhnnn!"

Toji grinds his hips down to your ass, churning your insides and grazing your cervix to the point of incoherent babbles. "Mmmm, oooh, shit, fuckin' shit. You're too tight on me, mama." He gives you a sharp thrust when you least expect it, and the walls of your chasm clamping down on his length has him hiss. It's hard to believe you're permitting him to have you like this. It's been five years. Five years of respectful boundaries and keeping a platonic relationship. Five years of denying feelings of want and desire. All those years of heavy guilt suddenly lifted from his shoulders just for him to have you under his bow again, your body quivering and voice shaky because of his touch.

It feels so surreal...But, God, Toji missed this so goddamn much. Missing your eyes, your smile, your touch, your body. Just you. Only you. "Hnnngh!! Damn, you feel so fuckin' good, baby. Can never have enough..."

"Mnnaaaah! Daddy, I'm gonna cummm, I'm gonna—Oooohh!!" The tip of his shaft scrapes the upper walls of your vagina, your brain pounding so hard to the point it hurts. "Pleaseee, let me cum, Daddyyy..."

He can tell you're close and senses your orgasm climbing up with his. That's when the pace of his hips goes erratically fast, jabbing your sweet spots and tender cervix, causing more tears to come down and your peak to finally release for the third time that night. As you cream on his cock, Toji's not too far from his own crescendo. Your velvety walls contract around his member divinely, and the older man spills his load into your quivering figure.

You're allowed to experience the aftershocks of your orgasm as you two let your bodies calm down, Toji laying his chest on your sweaty, heaving back. He then slowly removes his dick from your chasm, and the essence of your unioned sex feels cold while sliding down your inner thighs.

"Haaaaah...Mmmm, thank you, Toji." You whimper out as he lays kisses down your neck and shoulders. "Thank you..."

But little did you know that it wasn't the last of it. Before you could apprehend what was going on, Toji already had you flipped over to your back, stationing your legs on his shoulders to a mating press. And you see that his cock is not limp yet...

W-Wait a damn second—

"T-Toji, wait, hold on!" You try to rationalize with the man who aligns his shaft to your gushing vulva, and your sweat runs cold. "It's getting late. I just came three times already! We should—Nmmmph!!"

The head of his cock slides right in thanks to the slick and come lubricating your opening. Adding his weight onto you as he pushes his length deep into your chasm again, you cry choked sobs when he meets your cervix again, and his pelvis rubs against your clitoris. "Sorry, mama. Just lemme finish here, 'kay? Daddy missed havin' you like this, so I wanna give you all of me while I still can."

...who has your fatigued self lying on his chest, rubbing circles on your back and placing soft kisses on your forehead as you feel the effects of sleep slowly creep up on you. The lights are now off, the moonlight bargaining from the curtains being the only light source as you two are ready to gather whatever amount of sleep you can get.

"Hey, baby." But before that, Toji wants your attention for the last time before you sleep.

"Mhmm?" Your eyes are closed, but your ears are still open to listen.

His eyes drift down to the left hand that lays motionless on his chest. The gem on the ring flashes softly for it to be distinguishable. "How come you were wearin' your ring at the club?"

A few seconds go by before you give him the honest truth. "Same reason you wear yours. I always wear it when going out somewhere or alone someplace. Gives people the idea that I'm not ready for anyone else."

"Then why not wear it when I'm around?"

You giggle breathlessly. "Same reason why you don't let me see yours. I don't need a ring when I have you with me. A ring doesn't compare to my big man who will love and protect me wherever we go."

And Toji doesn't ask anything else after that. He lets you fall asleep in his arms and listens to your breathing follow a melodic rhythm. Your words stick with him even when his eyes close, and he soon falls into a deep sleep.

It's far-fetched to think that you two will be married again. Maybe it's possible in his dreams, but not in the real world. Regardless, Toji knows he will always stand beside you and be there for you. With or without a ring that's merely evidence of your love to outsiders. He knows you love him, and that's all he needs to keep moving. And if he could have you as his wife again, he'd sweep you off your feet in a heartbeat.

[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.

TAGS:

@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

[svearehnn]

Worship | Azriel x Priestess!Reader

Summary: In which Azriel shows you that he does, in fact, know how to worship you.

This is purely smut. Do not expect a plot lmao. also minors dni pretty please thank you.

Warnings: pussy worship baby, smut, p in v, choking, absolute worship of reader, cat and mouse game (kinda?)

It started with the simple touches. Hands brushing, eyes locking for only a second before you looked away, a blush covering your face. You had only known the male for a week, yet it seemed as if every bone in your body yearned to be near him. 

Azriel was hemlocked beauty, sharp and stunning, but you knew there was something dark lurking beneath his golden skin. Ever since that first night in the library, where you saw him on the couch, you had not been able to stop thinking about him. He was propped up against the leather arm, a book in one hand while his other propped up his head. He glanced up at you and that was when you knew you were gone. You were utterly enamored by him, and he knew it.

That’s why whenever you saw him, there was a slight smirk on his lips. His fingers would skim your own, or they would rest on your hips as he passed. The shadows that accompanied him would ghost over your forearms, your calves, your cheek. 

You knew he thought this was a game–it was all too easy to rile the Day Court priestess up, to make your cheeks heat, to be the reason behind your shy glances. You, however, could not find a reason to care. Azriel was absolutely delectable and you wouldn’t mind landing in his bed. But you were playing your own game, at the time. He wasn’t going to get you easily. And it seemed as though his patience was almost up.

Azriel was exactly where he was the first time you saw him. You had given him a nod as you entered, books already stacked in your arms as you beelined for a table across the room from him. Even as you felt his eyes roam your body, you studied. Your nose stayed stuck in book after book for two hours. His shadows were getting antsy, more whirling around you by the minute. You finally glanced up at Azriel with a quirked brow and a soft smile on your lips. 

“You mind calling back your shadows?” Instead of responding he bookmarked his forgotten novel and stalked towards you, wings flexing out slightly. You stood, closing your own novel and bringing it to rest against your chest. 

“What have you been reading about for hours?” He drawled, his tone uninterested, but his asking saying otherwise. You shrugged and pushed your chair in.

“Oh, just priestess work. It would bore you.” You began to walk to the shelves, swaying your hips more than usual, as you went to return the book to its rightful spot. 

“Humor me.” He was following you; that was exactly what you wanted. You halted, whirling around to face him as you tilted your head in amusement.

“Well, I’m re-reading the old ways of worship.” The room around you became shaded as his shadows started to filter through the library.

“Worship? Please, do tell. In what ways do the past priestesses worship their gods?” You bit your lip, flitting your gaze to the ground.

“Well,” you started, eyes back on his, “I could tell you, but you wouldn’t understand.” He smirked at that as he casually leaned against a bookshelf beside him.

“What wouldn’t I understand, little priestess?” You shrugged and turned down one of the rows, Azriel following behind. Only once the novel that you held was placed back onto the shelf, you turned and deaned to answer him.

“You don’t know how to worship, Azriel.” Once the words left your lips, it was as if a switch was turned on. Azriel’s eyes darkened, zoning in on you with those hazel hues. 

“I know how to worship,” He purred, taking a step towards you as his wings stretched out behind him. Your eyes widened unconsciously, a gulp going down your throat. You always knew Azriel was scary, but this? This was utterly terrifying in the best possible way. His dark hair was mussed, eyes glazed as they stared into yours. His typically rigid posture was looser. He was looking down at you as if he were a god and you his creation.

For a second, you thought perhaps ichor ran through his veins. You pushed that thought deep down, however, knowing exactly what the Elders would have to say about that.

“I’ve spent years learning at the Temple, you’ve never set foot in to pray. Of course you don’t know how to worship.” He chuckled as he took another step towards you, effectively backing you up against the bookshelf.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little priestess.” Featherlight fingertips smoothed across your cheek and down your neck. Azriel leaned in, hot breath on your skin, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I know how to worship.” His grip tightened on the back of your neck, keeping you still as he pressed a kiss just below your ear. You couldn’t help but to expose your neck to him, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as he pressed chaste kisses down your neck.

“I may not know how to worship your gods,” his eyes gazed up at you as he got down on his knees, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder, “but I certainly do know how to worship you.” A gasp escaped you as he sucked a bruise into the skin of your inner thigh. His name fell from your lips, a failed hesitation as he moved his lips upward.

Your arousal pooled off of you in waves–even you could smell it as his finger traced your slit through soaked panties. Hazel irises met yours again, a silent question as he teased the fabric down. Your eyes shut, head hitting the novels behind you.

“Oh gods, yes.”

Azriel put your leg down, gently helping you out of your undergarments. He pulled your leg back up over his shoulder as soon as the piece of fabric was discarded on the floor. “A god indeed,” he murmured, eyes unmoving from your glistening pussy. That was the only warning you got before he licked a fat stripe up your clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips. You felt him smile against your skin, lips wrapping around your bud and sucking softly. Your hands moved with their own volition, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling on the strands ever so slightly.

He growled and nipped, sending a bolt of heat up your spine. Azriel parted to slide a finger against you, coating it in your slick. As soon as he plunged it into you, his lips were back on your clit in a frenzy. He was no longer gentle, but ravenous, feasting on you like a man starved while his shadows eased down the sleeves of your dress.

You felt like you were floating, blissed out sounds falling from your lips, thighs shaking as he held you against the shelf. Shadows breezed around your nipples, pinching and pulling, and another finger entered you. 

“Come on sweet girl,” he lilted against you, his words vibrating against your clit. You dug your fingers into his scalp, fully at his mercy as your orgasm overcame you. His name was the only word you seemed to know as he worked you through your pleasure, never slowing down. Your eyes opened, black spots coating your vision as you looked down at him with tears in your eyes.

“Please, please Azriel.” You whined, eyes fluttering shut once again as another wave washed over you.

“Please what?” He pushed his fingers in deeper, hitting the spot that made you fall apart again.

“It’s too much.” You were sobbing by the time he pulled away from you. He stood up, hands steady against your hips as your body threatened to slide to the floor. Azriel tilted your chin, urging your eyes to meet his. He was golden, eyes alight, lips glistening with your cum. Seeing him struck a cord, arousal already pooling in your core again, thighs clenching shut to release some of the burden.

“I want to hear you say it,” he drawled, fingers bunching your skirts up above your ass. 

“Say what?” He only smirked, one of his hands leaving your hips to undo his belt.

“You know what I want you to say.” You froze as he pulled out his dick, precum beaded at the tip of his head. When you didn’t respond, eyes glued to his length, his hand wrapped around your neck. He squeezed gently, your gaze flitting up to his. “Say it, little priestess.” You felt him press up against you, suppressing a whimper as he smeared your cum along his shaft.

“I-you know how to worship,” you whispered, hands gripping his shirt. “Gods you know how to worship, Azriel, I-fuck.” He slid into you, bottoming out within less than a second. A soft moan left his lips, his forehead falling against yours, fingers digging into the plush skin of your neck.

“Fuck you’re so tight,” he groaned as he snapped his hips back into you. “You’re the only altar I will ever worship at, priestess.”

You were already fucked out but gods, his words emptied your mind completely. His dick was hitting you in all the right places, his hips never faltering as his pace quickened, bringing you straight to your release. 

“Gods Azriel,” You whimpered, obscene moans and sobs wracking your body as pulse after pulse of ecstasy brought you to the skies.

“Say my name again.” You obliged, his name falling from your lips again and again until he was faltering. One deep thrust in and he was flying. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder as he pulsed inside of you. Sweat-slicked skin, heavy breathing–Azriel was the first to move, pulling out of you before placing two hands on your cheeks and pulling you into a candied kiss. When he withdrew he lifted you into his arms, placing his lips on your forehead in a quick peck.

“Let’s get cleaned up, little priestess.” You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Softly, you mumbled out your thanks to the gods. Azriel only chuckled as he winnowed the both of you to his bath where hot water was already flowing out of the faucet to greet you.

[helluvagyal]

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐮𝐩

Starring: Adam, Vox and Alastor x gn!reader !

Content: MDNI, smau, cursing, derogatory name calling in both vox and adam's art (by them and you), alastor's part is in the format of him sending a letter. I named Alastor's shadow Facilier because I wanted to.

A/N: It was fun writing this tbh. @hellvcifer specially requested Adam and then I had them re-read some of his part to see if i got the characterization right.

ADAM

VOX

ALASTOR

An eggshell white envelope lands on the table in front of you. Looking up from your well kept copy of House of Leaves, you see Rosie is standing beside the bone carved table, her large eyes flitting expectantly between you and the mail obviously intended for you.

Closing the book with a sigh, you hand it to Rosie before picking up the letter and inspecting it; Your name is written on the front in loopy but neat handwriting and the back is sealed with red wax that's been stamped with Alastor's crest, a Whitetail Deer skull. You heat the letter opener over the candle flame beside you before sliding it under the seal to melt it. Once opened, you gently slide the parchment out but not yet unfolding it.

"Would you like me to stay?" Rosie rests a comforting hand on your shoulder, her smile softening when you nod gratefully.

"Yes, please." You watch as she folds her skirts before taking a seat in the armchair across from you.

You haven't heard a peep from Alastor since you two decided to end your relationship, and while amicable, you couldn't help but feel nervous about receiving a letter from him.

Hesitantly, you unfold the deer skin parchment and begin to quietly read to yourself.

My dear,

I have penned this letter numerous times, trying my hardest to get my thoughts out in a way the both of us will find acceptable. Firstly, I must apologize for being scarce, the hotel has been keeping me very busy recently as I decided that I needed to throw myself into work as a way to cope. I am well aware that at some point, we both wanted different things, to achieve individual goals that would not have bode well for us in the long run if we had decided to stay together.

Be that as it may, I would be lying if I had said that I had not grown fond of you and our tête-à-têtes. I did not think I would have enjoyed hunting together as a date night option but yet again, you have managed to make me eat my words, sha. Time apart has made me come to the realization that even though we are no longer in intimate relations, that does not mean I do not want you in my life.

My apologies again, as I know that by me avoiding you must have made you think the worst of me, I regret that moment of weakness on my part as I could have pictured the hurt you must have felt every time you hoped to see me but I did not show.

The chance to talk over tea and pastries at Rosie's would just be the bees knees, I so would like to issue these apologies again in person—but I just couldn't imagine writing this letter without doing it here first. According to Facilier, you seem to be looking well and it is not that I do not trust its judgement, I would just like to see you for myself.

I look forward to hearing from you again, sha.

Yours,

Alastor

© helluvagyal ‧ all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, translate, share, or copy my work.

