#If you're looking for a rough price range

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

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

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

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it. 

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

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

The fin is back. 

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

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away. 

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

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

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

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

You watch, struck dumb. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

The man’s back over at the sink tightens. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter. 

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

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

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

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

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

You certainly weren’t going to. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

There had been a man. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin. 

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

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

Could you even assign it a human gender? 

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

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

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

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace. 

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

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

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

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

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then. 

—

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

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

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

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

The library.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful, then.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

But that tail…that face…

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

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

The heat of protection, so to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fingerprints?” 

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

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

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

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

Did he like them?

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

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

So many questions, so few answers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would it feel like to touch it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, wait—!”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

You turn in a half-circle. 

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An emotionless glare is all you receive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “You live here?”

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

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

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

“...Okay.”

—

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

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John hums and swallows stiffly.

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

Up there. 

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

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

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

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

Not yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks. 

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

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

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

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull. 

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

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

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

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

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

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

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

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

“Bugger off,” he grunts. 

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

—

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

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

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

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

The bell of your shop dings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John would never kill an innocent woman!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love,” he mutters, face tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat. 

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

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

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

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

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

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

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

All you say is one name. 

“Noah.” 

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

A dog with scales, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“I think he killed his wife.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A women to the water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Steady. Keep your head on.

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

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

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

“Absurd—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Otto was dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

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

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice. 

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

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

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

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

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to,” he grumbles. 

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

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

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

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

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

That near kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on. 

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

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

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[fawnpires]

EVERY MAN GETS HIS WISH — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ synopsis: under the enemy's eye, you're required to accompany the task force's lieutenant but an unfortunate situation of enemy attack occurs; falling victim to both things, your superior and some hidden feelings.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: sex pollen, non-consensual drug use, one-bed-trope, inappropriate relationship with a superior, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, age gap, manhandling, pet-names, size difference, dirty talk, grinding, mild degradation, praise kink, porn with plot, loss of virginity, innocence kink.

He wasn't a saint, nor was he heroic man to be looked up to; which was baffling considering his status of customary deeds. Brave, noble, bold — all of those things checked off to be deemed as heroic, as simple as that.

Rather than a man of military, he was more of a vigilante — acting on his own accord, directing himself and the men he worked along with the mind of personal dominance. He knew he didn't fit the stereotype of a soldier; obscene mindset, crude jokes cracked, stiff posture that made him stand stall and all intimidating, and a exterior skull of a clothed balaclava. As daunting as the man was, he was just like peers — quite ill-mannered off the field, absorbed too much in himself.

But he had learnt to contain a majority of that. Solitude was more ideal than ill-mannered, and he preferred that. Often covered up with tracks of blood and brutality, his humanlike isolation made up the whole