[slowd1ving]

Hello, I love your work, can you write a Dg x boyfriend! Reader who is like Osaragi from Sakamoto days please, take care of yourself, you are great

FAR FROM ANY ROAD ゜・DG

"And strange hands halted me, the looming shadows danced; I fell down to the thorny brush and felt the trembling hands." And after the numbing day concludes, after the rain swallows all your sorrows, where else do you return if not home? honestly anon when I got this request I was fully wondering whether you meant the full deal of osagiri and was going to write actual assassin reader... then I re read the request. anyways hope you enjoy this short fic because once more I was at a loss whether to write actual headcanons or a scenario.. pairing: diego kang x male reader warnings: canon typical violence, blood, sort of hurt/comfort? not comedic sorry :'( wc: 1.4k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tonight, the rivulets of rain streaming down your body feel particularly heavy. Those drops chase the blood that stains your skin and seeps into your clothes: petrichor battling against the acrid, metallic reek; purification against the concentrated sanguine of your sins and the sins of these assailants. 

In this abandoned construction site, you feel much like these unfinished buildings. A crude facade with crumbling foundations. Of course, the unconscious bodies of these Workers resemble those decrepit structures far more—alas, you’re not referencing their physical state, but rather the slightly-numbed, slightly-exhausted mental state you’re in. 

The bruises and scrapes littering your skin might make any lesser man hiss at his incompetence in guarding his temple, but to you, you absently trace the wounds with curious fascination. One last moment of entertainment, before your fun and games abruptly end. 

“How unpleasant,” you finally utter—the bleak words are washed away by the rain, to be heard by nobody but yourself. It’s always a thrill to perform your Sacred Duty; that is, teaching these wrong-doers a salient lesson that is beaten into their very bones. Your transgressions are only to correct their own sins, not bound to any particular affiliation but yourself. 

Against your injuries, your gelid fingers don’t spark the same warmth he does. It is at this particular moment that the joy completely evaporates, it is at this moment where all you want is to take off the crushing black veil and retreat back home. 

Home. You’ll be late as usual—limping back to the dimly-lit apartment with carmine kissing your knuckles and a frown on your face. 

These hours, where the clouds swirl a rich black, and only the street lamps pity your lonely journey home, no longer feel so welcome. So it's despondently that you start the meander back to the city. 

゜・

It’s early summer when you transfer to his class—almost comically late in the year, James Lee notes. Right on the cusp of the holidays, you stand before your peers with caustically empty eyes and a careful blankness on your face. How dull, he dismisses before crunching down on his candy: an obnoxious gesture that swivels your pupils in his direction. But not much else changes in your face—it seems you’ll be just as boring as his classmates, if not slightly more weird.

Though, as you slip into your seat with almost serpentine grace, as you click your mechanical pencil in such a way he briefly wonders whether you know you’re wielding a writing utensil and not a weapon, as your loping gait starts appearing in the edges of his vision wherever he is—this is where his eyes start following your motions curiously.

These endeavours prove fruitless; you’re a model student, if not subpar to his own vast academic success. There’s nothing noteworthy about your clipped speech, nor about your penchant to eat heaping bowls of food in one serving on the rooftops. Maybe there is that feeling he gets—that you seem to be holding yourself back during sports and other activities—but he’s come to his own conclusion. Boring. And just like that, his interest wanes once more.

It’s in the holidays that he sees you once more. This time, you’re out of uniform and in such peculiar garb he half-believes you’re an apparition: clad in rich black with a veil thrown over your head.  Or at least, he would believe you were a ghost were it not for the heaps of unconscious gang members strewn around you, and the vibrant red staining your fists and face. And when he laughs, when your head finally turns to gaze at the boy at the abandoned parking lot—you look as nonplussed as ever, and that is perhaps the most interesting thing about this ill-fated encounter.

Even with the lacerations cutting deep, you barely wince. Even as he finds you, again and again and again as you’re guts deep in beating these ‘sinners’ up, you barely spare him any greetings as he watches on amusedly. Even as he’s taken to cheering you on from the sidelines, you ignore him just like he did you—though, it’s more matter-of-fact than malicious, like it would be unprofessional to acknowledge him. 

It seems James Lee has found himself a new form of entertainment: all wrapped up neatly in a parcel of a boy with weirdly haunting eyes. 

゜・

But with age, naturally, comes the act of growing up. As he sheds his crimson locks, as he slips on his new moniker and buries his name along with his past, as he finally puts a name on the captivation you’ve bound him in—no longer does he laugh as you throw yourself into danger. 

Rather, with each new scar you accumulate on the vast and brilliant canvas of your skin, he can’t help but feel each pain on his own body. 

This especially bodes true as you stumble across the threshold, back into the lonely recesses of your apartment. It’s a small thing in the suburbs—far from prying eyes that snag on the lace decorating your body, far from those that could pick up on your sins. 

When you shuck off the heavy boots—ever the contrast against the exquisite craftsmanship of your clothing—you want nothing more than to collapse against the cold tiles of the floor. As you take on the more fatal—the more perilous—jobs, the money proportionally increases. 

But you don’t get the chance to sink onto the ground, because warm hands suddenly catch your frigid body just as you’re about to keel over. 

DG, Kang Dagyum, Diego—he’s got many names. James. The man you’ve known for the past three years holds you close to his designer sweater. He willingly lets the plush fabric to be soaked in the sins that trailed in with you: clear, polluted rain, which seems to perfectly encapsulate your sullen mood; mud soaking the hem over your veil; and finally the sanguine, oily blood that never seems to wash off. 

“Sorry.” Guilt eats away at you as you watch the material seep with wickedness. “I ruined it.”

Laconic as ever, you feel worse for staining his clothes than you do for coming home bruised and bleeding. His heart seems as tattered as you look, wrenching and twisting through his flesh while you inhale the powdery scent of his freshly-laundered loungewear. 

“You’re not sorry for coming home to me like this?” he bites out. There’s not a trace of laughter in the tight lines of his mouth—for James can’t find these stupid jobs amusing any more. He makes enough, God knows he makes more than enough, for you to leave this cursed work behind and just stay by his side. 

“Um,” you murmur, and he can practically hear the cogs in your brain whirring as you wonder why he’s not mentioning the deep smears of crimson that assault his outfit. “I can change before coming in—”

“Stop.” He interrupts you with his tight grip on your body and the concerned, devoted glint in his softening eyes. “Can’t you worry about yourself for once?”

His job is harsh within itself: volatility and high-pressure wrapped in one, but the things you do for money are downright punitive. It’s paradoxically comical: a man who’s stained his hands with blood far darker and deeper than you have, versus a pseudo-vigilante whose life revolves around violence. Diego Kang, or more accurately, James Lee conceals his past as though it were a separate entity: while still keeping the dregs of yesteryear with him in the form of you.

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t keep you by him. He’s bound to you instead, he realises through his adoring gaze and tender hands, through the reverent kisses he presses to your glacial arms. 

You still as his fingers card through your skin: past the fragile, wounded dermis; weaving through the sinuous muscles, and past the tangles of veins; and finally, they hold tight on the steady thrum of your pulse. You’re alive. You’re alive and breathing, and your heart is still beating through all those layers. 

Only then does he gaze up at you. None of his past ghosts through his look: neither boredom nor the callous indifference he once regarded you with. He’s been destroyed and reborn anew within these three years, while you still remain the painfully reckless fool. 

He’s no longer James Lee.

No, there’s not a single trace left of the boy who once saw your endless struggle as entertaining: save maybe the part of him that’s always been enraptured by your existence.  

゜・

EXTRAS

DG: …

reader: yeah I beat up those haters who were harassing you on twitter

DG: …

DG: without me 🥺

[raayllum]

Rayla and Callum re: possession plot line + all foreshadowing (s1-s5, supplementary material)

“An assassin doesn’t decide right and wrong. Only life and death.” Rayla parroted the mantra Runaan had so often repeated. She did not know if she was reciting the words to convince the prince that his fate was sealed, or to convince herself to seal it.

(Book One: Sky novelization; 1x02, and 1x04)

“Wow. So they look identical, but they might kill you or they might save you,” Callum said. “Exactly. Just like me…” Rayla smiled.

One more, she thought. Just one more win. A human stepped into the pit. His armor, a weather-beaten but familiar silver-grey with a red collar, told a grim tale: an exile from Katolis. He’d likely fled deeper into Xadia after the battle at the Storm Spire. He was barely taller than Rayla herself, and couldn’t have been older than— —what would he look like now, she wondered? Nearly two years older, a few inches taller— The human’s sword flashed towards her. Rayla sprang away, and the crowd bellowed. [...] The human kicked dirt at her, and Rayla scraped at her eyes, angry—infuriated, even. Humans were frustrating. Humans were clever. Humans could do anything, they could be anything, they could take their own fates and change them— When she blinked her eyes back open, Rayla saw several things at once. In the pit, the human charged forward, sword aloft. And in the crowd behind him, a flash of red. A scarf. For a moment Rayla was somewhere else, far away and safe and warm, following that red scarf instead of turning her back on it— —and then the human’s fist struck her jaw. She shouted in pain. One blade rose instinctively to block another blow, but the human grabbed her wrist and twisted so hard she dropped it. Then he swept a leg under her, catching her by the heels, and before she could breathe again Rayla was on her back in the dirt, staring up at the wooden bones of the ceiling. “Rayla! Wake up, come on! We’re gonna be okay—!” The human stood over her and tapped his blade to her chest. Rayla craned her neck, looking around. The sound came back into the world, and the crowd’s cheering had turned from raucous support to mocking, shrieking laughter. Groaning, she let her head fall back to the dirt. “You win,” she said. [...]

“What was that?! You beat yourself!” Back in Redfeather’s little hovel, Rayla sat in the hammock, arms tight across her chest. Stella, who had been told to stay behind for her own safety, snuggled against her neck and cooed. Rayla fiddled with a little wooden token someone had shoved into her hands as a consolation prize for her victories in the pit. Her fingers traced a carving of a hermit crab on one side and the stark profile of a Tidebound elf on the other. “What happened? Why didn’t you keep fighting?” Rayla took a deep breath. Her ribs ached. “I got distracted.” Redfeather gave a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t they teach you to avoid that kind of thing when you become an assassin?” “That’s different,” she protested, even though her heart knew it wasn’t. It was the same problem every time. Hesitation, sympathy, distraction… all just weakness in a different mask. 

Chasing Shadows, part 2

Rayla pulled the chest back, out of reach, and pressed the curve of one blade to his neck— —and held it there. The human froze, meeting her eyes. He looked afraid. Rayla wanted to hate him, this young Neolandian boy, she wanted to hate him like she hated Viren. She could almost see Viren’s face in his: the white streaks of his hair, the sickly pallor of his skin, the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes. Was he not the same? But what if it was true? A plague, an illness, a wound— “Life is precious. Life is valuable. We take it, but we do not take it lightly.” [...] Rayla looked at the driftwood floor. “Because I messed up. He got away with the rest.” Redfeather sighed. “You hesitated. Like in the Bone Pit.” It stung. She was right, of course. Rayla caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a glass bottle and scowled at herself: the face glowering back at her was not the face of an assassin, and it never would be. [...] Redfeather nodded. “I like you, but you’re still trying to be the person they’ll welcome back home. You’re a Ghost. You can’t be that elf ever again. You have to decide who you are going to be instead. So—who are you?” Rayla balked at her. It was an awful question. She wasn’t an assassin, she wasn’t an elf of the Silvergrove, she wasn’t anything at all, she was just— —“Rayla.” That voice again. Rayla pushed away, trying to focus on Redfeather. “I’m—” “—selfless, strong, and caring—” He persisted, as he always did, and his voice took her far, far away. 

Chasing Shadows, part 3

She has made the princes her best friends and gone on a journey to free every elf and human from such terrible fates.

Rayla's Tales of Xadia bio

[angstywaifu]

The Lost Sister - Part 3

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

A/N: Thank you so much for the love on this story so far. Honestly just did the first part to get the idea into writing. I did not expect for so many of you to want more, especially for my first time writing anything. This one is more filler, but I hope you like it! Also thinking of maybe re writing some of the first part? Will let you guys know if I do! Also some of you asked to be tagged, so if you want to be part of the tag list let me know! The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

The hand that drags be back is loose, just enough force to get me to move. As it spins me around I quickly grab the daggers at the top of my boots and bring them up in a defensive hold in front of me.

”Well that’s new.”

The shadows disappear to reveal Xaden whose hands are in the air while my daggers sit at his throat and stomach. His hand was just over my mouth, how the hell are both his hands in the air?

“I don’t remember teaching you how to fight or give you those daggers.” His eyes flick down to the daggers in my hands. “And I doubt General Melgren gave you those ones.”

The sound of footsteps approaching stops the next question he goes to ask me.

”Why the hell did you ask to-”

The voice cuts off and I turn my head to see Bodhi and Garrick staring at us with a mix of shock at seeing me, but amusement as I hold Xaden at knife point against the pillar. Bodhi is the first to rush towards me. I just have enough time to sheathe the daggers in my belt before he pulls me into a bone crushing hug and spin me around in circles.

”Hey I’m her brother, I should get first hug.” Xaden complains behind me as he watches Bodhi swing me around.

Bodhi stops and lets me go. “Well maybe you should have thought of that before pulling her randomly behind a pillar. Though seeing her hold you at knife point is something I will treasure forever.”

Xaden rolls his eyes at Bodhi before reaching out and pulling me into a hug, resting his chin on top of my head just like he use to. Its almost comforting to know in the five years apart that I haven’t grown tall enough for him to not do this. His hug feels like home and safety. Something I haven’t had since the day Melgren took me.

He pulls away, placing his hands on my shoulders as he looks over me. This is the closet we’ve been since he Melgren revealed me at the Rotunda a few hours ago. The way he looks at me is almost if he’s trying to tell if its really me and not some trick or dream he’s having. His eyes linger on my dyed hair. Growing up our hair was the only thing that matched. The way he looks at it is almost sad. Melgren had encouraged me heavily to change my apperance. Not that anything about me would give away who I was. But probably to play it safe if I did cross paths with any of the rebellion children.

Shuffling feet has Xaden raise his gaze from mine to something behind me. He lightly pushes one of my shoulders to get me to turn around. Still standing where he was when he rounded the pillar is Garrick. Garrick who was mine and Xaden’s closest friend and ally growing up.

He stands there as if he still can’t believe I’m here despite seeing Bodhi and Xaden pull me into hugs. As I walk over to him his eyes follow my every move. As if he’s trying to pick anything that could be off about me. As if Melgren is playing a trick on all of them.

He’s taller than I last saw him, still towering over me with my head barely reaching his shoulder. But besides that and the size and rebellion relic he has gained in the last five years. He’s still Garrick. My Garrick.

I stop in front of him and reach out and place my right hand on his bicep and look into his eyes. As soon as I touch him his eyes soften, and all the emotion he’s been trying to hide is revealed. He moves so fast I barely have time to react. He scoops me up by my waist into hug as I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. The hug goes on way longer than it should do. Way longer than Xaden and Bodhi’s. But they don’t say anything. They just let us have our moment. He finally sets me back on my feet, his hands lingering on my waist. I hear Xaden make an unimpressed noise behind me, but Garrick clearly doesn’t hear it and slightly tightens his grip when I go to move away.

”We thought you were dead little one.” He finally says to me.

Little one. The use of the nickname he always had for me makes my heart skip a beat.

”Sorry to disappoint?” I try to joke.

This earns me a glare from Garrick, clearly not impressed at my joke.

”How did you end up with Melgren?” Xaden asks from behind me.

Garrick finally lets me move out of his grip as I go to lean against the wall and face the three of them.

”I was with dad when they caught up with him.” I say as I look at Xaden.

As far as he knew, dad had sent me away with another family when things started to turn bad with the rebellion. At the time I was barely 15 and had no combat experience. I was an easy target. But instead our father had kept me close to his side. I had been with him when he was caught and taken for interrogation.

”Melgren realised who I was and asked if he could adopt me in a way. I’ve spent the last 5 years here in Basgiath training. From weapons training, obstacle courses to books. To him I was young and naive.”

”To him you couldn’t have possibly understood what was really going on.” Xaden adds, filling in the next part of the story.

I nod. “He wanted to turn me against the rebellion. Against my family. In hopes of when I crossed that parapet, he could use me to gather information.”

A smirk appears on Bodhi’s face. “Clearly he doens’t know you very well.”

I smile back and shake my head, my hair shifting from where it was over my shoulder. Covering the rebellion mark. All their faces shift to anger at the site of it. Xaden goes to rush forward, but Garrick barges past him and moves the rest of my hair while using his other hand to angle my head. Xaden appears at his side looking over the relic. His and Garrick’s face share the same look of dread.

Garrick’s fingers lightly trace the pattern of the relic that ends just under my jawline. His fingers trail down my arm over the shirt I wear. He grabs the bottom of the sleeve and pulls it up. Him and Xaden share I look, and I know what they’re both seeing. I had noticed it in the rotunda the first time I’d seen Xaden.

”It’s the same.” Xaden says quietly as he looks over my relic and then down at his forearm.

The words from last night when I received the relic from Melgren’s dragon echo in my head. “A mark to show who I really am according to Melgren.” I say to the boys as I lower my gaze to where Garrick’s fingers linger on the mark.

“Is that the only mark he gave you?” Xaden asks abruptly, rage evident in his eyes. A rage that confuses me.

I nod my head. “It’s the only one he gave me last night.”

The boys seem relieved at that news as they all share a look amongst each other.

“Bodhi take her to dinner, we’ll be there shortly.” Xaden finally says before motioning for Garrick to follow him.

Garrick reluctantly nods before following Xaden. Before they disappear around the corner Garrick looks over his shoulder at me and smiles, almost as if to check I am still there.

”Let’s get you some food, bet you’re starving after today.” Bodhi says after a few seconds of it being just us and leads me off to the dinning hall, wondering what could be so pressing for Xaden and Garrick to talk about.

Part 4

Tag List:

@going-through-shit

[indigos-stardust]

Violet and Blue Bruises: Catfight

part 1 / part 2/ part 3/ part 4

Expectation:

(used a base found online made by AlexBaxtheDarkness on DeviantArt)

Reality:

Click for higher quality^^ Reblogs appreciated <3

The Tea:

The second that the two made contact, any hope of a somewhat peaceful resolution was lost. Blue immediately tackled Vio.

It was no duel. There's only nasty scraps, pushing, hard hits, and a pathetic scramble for leverage over the other, each barely managing to shift the tides before the other makes another move.

The bruises blossom, painting their skin with every forceful hit against furniture, floor, and bone. Fingers dig into soft skin, deep and piercing. Not as piercing as their f*cking screeching though. Shadow's been a bit bored recently just, sitting there being a shadow, so this? This is glorious.

He isn't quite rooting for Blue even though he still sees Vio as the traitor he is (okay, he understands why Vio betrayed him but still!! it hurt a lot okay?!), but honestly? He was gonna reevaluate all his feelings, because this? This was beautiful.

Sure, the losers spent several minutes practically rolling around like pigs trying to get any easy marks they could, but the second Blue got the upper ground (literally, Blue took a lot better care of himself than Vio and his strength definitely showed it, with how he was able to pin Vio down despite Vio's erratic squirming and clawing) - Oh man, Vio seemed trapped. How nice.

Blah blah blah, " What pissed you?!" blah blah blah garbage from Vio about, "Just giving what's due you dull headed-" and more blah blah blah something about, "YOU"RE SUCH A GREEDY COWARD, you aren't and never were there when we needed you!"

Honestly, where was the real drama? No ironic wordplays?

Blue clearly wanted to get this situation under control. So, he decided to very calmly and reasonably inquire, "WHAT 'S YOUR DAMN PROBLEM YOU STUPID *SS PIECE OF NERD?"

Honestly, Shadow hadn't ever known Blue could be so eloquent! It would be upsetting though if the fight ended this early, so for the first time he offered a small prayer to Hylia. Perhaps she could influence and spur on her pathetic little light worlders to keep the scrap going? And oh did she answer his prayers-

Like poetry in motion, Vio practically pierced Blue's shoulder with a fierce and rapid bite. A perfect twist of the head, just the perfect amount of force- and at the most perfect spot to induce the most pain without any real injury! Shadow had taught him that... He remembered.

F*ck Blue, Vio might suck but this was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen!

Of course, now they were both standing again! And in a new bigger territory! THE LIVING ROOM!!! Shadow hadn't been this thrilled since he died!!

A whirling heavy book smashing against Vio's skull followed a war cry of, "MAYBE THIS"LL TEACH YOU A LESSON ON HOW TO NOT BE A TOTAL D*CK!??" Pure poetry, if Shadow had a mortal form, he'd be wiping tears! Though he doesn't know if it be from laughter or pure joy!

OOH PERFECT THEY SMASHED RED'S NEW MUG? Ohohoho more dangers on the battlefield~~~(not to mention it could spur on another fight for whose fault it was later! this was like what? Red's third "new favorite best mug!" because all his favorite mugs always break?)

Shadow was just enjoying the show, excited for the grand finale- Someone was going to throw a chair!! He had to see how this would end-

The front door slams open. Green busts in, eyes panicked, face flushed. Red anxiously trying to look inside behind the frozen Green.

They freeze.

Oh.

Oh no.

lmso I might make part 4 later today or tomorrow lol

[vidalinav]

(lovingly banging fists on table) sick Nesta! Sick Nesta! Sick Nesta!

Okay, part 1! Though it doesn't include sick Nesta yet.

Oh! Also this is an acofas re-write basically.

~

"Maybe she decided not to come," Elain whispers to Feyre, peering through the window as if that might summon their sister--a ghost in winter white.

Cassian pretends not to overhear, but one look from Rhys tells him they're all aware of the missing Archeron sister who's decided to not grace them with her presence.

Mor claps her hands, moving to stand with a drink in her hand--probably to remind Feyre of birthday wishes and solstice celebrations--that life is not lived staring out of windows. Rhys only takes a sip of his wine, his eyes growing darker as he stares at burning firewood. Ashes and dust collecting at the bottom.

Not for the first time does Cassian wish he could peer into his brother's thoughts, like he can hear into his mind. He has a vague inclination as to what he might find, and Cassian can't help the feeling welling up in his chest, howling like the winter wind.

Nesta said she'd attend, but she's nowhere in sight.

She does have an act for haunting them.

Her absence is here in this room, and no amount of ignoring that simple fact will stop Elain from checking the windows or looking up at the door. Feyre keeps looking at the envelope he knows is filled with money--a bribe for coming to her own sister's birthday.

A bribe for coming to a place she'll know he'll be.

Because he hasn't forgotten that part. Cassian hasn't forgotten how Nesta throws him away, telling him in no uncertain terms she wants nothing to do with him. Nothing but... laying on his body to shield him from a fatal blow.

Nothing but almost dying together.

He can hear the crisp crackling of the fire. A snap and a twist, like bones and blood. A war that took from them all--but somehow left a ghost where Nesta Archeron used to be.

"She said she'd come," Feyre says, certainty in her voice. A certainty that no one in this room must share--not even Cassian who keeps thinking of her name as if that alone will call her forth.

Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.

The wind howls it.

Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.

The winter sings it.

Where must Nesta Archeron be?

"Do you think something happened to her?"

"I'll go look for her," Cassian says, standing abruptly in response to Elain's question.

Amren scoffs, sniffing at her drink like it might be blood. He wonders if she wishes she still had a taste for it. "You're probably the last she wants to see."

Cassian looks to Elain and then to Feyre, who stands by the door, the envelope tucked closely in her hand. "Do you want to go look for her?"

Mor huffs, grasping Feyre's arm. "It's Feyre's birthday. Should we not celebrate? Azriel can send his shadows."

At the mention of his name, Azriel peers towards him. Cassian can't read his mind, but he thinks he knows what that look means--knows that it's something he'll never say aloud.

"You should go," Azriel says, his voice strong if not quiet.

"But you'll be missing the celebration!"

Feyre only looks to Cassian at the words, her look stern and commanding. He is her loyal soldier after all.

"I want her here," she says.

It's Elain who offers her sister reprieve, a placating, soft palm resting on Feyre's shoulder. "What if she doesn't want to come?"

"She doesn't have a choice," Rhys grits out from his seat on the couch, his drink swirling in his hand. Cassian thinks of tornados and storms, a rumbling earthquake trapped in glass.

Feyre stands taller as she faces her mate. "She'll always have a choice."

Cassian doesn't wait to hear Rhys grumble or his muttering apologies or what he'll say about Nesta. He doesn't know if Rhys will keep quiet or not, but something tells him his brother is getting close to putting his foot in his mouth rather than biting his tongue.

So Cassian goes for his coat, and the scarf he knows Elain had meant to gift Nesta at the beginning of the season. It sits in the closet collecting dust, and so too does her name in his mind--calling and echoing, never silent. Never answered.

"Take my coat, too," Feyre calls. "Just in case."

Cassian gives one firm nod at his high lady, one grimace to her sister, and one glance to his family who look at him as if they've never quite seen him before. A look he's seen plenty. A look that means they just don't understand why.

Cassian isn't sure himself, if he's honest.

Or perhaps, it just hurts too much to be honest.

That this human turned fae, this woman turned saint, cauldron blessed or cursed, had not just taken from the cauldron.

She had taken his entire soul with her too.

~

He finds her lying in the snow with a fever in the next part. bye!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Do you write nsfw fics? If so could you write a Price x Reader based off the song “Guys My Age” by Hey Violet please and thank you :)

Lustful Gold and a Crimson-Stained Tongue

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be simple -- an intel Op. in some Russian Arms Dealer's mansion. Hell, you were actually looking forward to it, especially with the way John was undressing you with his eyes. You hoped that the red silk dress you had gotten made it through the night. (18+)

Word Count: 9.9k

Warnings: Attempted SA, NSFW, Porn with Plot, smut, angst, fluff, praise kink, blood kink (?) (Not really but Idk), saliva, lots of fluids, P in V, dry humping, age gap

A/N: This is literally a virgin writing smut for the first time so it's legally obligated to be cringe -- but thank you for giving me the opportunity (I've crossed a line that I can't go back over). I took a bit of creative liberty with the request, so it's slightly different than what you might expect. Anyways, enjoy, Anon!

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

“Tilt your head to the side for me, Love,” John mutters, eyebrows turned in as he holds a black earpiece in his fingers before placing the device into where you would need it delicately; making sure it wouldn’t fall out, “There we are.”

“John,” You scoff softly, “You’re holding me like I’m going to be crucified and not just going to a dinner party to get intel.” 

“What kind of man would I be if I didn’t worry about my girl?” He raises a brow, taking a step back from where he had you tight up against his chest, “A piss poor one, I’d say.”

You stifle a laugh, eyes crinkling at the sides as your cheeks heat with love and gratitude. It felt good to be suffocated by his careful nature – even if that didn’t really sound appealing. You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Now,” John crosses his arms, nodding his head as the black beanie on his head lightly tilts at the action, “Let me see you, Sweetheart.” 

“What, do you want me to do a spin too, you pervert?” You were dressed to the nines, gold gleaming around your neck and wrists, elaborate braids twisting part of your hair to rest in a bun while the rest falls to shroud the black device that lies dormant in your right ear. It’ll come to life shortly – when you finally make your way to the mission sight; the location was some rich asshole’s mansion. 

No doubt the party you were going to was nothing more than an excuse to boost the target’s ego with grand displays of money and sultry attendants. It sounded positively enticing, you thought – though, John was making it quite difficult to want to leave with how he was undressing you with his eyes. 

Around your body, a tight-fitting red silk dress hugged you just right, accenting everything good about you and showing off enough to entice anyone with a functioning brain. Fuck, the way it wrapped your hips made even you drool; the dripping neckline was perfectly eye-catching as well. John had told you that you looked like a goddess before you had even put it on, but he seemed to want to say more when he watched you slip into it smoothly, the practiced fluidity in your bones helping you move sensually. 

The man had been laying naked on the hotel bed with nothing more than a thin bed sheet wrapped around his sculpted pelvis, the rest of the fabric hanging off the side and pooling on the floor. A cigar had been held loosely in his lips, and when you turned to ask his opinion, he nearly dropped it with the way his mouth had opened. 

Your ego had taken a steep incline as the Captain’s pupils had dilated, turning that shade of storm blue as dark as the shadows outside the window. Unconsciously, you had rubbed your thighs together to stop the pooling heat that beings to form as his lower half jerked instinctually from the bed. You weren’t even sure he noticed his physical reaction.

“Fuck,” John mutters in front of you, bringing you back to the present. He lets his eyes trail slowly, “Doll, I’d bloody pay you to do anything you want to me.” A smirk filters from your lips.

“You really like the dress, don’t you, hm?” 

He doesn’t hesitate, “Yeah, lie of the century, that is,” You raise a brow, confusion leaking into your beating pulse as he saunters closer with a sway in his alluring hips. The packs and objects on his black combat vest press into your upper stomach as he leans into you, carefully shoving you back into the body-length mirror attached to the wall. John leans close, his breath fanning over the hot skin of your exposed neck; the rouge of your painted lips open as your lungs tighten with expectation. You want desperately to shove him back into bed and rip his damn gear off. Or maybe just let him fuck you with it on, really…you lusted over that shit, “I bloody fucken’ love it.”

His lips find your pulse point, moving the gold necklace farther up your skin with his nose, causing your head to slam back into the mirror with a muffled thump. John chuckles as you eagerly open your neck to him more, glancing at your face from the side. Your heart was beating like a lion’s, being able to be seen through the thin silk.

“Eager, are we? I thought I had tired you out not an hour ago?” 

You had, You had wanted to say, but only a needy whimper falls from your lips as his teeth graze your skin. The ache from your prior activities was set deep into your thighs and lower body, making a promise to cause hell when you have to walk in heels soon. 

But, God, did you love it.

Your hand weaves its way under John’s black athletic shirt, finding the tight available skin and digging your red acrylic nails over it. You force the man forward, his deep-chested grunt leading to a full-body shiver not a second later. Something hard and solid presses into your abdomen and you look up at him with half-lidded eyes, panting as a trail of saliva follows John as he pulls back from your neck to watch you.

“Who’s eager now, Captain?” John’s hands snap to your thighs, smirking as he’s dragging one to his waist. You lick your lips as he presses deeply into you with his clothed erection, making the heat in your core burst into a raging fire at the stiffness, a slick feeling coating your panties. Your thigh comes to rest on his waistline, and he holds it there with an iron hand.

“John,” You whimper as he begins to move you, lightly rocking back and forth as your hips jerk to meet his.

“Fuck,” He groans, pressing his forehead to your own as he grips your waist tight with his free hand. The man pulls your thigh into him with every thrust, fingers digging so hard the skin is already indented, “If only you could see yourself, Love,” A low whimper enters the air, muffled when John connects his lips with yours with heavy open-mouth kisses as his beard rubs over your flesh. The both of you move in sync, using the other to get off as quickly and as cleanly as possible in the limited time. The zipper of his pants connects with your bundle of nerves, making you moan and writhe against him like a bitch in heat. John pulls back to grunt into your mouth as his hips press you farther into the mirror with a particularly hard thrust once more, making sure to hit that spot again. Always so attentive. Your back arches as you keen breathily, hands roaming his abdomen and digging into the muscle there to ground yourself as you rut. The slick in your panties drips down your free leg in a disgustingly pleasurable tear, “Fucken’ perfect in that dress.” 

That’s when there’s a knock on the door. 

Snapping out of your hazes, you both whip back to stare at each other with wide eyes before your heads turn to the door. The fire stills, pauses, unsure if you both should continue. You want to. Your breasts are pressed tightly to John’s chest, and every breath makes you want the Captain to grip them in his hands and squeeze. 

“...You two had better be decent!” Gaz’s voice wafts in from under the crack, making both of your eyes widen comedically, “The rest of us had to plug earbuds in to drown out the sounds from an hour ago. Honestly…the pair of you can’t go a few bloody minutes without fucking?”

Your face heats, twin scorching suns taking home over your cheeks. Immediately, all thoughts of lust are shut off like being doused with a bucket of cold water.

Still leaning into you, John groans, leading his body to vibrate perfectly. You stifle a needy whine as your hips rock once more, slick beginning to uncomfortably drip to the side of your knee. You would have to change your underwear before you left. And redo your makeup. 

“Fuck off, Sergeant, before I come out there.”

“I’d rather you don’t come anywhere, Sir.” Slapping a hand over your mouth you try to stifle the loud bark of laughter that finds the air, the shadow under the door slinks off with a finishing call of, “Laswell said five minutes before we leave, yeah?!” 

Your chest vibrates with humor, head lightly meeting John’s chest as he lowers your thigh and lets you place your foot on the ground. Laughing, you feel the man’s arms wrap around your body pulling you to gently sway back and forth. 

“Damn the boy,” Price mutters into your head, “Should put him on desk duty for a month for that.”

“Oh, come on,” You respond, pulling back to look at him with a smile as your eyes light, “That was funny.” 

“Hm,” he rests his bearded chin on your forehead, the small bristles getting caught in some of your baby hairs as he lays a gentle kiss on your skin.

You both stay like that for a minute or two, content as you listen to the heavy beating of each other’s hearts and the slight pants of air falling from your lips. The lustful heat was dead, and in its place duty grew. 

It was time to get to work. 

—

“Price?” You tilt your head to the side, slipping the gold and diamond earrings on as you whisper into the earpiece, “What are the chances that I can steal some of the appetizers and stuff them into my handbag?”

“I’d say less than probable, Love.” Layered behind John’s amused voice, Laswell pipes up, the sound of shifting bodies letting you know that many people were waiting on you to exit the Limo. You had no idea how they could see you but were put at ease that they were able to.

“You’ll have plenty of time to eat later, Bravo 1-6, no need to worry. Let’s just focus on the mission for now.” You pouted as Kate spoke, newly applied lipstick pulling at your skin as you moved your hands away from your ears and fixed your strands of hair. Under you, the leather seats of the vehicle are insanely comfortable.

“You guys are no fun.” Sighing, your hands stop their fiddling, falling to your lap as you huff, “If the silverware is gold plaited you bet your ass I’m shoving it down my bra – and I don’t care how much you complain, I’m taking it.”

Just as you stop plotting your mini heist, the car door to your right opens with a pop, snapping your thoughts back to the task at hand.

A tall Doorman your age is on the outside, dressed in a handsome black suit and red bowtie as the chilled night air seeps into the car. He holds out a hand to you, and after a second of hesitation, you plaster an innocent smile on your face; eyelids fluttering prettily. It was shocking how fast you could change your outward attitude. 

“Oh,” You purr, head tilting, “Such a gentleman. Thank you, Sweetheart.” Placing your hand in his, your jewelry jangles as the Doorman helps you out of the car, carefully gripping your hand in his own gloved one. 

“Erm…I-Invitation, Ma’am.” He mutters, face amusingly red as he stares at you; unable to make eye contact for more than three seconds. He drops his hand but leaves it outstretched as you take a step away from the vehicle.

You smirk.

“Of course,” Flicking your tiny handbag open with nimble fingers, your hand delves inside. The smooth surface of a stamped envelope connects with your searching digits, but your knuckles tantalizingly brush the tiny knife sewn into the lining of your bag. With a giggle, you grab the invitation and hold it out. In your grip, it’s held loosely between your pointer and middle finger. You tilt your head as he takes it.

“I’ve heard Mr. Bogdanov throws the most wonderful events – when I’d been told, I forced my father to get me an invitation to the next. Can you believe he almost denied me?” Bringing a hand to your mouth, you cover the convincing laugh that meets the chilled air politely, “Insanity! As if I could miss this!”

God, You think to yourself, this is humiliating. John and the others always get the fun jobs. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” The Doorman, “Mr. Bogdanov is always happy to see new faces on his estate. Especially ones as beautiful as yours.” 

Your earpiece crackles for a moment, and you swore you heard John mutter, “Muppet,” into your earlobe. 

Stifling a violent snort, you shuffle your heeled feet.  

“Oh,” You watch the Doorman check the invitation, flicking it open and checking the signature on the bottom with flushed cheeks as he blatantly moves to stare at your clothed breasts, “Flatterer.”

“You’re all good, Ma’am,” He clears his throat, shakily handing you back the paper, “Enjoy your night.” 

Snatching the invitation, you smile his way before walking up the red-carpeted stairs ahead, hearing muttered conversations flowing out into the night. You try not to ogle at the humongous house that the Target has, multiple stories and windows larger than a damn tree coupled with white paint. The front garden alone was the size of multiple football fields.

“...This place is definitely in that ‘World's Top Ten Biggest Houses’ video online.” 

Gaz’s voice chuckles through the line, making your lip quirk.

“I think I’ve seen that one before!”

“The both of you are chaos incarnate.” 

“Damn right, Laswell,” You murmur, eyebrows furrowing at the radio silence from John. He was usually hyping you up by now, whispering in that husky voice to leave you flustered. It was your favorite part of these missions – his grumble in your head leaving your lungs heaving and cheeks hot. 

So this attitude was very confusing, to say the least, but you can’t dwell on it. The front doors open as you walk up to them; butlers waiting outside for the guests – all excellently dressed. 

Their eyes boggle out of their heads when they see you, and skurry to make sure you don’t have to wait outside any longer. 

“Thank you, boys,” You sing, waving a hand as you saunter past, enjoying the attention but wishing it was from someone else. 

This would have been so much more fun if John was here. He would have made jokes about everyone's outfits with me. 

Your chest tightens, and you frown. Something was wrong with your Captain, you knew it. Not able to handle it any longer as your heels click over marble and the laughs and sounds of conversation get closer, you speak.

“John,” You clutch your handbag, eyes flickering back and forth, “You with me?” 

“...Sorry, Bravo 1-6,” Kate’s voice is not the one you want to hear right now, “Price said he had to step out for a moment.”

“What–?!”

“Ahh, and who might this be,” Sputtering, the sudden deep Russian voice to your side makes you reel, head snapping to the side, “Such a stunning woman…unfortunately, it seems I don’t know your name, лисичка.”

“A-Allegra Bayley, daughter of Braylon Bayley,” You find yourself answering with the fake name and family you had been given hours earlier, “and who might you…” Trailing off, your eyes widen slowly. Staring at the sharply dressed man two times bigger than a bear, with muscles so large the suit nearly looks like it’ll rip, you feel your hands get sweaty; you grip your handbag tighter. He’s so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face. 

You wish you hadn’t.

Not that the gargantuan stranger wasn’t handsome - in a rugged sort of criminal type of way because his nose had been obviously broken multiple times – it's that you had seen his dead eyes before: staring back at you from the confines of a manila folder Laswell had slid over to you two weeks ago. The Target. 

Kazimir Bogdanov, Your heart picks up speed, pulsing like a rabbit’s behind its fur – only you had no fur. The only thing over you was a thin dress of flowing silk and gold jewelry. The tiny knife in your bag wouldn’t do much against him. Suddenly, you desperately wanted John’s thick leather jacket and beanie to cover your skin; confidence slowly leaking because of the glint in Bogdanov’s icy eyes. 

No…you just wanted John; his heavy presence behind you, like a watchdog ready to strike at any threat to come near you, only held back by a thin shred of decency that develops in your presence. You wanted him to be there to back you up, but with tight shoulders, you knew he wasn’t – only open-air and the scent of expensive perfume and money encompassed you.

You were on your own.

Kazimir is a weapons dealer with ties to multiple foreign terror organizations throughout the entire world – playing every side and never coming out physically covered in blood because of business. Metaphorically speaking, the man was drowning in crimson. 

The number of deaths he had caused was astronomical and rising by the day.

“Mr. Bogdanov,” A sweet smile slips to your lips, but your heart tells you to run. You had expected time to get the layout of the mansion, mingle, and get used to the environment. Hell, you still needed to figure out where the food was! You’d barely gotten through the giant fucking doors! This wasn't good.

The earpiece picks up a sharp inhale from the line, bodies shifting, and a muffled call to someone. 

“It’s a pleasure. Please,” You frown, shaking your head and waving an arm, “Forgive my incompetence. The majesty of your estate…well…It’s blinded me. I’m utterly entranced.”

“You said you were Braylon Bayley’s daughter, yes?” Kazimir murmurs, fixing the red tie around his neck with ringed fingers as thick as branches, “I remember he had sons,” Narrowing his eyes, you try your best not to panic, “but he never mentioned a daughter to me.”

“Oh, You know how fathers are. The bastard kept me from everyone,” You reply lightly leaning forward and bringing two hands to the side of your lips, “Business, you know. Tricky stuff.”

“Hm,” The Russian grunts, and his biceps tense for a moment. He watches you like a piece of meat, eyes trailing up and down as he smirks. The various scars over his face twist, “Mr. Bayley has been incredibly generous this year with his erm, donations…I can’t think of a better way to repay him than to entertain his lovely лисичка for the night. Please, accompany me.” 

You blink innocently and pull your lips back into a naive smile, imagining John giving you that look instead and letting heat flood your cheeks as a result. 

“I’d love nothing more.” 

He talks about taking you to a lounge, walking with your hand in the crook of his arm as you pass envious onlookers that burn you with their eyes and sneers. You try not to look so nervous but can’t help the way your heart pounds. The jewelry on your wrists and neck glint as if to try and comfort you; offering winks with their tiny diamond eyes.

As if it were so easy to turn off all of your emotions and be as numb as gold.

Maybe this had been a mistake.

The earpiece crackles, “Get him to talk about his latest deal,” Laswell murmurs to you, “I want details; you can’t leave until he mentions his buyer.”

“Or if you feel like you’ve been burned,” Gaz pipes in and you hear a rustle of fabric, “Your safety is the highest priority, Ma’am. Don’t jeopardize it just for the mission,” Then, jokingly, “The Captain would wring my neck.”

He’d do more than that, You want to answer, but hold your tongue, only sighing as you pass a grand table filled with amazing-looking food. Studying it longingly, Kazimir hurries you past with a comment on how ravishing you look in red – even going so far as to say it's his favorite color. It doesn’t really surprise you.

You want John to tell you you would be okay, but his voice never filters through the wavelengths, never graces your ears like an intimate murmur. Only cruel static.

It only serves to make you more anxious. 

Where is my John, You wonder, but can’t dwell on the twisting feeling in your gut before you’re brought to a couch in the corner of the main room, a small group of mingling guests glancing you over before smirking and sending whispers to their dates, Why did I agree to this?

“I must say, Mr. Bogdanov,” You sit when the man holds out a hand for you, motioning you to the soft velvet cushions, “I am quite impressed with the scale of your extravagance. So many rooms so beautifully decorated and furnished. I can’t help but wonder if my father’s donations to your business may be put to use in other places.” 

Grinning to show you partially thought it was a poor attempt at conversation, he takes a seat right beside you, body heat making your skin crawl. Kazimir had placed his frame closer to yours than you would have expected. Shifting yourself slightly away, your opposite arm hits the wooden armrest with a dull thud. 

The guests leave the room.

When the Russian talks you feel the vibrations of his voice from where he keeps contact with you. 

 I want John’s leather jacket, You tell yourself this once more before you scratch at your neck. Afterward, you disguise the nervous gesture with the outward appearance that you were fixing your hair. Feeling slick sweat dribbling down your spine, you can’t help but wonder if you had just walked into a monster den without a sword.

“I assure you,” Kazimir murmurs, sliding a hand over the back of the couch and leaning his body into yours, pressing you into the armrest with his vile build, “All investments are going exactly where your father instructed, лисичка. I’m simply the middle man, you understand, yes?” 

He laughs, and you swallow the bile in your throat. You attempt a small smile, though, your eyes certainly give you away, not to mention the tension in your body.

Get the job done, Your fingers shake, and you clutch them over your handbag in your lap to try and get them to stop, Get it done and leave. You’ll be fine. It’s gonna be alright.

But his hand was touching your shoulder now, slipping over the straps of the silk dress you had loved. You want to throw up. 

In your ear the device jolts to life, your name uttered and nearly missed by Gaz, who begins to plead with Laswell. They undoubtedly know what’s going on. They’re not stupid to Kazimir’s ways with women.

“..Tell her to get the hell out of there! Move in or something – let me kill the bastard myself, Kate!”

 “We can’t move in,” Laswell sounds concerned, “We don’t have anyone else on the inside right now – and we need to know where the weapons are being distributed from.” 

“Bullshit! We’ll figure it out another time!”

You don’t need to be a genius to know the answer to that comment. There wouldn’t be a ‘next time.’ Hundreds of people could be dead in a day if you don’t find out where Bogdanov’s current stock from your ‘father’ is being sold. 

“I can’t help but wonder,” You clear your throat, pushing aside your discomfort and leaning into the man’s hold, letting loose a girlish giggle as you flicker your eyelashes up at him. Just pretend, “Where is it that you’re sending your product? My father never told me and I hate being left out of the loop. He’s such a stickler for me never being involved in the family business.”

Before this moment you hadn’t realized that Kazimir Bogdanov was barely older than yourself. He wasn’t an old man at all, nor was he John’s age. The Russian was perhaps only one or two years your senior. 

He looked down at you with dilated pupils, staring at your visible skin and the red off your lips. Bogdanov’s tongue flicks at the side of his mouth. 

“Any why would I tell you that, Little Allegra Bayley? It is not ideal to discuss work at a party – you should drink, eat…partake in more carnal pleasures.” His finger traces your shoulder blades, creating small circles. 

“Because I want you too,” You smirk, whispering the words out with a slow sigh, “Because I asked so nicely to such a handsomely dangerous man like yourself?”

“Hm,” He murmurs, caught like a rat in a trap. His file had been right. 

He had a horrible idea that women couldn’t be involved in a line of work such as his – be smart enough to play his game. He underestimates the lengths you would go to bring him to his grave.

Kazimir is hanging off your skin like a man starved, gripping your flesh with his large hands. Like a blood-drowned mouse in a golden trap made of jeweled teeth and a diamond snare.

“I’m a snoop,” You soften your features, “My old man’s activities are…exciting to me. And I have a right to know, don’t I?” You flutter your eyelashes, putting on a pout. 

Your heart was nearly breaking your ribcage open, the bones feeling like they were flaring out like birds wings. 

“Лисичка,” Bogdanov leans in so close you could smell his musk, the breath playing off his lips, “Already prying me for information into family business. Not very innocent, are you?” He pauses, eyes lowering to your body pressed against him. He shifts his leg, watching your body move in reaction. He spills, “I believe the products were sold to a woman named Valdana Rojanić in Montenegro. Nasty stuff she plans to do – but it’s not my war, no?”

“Bravo 1-6, get the hell out of there,” Laswell barks down the line, causing you to flinch as the immediate sound of someone else shouting over the line finds your ear.

“What in the bloody hell do you mean she’s already talking to him?!” 

“John…” You mutter out loud, eyes blinking as a breath of fresh air enters your lungs at the noise of rushing feet and hands sliding across a table harshly.

“What was that?” Kazimir’s eyebrows crease, face pulling back into a snarl, “Who is–”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bogdanov, but I really have to use your restroom,” Tilting your head in a display of pure regret, you stutter, “I hate to embarrass myself like this, but I have a horribly small bladder.” 

You try not to cringe at the blatant lie.

Kazimir pulls back with a dark face, and you stand to shaky feet quickly, clutching your handbag in such a grip the fabric indents. 

You make it about four steps before a hand latches onto your forearm, making you suck in a sharp breath as John’s perfectly gravelly voice wafts from the earpiece, oblivious to your panicked pulse and wide eyes.

“Love,” His voice seems breathless as another hand snaps over your mouth to muffle a shout of alarm, “I’m so fucken’ sorry. One word and I’ll blow cover and come get you myself, eh?” A pause and a nervous chuckle, and you can’t respond because you’re bringing an elbow up behind you, snapping it into the Russian’s spleen with a violent blow. Except his arm doesn’t let go, “…Love?” You unclasp your handbag with one hand as black dots swim in your vision. John knows you best – you’d never not respond to him on a mission like this, even if you were angry, “Love…! Shit, Laswell, she’s burned! Sergeant – you’re on me! I want that Muppet’s house on lockdown, now!

—

You sit on your hotel room floor covered in blood. Not your own, of course, but with the way you were shaking, you would think it was. 

The locked door handle jiggles, and your eyes slowly travel to it – mind sluggish and still trying to process what had happened. You had killed Kazimir Bogdanov; shoved your tiny knife deep into the sinuses of his neck and felt the spray of his Carotid Artery’s blood splatter your nose and cheeks.

This shouldn’t be getting to you – how many men and women have you killed in your career? Hundreds…no, thousands. It shouldn’t affect you anymore. It doesn’t.

Kazimir was a bad man, You try to reason with yourself as you watch the doorknob once more move back and forth, he deserved what he got. No one will be sad over his death. 

So why were tears running down your face? Dribbling to the carpet like little bullets of your own self-loathing? It wasn’t because of the Russian, you knew.

“Doll…?” John’s soft voice comes from under the door, his boots making shadows in the hallway light as they shuffle. His knuckles lightly wrap against the barrier separating him from you, “You still in there? Can you open the door for me?”

You stare at the woodgrain of the door, making patterns and finding faces in the dark lines. Bringing a hand up to your face, you swipe at your tears, only serving to spread the blood into long streaks up your cheeks. 

John speaks your name, clearing his throat, “Please, I…I need you to open the door, Sweetheart. I’ve gotta make this right.”

His voice prompts you to move your shaking legs, standing and feeling the silk of your dress caress you like a second skin. You don’t want to wear it anymore, but you don’t have the energy to take it off by yourself.

Padding over to the door, your hand lays heavy on the lock, studying the red stains on your hands as they leave trails on the copper metal. You can hear John’s breath on the other side of the thin wood, the sound of his hand meeting the back of his neck, running over the flesh. He did that when he was nervous, a small tick you had been fortunate enough to learn over the years you two had been together. You knew him like a bird knew the sky, flew along the headwinds of his mind with sturdy wings without fear of divebombing; the two of you worked so well as a pair many already thought you were married. 

There was one thing you could know even when you were reduced to this. John loved you; you loved John. 

You flick the lock and hear the defending click as a deep silence covers the room. But the tall man outside the door waited for you to open the barrier between the two of you, even though you knew his heart was racing to break it down. Grabbing the knob, you slowly twist until the door draws back, only half of your face visible from the hallway. 

John’s face immediately comes into view, a black beanie over his head and still in his dark tactical gear, the black undershirt absorbing all the light that met it. His small blue eyes are creased, and when his gaze travels the gore on your face he frowns deeply, fingers twitching at his sides. 

You blink at him when he calmly takes a single step forward, grabbing onto the door frame. He doesn’t ask how you are, but the man was just about the smartest person you’ve ever known. He knows you’re not okay.

“Let’s get all that off you, eh, Love?” John nods his head at you, beard pulling as he tries to give you a small smile to mask the obvious concern at the blankness of your eyes, “Get my girl cleaned up.” 

He scans your body, looking for injuries, and you’re brought back to the events in the car that had transpired not fifteen minutes earlier. 

You had yelled at him, still dripping in blood as the car peeled out of the estate even as John was frantically moving his hands over your body, checking for open wounds. His eyes had been wild, and he took you throwing your anger at him with a stiff face, looking at the deep bruising over your forearm and the red of your neck seriously. His eyebrows had furrowed as rage swelled. Ripping your hand away from him you screamed with shaking limbs, where the hell were you?! 

You were never mad about fucking Kazimir Bogdanov or what he did to you, you were mad that John – your lover and best friend – had left you alone. You had told him before, that on missions like these, you wanted him on the line the entire time; not only for the company but because he gave you a sense of safety in the way he spoke to you that you couldn’t give yourself. Not when everyone was looking at you like a slice of dessert.

John hadn’t been able to meet your eyes the entire ride back, and when you had locked yourself in the hotel room he had offered a small, “Doll…I…” Before you had slammed the door in his face.

Now, though, it felt good to feel his hand on your shoulder, lightly pulling you back into the room as he murmured softly into the air. He let you sit on the bed, guiding you as your bare feet stumble for a moment before your backside hits a soft mattress. You wished you could go back to the time before the mission – when John had laid with you under the covers and trailed his fingertips over your heated skin, your legs wrapped around his tapered waistline as he hit all the right spots and whispered dirty paise in your ears. 

Good girl, He had grunted into your neck, panting and biting into the sweaty skin like a feral animal, leaving you sobbing with pleasure, His beard had burned so delightfully as it ravaged your skin, leaving it pulsing. Your body was trying desperately to move in tandem with John’s own devastating pace; hips instinctually trembling to meet his slick-stained pelvis, dripping from previous rounds, look at you, eh, trying so hard to keep up. Keep me in that cunt of yours. My good fucken’ girl. S-so good.

Blinking away the heat that grows in your navel, you shift, noticing John had gone off and returned with a wet rag from the bathroom; his tactical vest was off, and leaning on the bed on the floor. You hadn’t even seen him take it off. Hitting it with your toe lightly, you make it fall sideways with a muffled thump and a clinking of metal.

John attempts a chuckle as he stops ahead of you, crouching down and placing his hands in the middle of his open legs as his elbows rest on his knees. He takes a deep breath in.

“Not a fan, Sweetheart? I can move it farther if you want?”

“Where were you,” You whisper, voice hoarse. Pulling the fraying ends of your strength together you look up at him, “I needed you there with me for this…You disappeared, John.” 

You just wanted to understand; just wanted the tightness of your chest to go away.

Your Captain stares up at you for a moment before he blinks, tilting his head to look to the side; away from you. A flash of red-hot guilt overtook his ocean-blue orbs as you see him glare at the side table like he could set the wood alight with his repressed hatred for himself. 

“I’m sorry, Love. Don’t…don’t think any less of me, eh?” He chokes out, chest jerking with a humorless grunt, and his face turns back to you. Pausing, you find embarrassment heating his bearded cheeks, eyes unable to meet yours. John takes your hands in his own, bringing the rag up to begin peeling away the dried blood around your palms, “It’s…ah, It’s not an excuse, I know, but I…”

“John?” You murmur, bringing a hand up from his grip in concern to tilt his head. You hold a finger under his chin, liking the way his coarse beard itches you as you prompt him to stare you in the eyes. This was unlike him – John was never… embarrassed. Not like this at least, “What happened?”

John clenches his jaw, taking his hand not holding the rag, and carefully grabbing your digits before bringing them to his lips and holding them there. He lays a gentle kiss before he starts, uttering softly his secret into your skin.

“I just realized that maybe you would be better off with someone who wasn’t…” He trails, “...Someone who could treat you better. Give you what you want.”

What, your face must show your genuine confusion because John lets a tiny smile flicker over his lips before he goes back to cleaning your hand, Where had this come from.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your eyebrows crease, shivering as the rag goes up to your elbow, caressing the sensitive skin and drawing the large man closer to you as his heat sinks into you. His chest brushes your leg, leading you to move your limbs apart and under his armpits to rest your feet on his hip bones. The muscles of his toned thighs tense as you brush over them, and he sends you a glance.

His eyes soften.

“Someone more your age, Love.”

You immediately huff incredulously, not even realizing that you had come out of your stupor at the baffling comment from the man you loved more than anything. 

My John? Insecure about himself? Your face twists, is this because of the people who were at the party? No, you can’t have that. Not your beloved Captain.

Grumbling with genuine denial, you grab John’s hairy cheeks, dragging him to you so swiftly that he grunts in surprise; eyes flashing with those flecks of sea glass. Your legs wrap around his back, locking at the ankles, and you feel his broad body flex and writhe as his hands immediately snap to your hips, dropping the rag to the floor with a wet thwap.

John gazes up at you with blown-wide eyes, mouth slightly open as the beanie on his head bounces at the action.

In his gargantuan hands he bunches the silk of your dress which is now shoved all the way up to your waist; creasing it, and you suck in a sharp breath as his beating heart is pressed directly into the fabric of your panties. Your nerves get set alight, heat building to a steady simmer in your gut that makes your thighs flex and your pupils dilate until little of the color is visible. 

You bring John’s face up to yours, twiddling your fingers into his beard and running your thumbs back and forth over his cheeks. He swallows thickly as you lean down, stopping just as your lips are able to brush over his own. You keep your eyes locked on his as you growl out.

“Any why would I want anyone that wasn’t you?” Your eyebrow raises as John gapes up at you, “Do you think anyone would be able to make me feel the way you do? The Doorman? The Butlers?” You scoff, and John licks his lips as his grip on your waist tightens. You know he wants to drag you to him, but you want him to wait, “All they did was ogle at my breasts and skin like horny teenagers,” John grunts, eyes flashing dangerously, and his heart is beating so fast in his peck that you roll your hips against his available body, gold jewelry shimmering in the dimed overhead light. The man responds by breathing out a shaky sigh, content with the feeling of you rutting on him. You knew it turned him on, though his bulge was hidden by the frame of the bed below you.

“Do you want to know something, John,” You mutter over his lips, and he hums, chest vibrating perfectly as you suck down a whimper through red-painted lips. He smirks, “Guys my age just don’t know how to treat me like you do. They can’t make me feel like this with just a fucking look.” 

John slides one hand down to your parted legs as the other goes to the small of your back, gliding over silk sensually and maintaining eye contact as you both pant into each other. Your hands tighten over his cheeks as his sturdy digits delve into the space between the two of you before they finally press against the drowned fabric of your panties. You had already leaked through them.

He hisses in a breath, and before you can even realize what’s happening, your legs are being gripped tightly, and your back hits the mattress as a gasp escapes you. 

“Little Minx,” John manhandles your body, pulling you to him as you let him peel the dress father up your body, pooling just above the swell of your breasts. Your hands grip the sheets as your Captain keeps your legs wrapped around him. He stands. 

“John,” You whimper as he grips the edge of his athletic shirt with a heavy hand, ripping it off like the article of clothing offended him. His hat falls with the black fabric to the floor as the broad frame of his chiseled abs comes into view, pale skin marred with scars and burns. The sharp ‘v’ of his pelvis makes you constrict around nothing, “I...”

“Tell me what you want, Love,” He grinds his tented cargo pants against your core, one of his large palms coming down to grip your breasts under the silk as the other plays with the band of your underwear, “Speak to me.”

“I-I’m all bloody,” You moan when his hand grips you tighter, already sensitive skin now feeling like a live wire. His hips continue to rut against you, and tension is pleasurably building as he hits that bundle of nerves every time. Your chest rises and falls swiftly as your eyes flutter.

John chuckles deeply, shaking his head. Already so worked up.

“Oh, Love, I’ve fucked you covered in worse. I’ll clean you up just fine…make sure every trace of another man is completely erased from your skin – from your mind,” He bends over you, hand trailing down your abdomen to meet where he grinds into you. He presses into your covered clit with his thumb, rolling in small circles. You gasp, back arching up into him as ecstasy makes your legs tighten. One of your hands snaps up to John’s hair, running through the locks and tugging at the roots. He shivers, his mouth near the skin of your collarbone, “Until all that’s left behind is me.”

His tongue licks a stripe from the junction of your neck up to your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back as you cry out loudly; the callouses of his fingers hit you just right – the pace perfect as he ramps up your pleasure. Your pussy desperately tightens around nothing, leaking like a faucet with need. Your Captain grips the sheets just beside your head, making sure he doesn’t accidentally crush you with his gargantuan frame. If he asked you would let him.

“Fucken’ beautiful,” John groans, “Fucken’ taste bloody good, Sweetheart…fuck.” 

He laps at your skin, leaving trails of saliva all along your neck, cleaning the blood away before moving to your face. He stares at you with a deeply feral look as the coil in your core builds, red hot and making your skin shine with a sheen of desperate sweat. Your thighs quiver as the wetness of your slit makes the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your skin. The flesh of your face scrunches, and your head is loosely rocked up and down from the constant movement of your boyfriend’s hard hips and thumb.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, You think, digging your nails into his scalp and tugging.

“Don’t stop,” You whine, “So close.”

“That’s right,” John’s tongue flies over the corner of your lip, making you want to cry at how you want to kiss him right now – but he's already moved onto your cheek, licking long stripes. When the man has his mind set on something, he’s not going to stop until it’s completed. The heat gets hotter, and your eyes snap closed eyebrows pulling in, “Yeah, come on, Love, come on. That’s it.” 

He presses his thumb harder, moving it faster to chase that prize at the end of the road, watching in satisfaction as your body responds so perfectly to his every whim; hips moving erratically. You desperately try and meet his pace and, for the most part, achieve your goal, only sputtering when the tense minutes ware on and it all comes crashing down.

Your thin line of sanity breaks, and with a final heavy tug on John's hair that leaves him lowly groaning into your ear and muttering praises, your breath comes out in tight pants as light erupts behind your eyelids. You tense and feel your pussy gush with nothing inside of you, just your Captain’s steady rocking serving as an anchor as you feel your mind go blank with unrestrained pleasure.

“John!” You gasp, just as the man cleans the blood off your nose bridge as you arch violently against his sturdy chest, shaking, “Oh, fuck.”

“There she is,” Hands go to your chin, moving your jaw as your mouth remains open and releasing puffs of air. Your eyes open half-lidded as his finger works you through your high, “There’s my girl. Look at me, Sweetheart. Hm, did so good for me.”

“John,” You whimper, looking up into the sheen of pride that shines in his eyes; legs vibrating as his fingers move from your clit to your hip. The other leg, now tingling and pleasure numb, falls to the mattress with half of it hanging off. John digs tightly into your skin, leaving beautiful bruises behind for you to admire tomorrow, “Please I need you in me. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hm,” He smashes his lips to yours, teeth clacking together, unable to restrain himself when you have that blissed-out look coating your expression, and you reciprocate as his painfully large erection still digs into you; his cargo pants stained with your fluids in a large wet splotch. Your free hand shakily slides to his belt buckle, tugging uselessly at the metal until John takes notice and tilts his head back, “Just a minute, Princess, so needy for me already?”

“Always,” You gasp, kissing the corner of his mouth breathlessly, “You treat me so well, John, always make me feel so good.” Tilting his head farther up with a nail, you feel his breath still, held in his chest as you leave love bites all along the part where his shoulder and neck meet, “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

He melts into you before hastily going down to undo his belt buckle with one hand, allowing you to continue your work of marking him as his hips begin once more to careen into you with instinctual pleasure. Nearly crying from the sharp sense of overstimulation, you let the glossiness coat your eyes but still want more from him, even if it made you go dumb. 

Sliding your hands all over his back and digging into the delicious muscles with your nails, you only pause your ministrations when his pants fall to the floor with a thump of fabric; his boxers following. Pulling back, you let your head hit the mattress as John drops the leg he was holding and you splay your hands above your head, letting the chill of your jewelry ground you as you take in the sight above you. 

Every time you and John had sex it felt like you were taking him for the first time, the size of him stretching you so perfectly it didn’t take much for you to be reduced to a whimpering mess. It was even better when you were on top of him, straddling his hips and feeling his hands holding you in place as he plants his feet and thrusts up into you; hitting that perfect spongy spot and kissing your cervix. 

Staring at him, heat flows to your face, and your lower legs nearly fall together until John’s hands snap to them, forcing them open once more. On his tense stomach, his large cock leaks down onto itself, but he hardly seems to notice. Your heart pounds in your ribcage. 

“Don’t hide from me,” He mutters your name, fingers leaving goosebumps behind as they trail to your panties. John plays with the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, leaving you pouting as the seconds drag on. But he just watches you, running his digits over the come that stains the garment and leaks from your hole to the bed sheets. 

“What’d I do to deserve you, eh?” John grunts as you make a sound in the back of your throat, “What’d I do to deserve this?” 

He grabs your wrecked panties and slowly drags them to your ankles, letting them fall off to the floor to make a pile with his own clothes. Sucking in a breath, you feel the chill of the room meet your now-visible pussy. John’s eyes darken with lust, and one of his hands goes to lightly start pumping his cock at the sight of liquid falling out of you. His eyebrows pull in with concentration.

“Y-you don’t have to deserve me, John,” You whisper, watching in awe as his muscles tense as he jerks himself off at the sight of you; keeping eye contact with those blown orbs. One of your hands slides over your clovered breasts and down over your abdomen, finding your own slick folds before splaying them. Masking a whimper at your sensitivity, your eyelashes flutter as John’s jaw clenches at the visual, “I g-gave myself to you because I love you. You know that…Ah.” 

Growling, your Captain snaps a hand to wrap around your wrist before you can begin to rock your hips and weakly fuck yourself at the sight of his leaking cock-head.

“Easy, Love,” He groans, running a thumb over his tip, “Let me take care of you, yeah?” 

John’s hand leaves his cock, going to land on your other hand’s wrist as he pulls you to a sitting position. You release a squeak as you almost faceplant into his abdomen. 

“J-John?” Muttering with wide eyes, your heart jerks as his hands weave under your knees, the other spanning the back of your shoulders. He picks you up and tosses you up into the middle of the bed, making you squeal and release a set of giggles as you land softly onto the mattress. Your body bounces, hair partially blocking your view before you swipe it from your face.

John chuckles, placing a knee on the side of the bed before moving up and crawling forward, coming to trap you under his body as he places his massive weight against you. Hating the silk barrier between your bodies, you smile and move one of your fingers to clasp the zipper in the back.

“Let me,” The man mutters, laying a soft kiss on your lips before his large hands move behind you, grabbing the metal and dragging it down. 

You arch your back to help. 

When he reaches the end, he pulls the fabric and your bra over your head; he leaves the jewelry on your body with only a lick of his lips and a glance to tell you he enjoyed the way it stood out on your skin. His cock twitches. John drops the silk to the floor and slots his hips inside the space of your thighs. 

“Hm,” He breathes over your flaming cheeks, and you go to wrap your arms around his neck in anticipation, “Not right.”

He flips you over so you straddle his lower body, and immediately the impression of his cock is on your folds, leaving you moaning with want and heat as he leans against the headboard with a smirk. You swallow, seeing the way John watches with a tilted head.

“Fuck, you feel good,” You mutter, moving one hand down to grasp him as the other lands on his chest. You run your fingers over the pre-come staining the shaft and spread it around, angling him as he groans ahead of you. His thick fingers weave through your hair, forcing your head upwards as he starts leaving savage kisses over your neck; biting and making you grip him tighter with a moan, “So big. The perfect cock for splitting me open. No one else could take me like you can.”

“Shit,” John shakes, fingers digging into your side, “So nice to me, Love.” Your hand lines him up with your pussy, moving the tip around your hole before letting yourself begin to sink down. 

He fills you inch by inch, and you feel the ache in your hips as you bring your lip to your mouth, biting down to silence the loud sounds that are trying to escape from you. Stuttering, John’s teeth sink into the skin behind your ear as you bottom out a heavy minute later, both of your chests banging against each other as you gasp for breath. The trimmed hair over his pelvis is just as coarse as his beard, leaving you itching to move. Maybe you can ride his face after this – get that perfect beard burn in between your thighs.

“Feel so fucken’ good round me, Sweetheart,” John grunts, not able to stop the light roll of his hips as he moves his lips to yours, sealing them with an open-mouth kiss that leaves saliva dripping down between the two of you to where you’re joined, splattering over his abs, “But I need you to move, yeah?” 

So tight, You notice how you’re gripping John’s cock inside you like a vice, stretching so satisfyingly around him that you have to look down to see it for yourself. Your gaze flickers to see with a pleasure-drunk sheen; eyes widening. You find John stuffed so beautifully inside you that you have to restrain yourself from coming at the sight of it, engorged member spreading you open as your slick glistens at the base, How did he even fit? 

Your walls flutter in arousal, feeling filled so completely and seeing the bulge in your stomach. 

“Fucken’ bloody hell,” John whimpers, head tilting back to slam into the headboard harshly. He fills his chest with air, and before you have a chance to adjust his hips snap up, leaving you yammering in surprise; a loud whine leaves you breathless and falling into his chest for support. 

He hits that spot without even trying, moving your body up as he plants his feet and uses you like a fuck-toy. Sweat drips down his nose. Your jewelry clinks together, giving you something else to hear besides the sound of slapping skin and fluids squelching as John pounds into you. 

You chant your Captain’s name as you feel one of his hands travel to your clit, flicking it while the other controls your movement. Up and down. The bed creaks as you arch, mind losing all function as your nails drag down John's chest, leaving deep red claw marks behind. 

“No one else makes you feel like this, huh,” John growls, his eyes traveling your disheveled frame as he sends a particularly heavy thrust up into you that kisses your cervix. You writhe as he continues, mouth open and letting him do whatever he wants to you, “No one can make you this cock-dumb, can they? No, my good girl needs me to treat her right, is that it?” 

His jaw clenches, and he spreads his thighs even wider, making your own respond in turn and letting him hit even deeper.

“Answer me, Love. Come on,” John snaps his hand over your ass, and the resounding sound of the contact makes you tighten around him as your slick paints his abdomen with a clear sheen, “Can’t have you goin’ already on me. Haven’t even gotten to the good part.”

Your eyes roll back for a moment, head limp. You don’t even care who can hear you at the moment as your sounds bounce off the walls before fingers go around your jaw, forcing your head up to stare directly into John’s beautiful blues. His pace slows torturously and you gasp in desperation.

“Answer me.”

“No one!” You yell, eyes wet and glossy, “No one, John! F-fill me up, please,” You whine, words slurring as your body pointlessly shivers; tears track down your face as you beg, “Need your c-come in me. Please, Captain. Feels so good with your cock hitting me just right, paint my insides with your come, please!” 

The sounds you were making were downright pornographic, and you swore you heard someone banging on the walls to try and shut the two of you up. 

Not that that made you both slow down. 

“Gonna leave you dripping with me, Love,” John’s fast pace returns, becoming erratic, hips slamming into your own becoming almost too much with his hand returning to circle your clit. You whine with overstimulation, legs trying fruitlessly to close as that coil builds violently once more, “Won’t be able to bloody walk tomorrow after I’m done with you. Fuck, just how you like it. Gonna leave you drooling, yeah?” 

“Yeah…yeah…yeah,” You pant, heart pounding as John’s cock curves up into your womb, “love being cock-drunk ‘cause of you, C-captain.”

“Good girl, that’s right.” Your walls tighten one last time, and as John connects his lips with yours the line snaps as you come on his cock, gushing as he guides you through your orgasm with his still pistoning hips. The sound of the wet thrusting nearly makes you pass out, and as you released a high-pitched keen into your lover's mouth, he does the same. 

“Bloody Fucken’...!”

Your own pleasure had triggered his, and with a few sloppy thrusts later, his seed is coating your insides white with a chest-rumbling groan. You feel the combined fluids slide between the ring you two had made as you fit together, pooling to corrupt both of your flesh. But that was alright -- it simply becomes even easier to fuck like that. 

John ruts into you still, cock softening even as it seems he could go more rounds. But today had been long. You sit pleasure-drunk on his chest as your body is moved back and forth by those soft, slick, thrusts, your own hips casually rocking as drool falls from the corner of your mouth. Your eyes had gained a faraway look to them.

Your nerves sing with satisfaction, your womb feeling full and dripping with his seed. Nothing made you feel this good; made your legs feel so numb and shakey.

“You alright, Love?” John pants, beard coming to scratch your temple as he whispers in your ear, “didn’t go too hard on you, I hope.”  

You smirk, moving your head to kiss his chest, licking over the purple and blue bruises you had given him. He sucks in a breath, and inside of you his cock twitches; your abused walls clenching. 

“I’m fine.” You let out a sigh, sucking in greedy breaths right after, “But I think the others might hate us tomorrow. Someone was banging on the wall a while ago.”

John lays a kiss on the side of your head, catching a drop of sweat on his lips as your fucked-out eyes go to look up at him.

“Then they’re really going to like what I do to you next.”

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

Rating: E

There hadn’t been much time to talk. There is never much time to talk. She had accumulated so many mostly-empty decades with too much time to talk that surely she could re-distribute them now – gut the words from the straw stuffing in Pâté’s taxidermy stomach and grind it between mill stones and bake it in shrapnelled-belly into bread, share that time in Fresh Cut pillowy slices and buttered toast and sandwiches with the Hells, though certainly what would be regurgitated would be of less use than manure, not even bone-meal, and Imogen deserves more than thirty years of grey monologue slop - nutritious as the influence of time-rot isolation on her own accent, acknowledgeable in a short amount of time bloomed further in how Imogen’s diminished within her own company and fleeing home, causing Imogen’s inflection to soften, dull, slowly, over their nearly-three-years, over and under the time Laudna offered, burnt oven loaves and skillet-fried flatbreads -

and Imogen had taken. There could never be enough time when it was willingly shared.

That had been the case from the beginning. Their beginning – it always will remain that, despite- despite later…developments. Names. Formalities. Definitions. Uncertainties. The bed was always theirs - perhaps always made. Destined. What a small corner of the world to find herself in! To find herself with basket underarm – with butter, bacon fat, eggs, and tea. And Imogen, with a loaf of bread! She shared it – tore crusts to dip in market-egg golden yolks and holster-dagger-cut slices folded and mimicking the grab of hands around butter-fried foraged mushrooms. Nutritious. Nourishing. Enriching. She shared it! Saviour. Special. Laudna must Support her. She must support her because Imogen found her, followed her from the market into the forest and shared her loaf of bread and so for their nearly-three-years she followed Imogen.

She follows Imogen. She followed Imogen as she fell into pace behind Ludinus – she must support her because she shared her loaf of bread, she must support her because she is tied to the fate of the Gods, and more importantly by extension, Exandria. She follows Imogen now, back in Zadash, teleportation-messed and mead-warmed, follows Imogen up the tavern stairs varnished with decades of spilt liquor and projected vomit and buffed with the worn leather soles of travellers and drunkards-

and otherwise, she is witness to suppose – to support.

Imogen's boots land out of syncopation with Laudna's short heels (she used to do a much better job of playing her shadow), their steps map the architecture of the building under the hollow staircase, wooden rafter meeting stone wall, perhaps pots and pans for the kitchen or other metal instruments hanging in storage under the stairs, perhaps torture devices, shackles and chains bolted to alabaster stone-

There’s a slight sway to Imogen’s hips - there always is, always was - divine feminine being, (un)holy vessel, muscle and fat and sinew and skin and magic scars intercepted by worldly stretchmarks gate only interrupted by ankles twisted on desert boulders and more-than-earned more thoroughly-deserved rest, sway resumed in sweat and salt and sex arousal rolled intentionally against Laudna’s own and there hasn’t been much time for that

Hadn’t…?

Developments. Definitions. Uncertainties.

She woke up and Imogen was holding her hand-

How many steps are there to the next floor?

Imogen stumbles slightly in the dark bottom-of-the-whisky-bottle amber lighting, no windows facing the stairwell – now hallway, as there had been none in the frozen underground ruins too, and Laudna was following her there, followed the lilac dancing sparks that she has been following for nearly three years now.

Laudna almost crashes into her back, almost crumbles and creases around Imogen like that wagon they saw in ruin, the one that had left tracks veering off of the dirt path of a mountain trail, flora flattened by wheel and chassis footprints to reveal the wagon folded in splinters around the majestic trunk of a red pine at the base of the incline.

Sorry, just gotta wrestle with the key…

the rattling of key to lock – a discernibly different sound to that of Imogen's footsteps causing the unidentified metal assumedly hanging from hooks under the stairs to jostle.

Don’t mind me- Laudna responds, and it is a pretty hilarious statement to make between the two of them-

three of them-

The door groans (four) as if it had been animated and was reacting to her distasteful pun.

Imogen takes Laudna by the hand before she has time to berate it. (you can read the rest here)

[intothemultifandom]

– 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄 [𝟏/𝟑] || 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐚

SUMMARY: In the aftermath of The Blip, you and Attuma–warriors turned interim leaders–bond over loss, grief and the weight of two different worlds. When the second blip occurs, those who’ve returned decide to wage war. Unaware of the relationship you’ve forged in their absence. PAIRINGS: Attuma x Reader, Wakandan!Reader, T’challa + Shuri Sister!Reader TAGS/WARNINGS: angst ; hurt and comfort 

You lost your siblings during The Blip. 

T’challa had turned to dust right before Okoye, Shuri scattered somewhere out on the battlefield; and a weight unlike any other (the weight only your brother knew) settled around shoulders when the wind did not claim you, too. 

At only seventeen, you had been reduced to an only child by the snap of a Madman’s fingers. Expected to ascend the throne now that your older siblings could not. Not that you would, given your distaste of politics and the UN Embassy in general.

Where T’challa was King and Shuri led your scientific division, you had trained under the tutelage of the Dora Milage. Had become one of the best warriors of the country in spite of your youth, expected to surpass Okoye once you reached her age.  

Your natural skill had fuelled your desire to join the War Dogs before N’Jadaka had come into the picture (as Princess, you could not join the Dora Milaje officially), a dream you had to contribute to the safety of your Kingdom and your brother’s reign under the aloofness of being the youngest child.

In the eyes of the world that remained, however, this was not possible when your existence, your survival, received constant praise by Nations who hungered for someone young and naive to ascend the throne.

To their displeasure, you’d assumed leadership over the secret division of your country instead, entertained by the thought of Colonisers dictating what you did with yourself. Your amusement further peaked as you presented yourself publicly as Wakanda’s Consulate General alongside your natural title as Princess.  

With your Mother maintaining the throne and dealing with politics, you’d spent the first three years working diligently to forget your siblings’ absence. Your own grief and shame.

Someone had to stamp out the political unrest in your country, had to re-establish Wakanda’s spy-network in the midst of mounting political tension around the world.

And you had done it all at from seventeen to twenty, held together by the love of your Queen Mother and spurred on by the council of your closest confidants, Okoye, Aneka, Ayo and, surprisingly, the Jabari’s own M’Baku. 

The success of your network around the world had earned you the respect of many, though nothing cemented your legacy more than what happened during the Wakandan three-day-Massacre: 

The Marube Tribe were a relic of time, isolated from the rest of your country when they denounced the advancement of your technology.

Deep in the Mute Lands, they’d practiced old customs and studied even older texts where, in the shadow of Thanos’ terror, they’d turn to ancient techniques to make their warriors strong. Stronger than even the Black Panther. 

Since they could not ingest Vibranium through the heart-shaped herb, a group of their men had etched it into their flesh. Tattooed the raw substance into the planes of their body so they could flow better with nature.

And for a brief time, it worked. The process had given them unnatural durability and strength, the ability to run faster than the wind and yet capable of moving the Earth with a stomp of their foot.

Only, Vibranium itself is radioactive unless tempered with a substance only Shuri and her division knew how to make.

And with your sister and her team gone, ashes in the wind; the Marube tribe, without knowing the consequences, inadvertently kickstarted what might’ve been the doom of your people with the creation of the Madmen. 

As Vibranium had become one with flesh, the radiation did not blister skin nor melt flesh from bone. Instead, it drove the person to madness, to a murderous rage that would not end and was made even worse by the indestructibility of their bodies.

In a single night, the Madmen decimated nearly their entire village before they took to their neighbours. 

When the missive came the following morning, your Queen Mother demanded only for the Dora Milaje to go, for them put an end to the madness before it reached the Golden City.

What she seemed to forget was that the last Madman you fought murdered your siblings, so you could not, would not, simply remain in the Palace.

And so as stealthily as you could for someone who’d learned many tricks from Nakia, you followed your warrior-sisters beyond the throne room, grateful that Okoye turned a blind eye when she caught you amongst their numbers. 

The battle against the Madmen had been a ruthless and bloody affair. 

The people who fought with you and against you were your own people; the land you fought on once roamed by your Ancestors; yet no amount of familiarity could diminish the brutality of war as the Madmen slaughtered your people in masses, pushed your team deeper into the battlefield and towards the centre of their ruined Tribe like wolves surrounding sheep.

Just as you thought you had reached your end, had stood back-to-back with Okoye, Aneka and Ayo and readied yourself for death, Bast had smiled on you that day as the survivors of the massacre–women and children who’d hidden themselves beneath the ground–opened a hidden hatch and welcomed your group into their refuge.  

The Marube people may have denounced modern Wakanda; but they were Wakandan all the same.

For almost half an hour, you and the warriors huddled with them in the dark of their underground cave system where you’d grieved and planned, prayed for your Ancestors to see you through another day even when the Madmen waited for you above. 

It had been one of the Elders who survived, a woman named J’Kobe who weakly presented the idea of someone undergoing the same process as the men above to turn the tides of the battle. She who suggested bestowing a great power upon someone, anyone, so that they could end the Madmen’s bloodshed once and for all before madness took them.

It would be a sacrifice, went unsaid. 

As the determination settled on Okoye’s brow and Ayo and Aneka shared a sad, resigned smile (they’d realised too that the Madmen could not be beat as their weapons bent under the pressure of their strength)–you had stepped towards J’Kobe with the memory of your family and your people, the smile of a toddler who bared your brother’s name, as you knelt at her feet and offered yourself before they could.

Your siblings had been gone for three years, and in those three years you’d found no dignified way of joining them until then: ...though of course, you didn’t actually die as you thought you would. 

Even now, you could not remember what had happened down in those tunnels, how long your friends had argued against your decision before you laid on your back and then your stomach, the pain immeasurable as they and J’Kobe embedded the Vibranium along different areas of your body. 

Tattooed by your countries most fearsome warriors and one of the last practitioners of old, you did what many thought was impossible when you ascended the tunnels with fresh tattoos that glowed purple and a newfound strength to greet the Madmen as an equal match. 

On the third day of the three-day-Massacre, you gave your people a new protector as you stood over the Madmen who lay at your feet, defeated: 

Olumo, J’Kobe called you. 

Molded by God. 

After the battle had been won, and you’d marched with your Warriors and the survivors home to prepare to be put down, to apologise to your Mother one last time before calling Nakia; like the wind that did not claim you when your siblings disappeared, death did not take you in the end, too. 

Because your Father, his Father and so on, ingested Vibranium through the heart-shaped herb, they’d altered their genetics and granted their children and lineage invulnerability to the radiation of Vibranium. 

Meaning you would not be lost to madness from the procedure after all, a stroke of luck for your friends who considered sacrificing themselves. 

Since then, you’d fought many battles as Olumo, the disciple of Ptah and Kokou. Had succeeded in many minor and major battles that helped you carve your own legacy as you fought for True Wakanda, your Vibranium tattoos a symbol of your service and devotion. 

There were days, of course, when the power you’d been bestowed stirred uncomfortably. Days where you felt restless in your own skin, plagued with the undeniable urge to move, run and fight. 

You’d always been a warrior than a leader. 

The Dora Milage, adored as they were, were supportive in this regard; always ready to give you an outlet to rid yourself of this feeling as you fought and sparred them in the safety of your Kingdom. 

Even M’Baku and his warriors, through a rare sight in the Capital, sparred with you when they could. 

It wasn’t until you met him, though, that you felt more alive than you’d felt in the past three years. Felt seen and understood in a way that your friends and Mother could not and would likely ever understand, given the power and responsibilities you now held. 

His name was Attuma, and he called himself the greatest warrior in the underworld. 

NOTES: 

• This is Part 1 (context; your POV) of a three-part-story. 

• Part 2 (snippets of you and him during moments in-between; his POV) will be coming soon. 

• Your background is inspired by the BLACK PANTHER #7 (Origins of Vibranium) + BLACK PANTHER #3 (#200 Legacy) 

• Ptah the Shaper is considered the god of metal alloys, mainly Vibranium whereas Kokou is considered the Wakandan god of War

TAGLIST:

@tommymcartney ; thanks for inspiring me to keep writing! 📝

[melanieathene]

In Purgatory

The mind is its own place and, in itself can make a Heaven of Hell or a Hell of Heaven.

— Paradise Lost, John Milton —

Purgatory was no place for humans. Nor was it meant for angels. It was a repository for the souls of demons, vampires, Leviathans, and other monstrous beings who were fit for neither Heaven nor Hell. But here Castiel was, an angel trapped in a place he had no right to be. What was worse, Dean was here too.

Purgatory was even less of a place for a human in an angel’s company. Castiel was a beacon of light, drawing monsters to him as nectar draws a bee. He knew this. Dean knew this. But Dean had spent the better part of a year searching for Castiel after the angel had fled upon their arrival in Purgatory, vainly hoping to draw danger away from Dean. Now that he had finally found Castiel, Dean was adamant that they stay together and make their way home. It was useless to protest, futile to try and explain that he had to atone for the sins he had committed. Castiel told himself that he would comply simply to ensure Dean had not misplaced his trust in his vampire companion. But the truth ran deeper than that. Castiel had no real desire to distance himself from Dean. He had missed the hunter terribly in the time they’d been apart. It was an ache that had crept deep into his bones. A temporary salve to such a spiritual wound was worth the risk... or so he hoped. After all, it would only be until he saw Dean safely though the portal.

Of course, his worst fears were soon realized. His presence drew a horde of Leviathans. The ensuing battle was brutal, intense and damnably prolonged. Even the vampire was tired by the time the last Leviathan lay lifeless on the ground.

Breathing heavily, Benny surveyed the gory remains, his eyes widening in dismay. “Where’s Dean?” he said.

~~~*~~~

They decided to split up, the better to cover more territory. Benny chose to retrace the route the Leviathans had taken to find them. Castiel headed in the opposite direction, towards the river, fear lending wings to his heels. Brambles tore at his clothing and branches slapped his face as he ran, heart pounding with the fear that he’d be too late. That Dean was already dead... or, worse, that he’d been carried off to face a slow, torturous death.

He almost ran straight into the river before catching himself on its brink. He stood staring blankly at a decapitated Leviathan whose head had rolled into the water. Two other bodies lay nearby in the tall grass. Yet a fourth was sprawled under a tree, several yards downstream.

“Cas,” Dean said, stepping out of the shadow the old tree cast. Weary. Bloodied. But alive.

Castiel froze, rooted in place for the count of one heartbeat... two... And then he was again in motion, running, running not in fear this time, but with a swell of emotion that drew him forward like a magnet. Running to Dean. Folding him into his arms. Holding him as if he’d never let him go.

“Dean,” he sighed, pouring all the relief and love in his heart into the utterance of the name.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean murmured, his arms coming up to return the angel’s embrace. “I’m okay. It’s all right. We won.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeated helplessly. And kissed him.

So entranced was the angel by the taste of Dean on his tongue, by his joy at savouring the very essence of the man, that he failed to notice Dean’s hands had dropped down to his sides; that the pliant body in his arms had stiffened in shock, in surprise... god forbid, in horror. But as his mind caught up to his runaway body, trepidation replaced rapture. Castiel stepped back, ashamed of his impetuous behaviour; ready to recant, to somehow try and make amends for his audacity. Conciliatory words trembled on his lips, words he never had the chance to say. Because suddenly he was the one who was shocked into immobility. Because Dean Winchester’s heart had finally kickstarted his brain. And it was Dean’s turn now to draw Castiel in, to fold him back into a tight embrace and return his kiss with unbridled enthusiasm.

Not that it took the angel long to respond...

They drank each other in as if they were dying men who, parched by the desert sun, had finally found a source of water. Their lips parted only when Dean had to draw a much needed breath. Their eyes locked, then; their fingers read the Braille of each other’s face, until neither could stand another second without the taste of the other and they fell together once more. Time and place ceased to have any meaning. They were lost, lost to the wonder of finally, finally coming together.

Who knows how far passion might have carried them had not Benny’s increasingly anxious cries of “Cas! Dean!” interrupted the moment.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I detest that vampire?” Castiel said, resting his forehead against Dean’s.

“A time or two.”

“And have I ever said how much I love you?”

“Every day. With every look you give me, with everything you do. But it’s nice to hear the words.” Dean placed a tender kiss on the angel’s nose and reluctantly stepped away, moments before Benny pushed his way through the last of the tangled vegetation and joined them at the water’s edge.

The vampire stared at them suspiciously. “You could have answered,” he grumbled. “I thought you both were dead.”

“Still alive and kicking,” Dean replied. “Unlike my friends over there, who thought they’d captured a prize. Guess the joke’s on them.”

“Then may I suggest we get a move on. The sounds of battle carry, and the stench of death will draw more unwelcome attention.” Benny tilted his head and narrowed his gaze. “If you’re quite done here, that is.”

“Are we?” Castiel inquired, also tilting his head.

“For now,” Dean said, and smiled. “Let’s go home.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Benny turned and walked away. “It’s not far now. A day or two at most before we reach the portal.”

Castiel’s answering smile faded.

“It’s mutual, you know,” Dean said, casually continuing their earlier, interrupted conversation. The back of his hand brushed against the angel’s, deliberate, lingering, and the fire the simple touch ignited in his veins made Castiel want to turn his hand and lace their fingers together.

But he didn’t, of course. Instead, he let Dean go, trailing along behind as the human followed after the vampire, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. Castiel understood this was but a small foreshadowing of the pain he’d feel when Dean was truly gone, safely back on Earth where he belonged, and he would be left alone in this nightmarish place, with only the memory of their kisses to sustain him.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured softly to himself. "But now I do. And that’s what makes it so hard to honour my resolution."

Knowing he was loved; knowing he didn’t deserve that love; knowing he couldn’t keep it, but wanting to with all his heart... He was being pulled in two directions at once, torn between elation and despair.

It was its own special kind of Purgatory.

And he knew there was no hope of escape.

Originally posted to AO3 on 2022-08-14. Just thought it might be fun to post some old stories here. :)

[grey-sorcery]

Title: Introduction to Grounding

Suggested Reading

Shadow Work: First Steps Shadow Work Concepts Duality in Witchcraft Basics of Energy Work Spirit Work: First Steps Energetic Senses

*- Closed or semi-closed culture/practice

Introduction

After a working, stressful experience, physically or otherwise, one might feel disconnected, sporadic, powerless, unhinged, bogged down, lofty, etc. After experiences like this it can be difficult to re-engage with yourself, your life, your thoughts, feelings, etc. Grounding is the act of recentering your mind, energy, and body to be better conducive after coming out of these types of experiences. The practice can also be insurmountable in dealing with panic attacks and anxiety. This obviously doesn't apply to everyone. If you chronically suffer from such experiences, I highly advise speaking to a licensed psychiatrist.

What is grounding?

Grounding is bringing your mind, body, and subtle body back into equilibrium. It can be as simple as becoming still and taking a deep breath or as complicated as an entire ritual. I personally recommend that all levels of grounding are used when they are most applicable. While some methods are more effective than others, like warding, it is best to be well rounded. When grounded properly, making complex decisions and plans becomes a lot easier (Mental illness allowing). It also makes spellwork go a lot smoother, because you’ll have carved out enough room to easily maintain headspace. It is important to thoroughly ground after spellwork as well. This will help you break away from the working. 

Physical Grounding

These exercises are the simplest form of grounding and don’t require magic at all. Though, energy work can be incorporated into them to make them more effective. The simplest exercise is deep breathing. A deep lasting breath, inhaled through the nose, that is held for three beats of the heart and then slowly released through the mouth. Sometimes, only a single deep breath is necessary. I have an example of an energetic application of this here.

Stretching is also a great way to ground. Practices like Yoga* are very effective at bringing the body, mind, and subtle body into synchronicity. However, you do not need to practice Yoga* to achieve this. Simply stretching while feeling every muscle, tendon, and bone in your body is sufficient. 

Psychological Grounding

The human psyche is a complex web of emotions, thoughts, and reactions to external stimuli. The stability of this intricate system can be undermined by factors such as trauma, stress, or simply the pace of modern life. As such, the concept of grounding has been explored in various psychological and scientific contexts as a means to foster equilibrium within this system. Grounding refers to the act of reconnecting with the present moment, often by focusing on physical sensations or objective realities. This practice can serve as a pivot point from which an individual can recalibrate their emotional and cognitive state.

One of the approaches to grounding is the practice of realist affirmation. This method involves the conscious acknowledgement of tangible realities. Instead of becoming lost in abstract or potentially distressing thoughts, individuals refocus their cognition on concrete facts. For example, one might affirm the date, their location, or a description of their immediate environment. This technique aids in anchoring the individual's mind in objective reality and can mitigate the risk of spiraling into overwhelming emotional states or negative thought patterns.

Meditation, another renowned method for mental regulation, has been the subject of extensive scientific research. While the term is often laden with various cultural and religious connotations, stripped to its basics, meditation is the act of training one's attention. Methods can vary, but commonly include focusing on the breath or on specific bodily sensations. This fosters an awareness of the present moment, and over time, can increase an individual's overall mindfulness, thereby decreasing the prevalence of negative or intrusive thoughts.

Therapy, especially cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), has often employed grounding techniques as part of its protocol. CBT operates on the principle that our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are interconnected. By identifying and challenging negative thought patterns, individuals can regulate their emotions and reactions more effectively. Grounding exercises, within this framework, serve as tools to disrupt and divert from maladaptive cognitive pathways.

A sigil is a symbol imbued with magical intent. In a modern, psychological context, devoid of its magical properties, a psychological sigil can be seen as a symbol or token that serves as a mnemonic or anchor point for a particular mental state or cognitive strategy. For instance, a person might associate a specific shape or symbol with the state of calm and use it as a tactile or visual cue to induce grounding when faced with stress. The Spare Method is a very good example of psychological sigils. This method uses a phrase or intention of personal change and abstracts it through letter grids in order to create a memetic anchor for that concept.

Breathing techniques, rooted in physiology, offer immediate and tangible benefits. The autonomic nervous system, responsible for involuntary bodily functions, is divided into the sympathetic (often associated with the "fight or flight" response) and the parasympathetic (associated with "rest and digest"). By consciously altering breathing patterns, one can engage the parasympathetic system, promoting relaxation and countering the effects of stress. Slow, deep inhalations, followed by prolonged exhalations, have been shown to have a calming effect on the nervous system.

Lastly, the 5 senses exercise is a commonly advocated grounding technique. It involves the sequential acknowledgment of sensory experiences: identifying five things one can see, four one can touch, three one can hear, two one can smell, and one one can taste. This method, rooted in immediate sensory perception, effectively diverts attention from distressing or overwhelming thoughts and anchors the individual firmly in the present.

Spiritual Grounding

Grounding, in a psychological context, pertains to techniques that anchor individuals in the present and deter them from negative cognitive spirals. Spiritual grounding, on the other hand, is oriented towards reconnecting individuals with their inherent spiritual essence or a larger cosmic framework. Rather than just dealing with the immediate sensory realm, it dives into the realms of beliefs, faith, and deeper connections to the universe or divine entities. It facilitates a harmonization of one's spiritual energies with the surrounding environment.

The practice of ancestor work is one method that many cultures and traditions utilize to establish spiritual grounding. This practice involves reaching out to, honoring, and sometimes seeking guidance from one's forebears. Ancestor work acknowledges that an individual's existence is the culmination of countless generations and that wisdom, experience, and energy from these past generations can be accessed and channeled. By connecting with ancestors, either through ritual or meditative techniques, individuals can find guidance, strength, and a deeper sense of belonging in the world.

Prayer, a universal practice found in virtually all spiritual and religious traditions, is another potent tool for spiritual grounding. Though the content and form of prayers can vastly differ, their core essence remains the same: they are channels of communication between the mortal realm and a higher power or consciousness. Prayer is a deliberate act, setting aside a moment from daily life to converse with the divine or the universe, to seek guidance, give thanks, or simply to reflect. This act, by its very nature, pulls individuals out of the mundane and reconnects them with a grander, spiritual realm, thus grounding them in their faith or spiritual path.

Theological offerings and interactions serve as physical representations or acts that demonstrate reverence, gratitude, or supplication to a higher power. These can take the form of food, incense, artifacts, or other symbolic items presented at altars, temples, or other sacred spaces. Such acts are not mere transactions; they symbolize a relationship between the devotee and the divine. By giving offerings, one acknowledges the presence of a higher power in their life, and in return, they may feel a sense of protection, blessing, or simply a deeper connection to their spiritual path. Engaging in these tangible acts can serve to ground an individual in their spiritual beliefs and practices.

Interactions in a theological context might also encompass rituals, ceremonies, or communal gatherings where spiritual teachings are shared and explored. Such interactions, whether they are with spiritual leaders, fellow believers, or the divine itself, serve to solidify and reaffirm an individual's spiritual foundation.

Up Next: Intermediate Grounding

In the next installment of our comprehensive series, we'll delve into Energetic Grounding. Much like its psychological and spiritual counterparts, energetic grounding offers techniques to anchor oneself, but it primarily concerns the non-physical or subtle energy body. 

We'll explore the profound concept of connection and how our subtle body interfaces with the energies of the world around us. This connection acts as a bridge, allowing us to tap into the vast reservoir of cosmic energy and, at the same time, offering a channel for us to root or ground our energies.

The practice of "Rooting the Subtle Body" provides fascinating insights. Rooting is more than just a metaphor; it's an active practice of extending one's energetic tendrils deep into the Earth, much like the roots of a tree, drawing stability, nourishment, and strength. This anchoring not only offers a sense of belonging but also ensures that our energetic system remains balanced and aligned.

Further, the article will delve into the intriguing process of the Subtle Body Expansion into the Physical Body. Our physical form is not isolated from our energy body; rather, they intertwine and influence one another. We'll explore techniques to harmonize and integrate these two aspects of our being, ensuring a symbiotic relationship between the tangible and intangible facets of our existence.

Lastly, we'll touch upon Wellsource Gnosis, or entering into a state of Gnosis on the Wellsource and becoming conscious of its interactions with the subtle and physical bodies. This practice, often overlooked in modern discourse, speaks of a primordial source of energy for the human subtle body. Tapping into the Wellsource can provide not just grounding but also a deep reservoir of insight and understanding.

If you enjoyed this article, check out my masterlist!

Patreon Shoutouts:

Meegs (You're amazing!) Jinsu (TYSM)

I know I had a bit of a lull there when I was sick, but you guys kept supporting me through it. This article is dedicated to Meegs who specifically requested this one!

If you'd like to support me, click here!

This article was reviewed and edited by ChatGTP

[phoebus-cluster]

A sample/oneshot of some Astarion headcanon re: his release after the year in a tomb

Finally gaining some steam on my Astarion fic. Fleshed out a little flashback scene. Hope you think it's cool, I love my angst and exposition. --- “How I’ve missed you, little one!”

There was a sudden, loud crack against the coffin door, the rustle of chain mail. A single, impossible ray of light sprung forth into the coffin, somewhere at his waist’s height. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected the glint of an axehead in the fresh opening, wedged and wriggling now to pry the lid open. He tried to peer downwards to better watch, but couldn't–his eyes were too dry to swivel in their sockets. 

He blinked a few times to remove the film of dust from his eyeballs. It did nothing.

He could hardly hold a coherent thought, but felt that this must have been a dream. 

The coffin lid ripped open and he keeled forward, the door no longer propping him upright. He crumpled in a heap, reality dawning on him as his face smacked into the ground. He lay there and watched the shadows of crackling firelight dance across the stone tiles for a while.

He was free. 

He supposed he should have been happy. He gasped for fresh air weakly, as fresh as those musty catacombs could be.

A heavy boot dug into his gut and turned him onto his back. He now looked at a grinning skull looming over him, yellowed, shining and ugly, two black voids regarding him like eyes.

Death. Sweet release. Could it be? 

“Tsk, tsk, boy. Is this how you greet your gallant savior? Your dear, old friend Godey?”

But of course. 

Of course it wasn’t death. What had he expected?

Godey’s detestable laugh rang through the chamber around them.

“What a state, little one. Not so pretty now, are we? Not to worry. I think this look quite suits you.”

Godey seized him by his rags and hoisted him up with ease. He carried him now, up the stone steps of the catacombs and back into the palace.

Astarion's head hung limply, mouth agape, no energy, his muscles all but wasted away. The skeleton cackled again, adjusting and jostling the half-corpse in its arms–playing with him.

“Much easier than I recall,” he jested. “Why, you must be half the weight you were goin’ in.”

They clanked through the halls past velvet drapery, gaudy paintings, lacquered paneling, the luxe prison he remembered, same as ever.

“By the gods, Godey,” sneered a distant voice. “What is that smell? Fouler than any rat you’ve conjured for us before.”

“Shut it, Violet,” growled Godey. “Be a dear and call in your siblings, won’t you?”

She scoffed and whisked away.

They made their way to the spawn’s quarters as the other vamplings trickled in curiously, peering over Godey’s armor to better see the dust-blackened wretch he carried.

The skeleton unceremoniously flung him onto a bunk, the fellow spawn frozen in terror as they beheld a pathetically emaciated mummy with sunken eyes, taut skin, and dehydrated ligaments clinging to bone, grotesque as it pulsed and gasped for breath, struggling to writhe and smearing filth on the sheets.

A hush fell upon them all.

“...Brother?” whispered Aurelia.

“He lives!” cried a male voice, one Astarion did not recognize. “Gods above, it can not be. This is the lost brother you spoke of? I-I thought Master was perhaps bluffing!”

“Leave it to you, Petras, to fancy yourself more clever than Master,” chided Godey. “That’s right. Gather round, you lot, and gaze upon him. Yes, it is your beloved and terribly naughty big brother. Though he strikes a more uncanny resemblance to old Godey these days, don’t you think?”

He cackled and wrenched Astarion’s chin violently, turning his face for the others to see.

Dalyria stifled a revolted shriek, teary-eyed as she clapped her palm over her mouth.

"Let it be a reminder, then," continued Godey. "See what happens when you fail Master's orders? And still, it is Master's mercy that reunites him with us today."

Astarion finally found the will to speak.

He struggled, his lips shriveled back, his tongue desiccated and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Dust coated the insides of his throat. 

His teeth finally found the edge of his lower lip, shrunken and tough.

“Fff…” he trembled.

He drew in more air, his breath ragged and hoarse. It sounded like a death rattle.

“Fuck you,” he puffed at Godey.

There was an upsetting crack as the pommel of Godey's sword collided with the side of his head. A few of the vamplings gasped.

“Dalyria, tend to this ingrate. Godey doesn’t need a nose to tell he’s more fetid than carrion.” He turned on his heel and clanked away.

“Ilmater, help us all,” uttered Dal. “For the love of gods, draw a bath. Water, some blood, this instant!”

---

Hoping to get chapter 1 out in the next week or so.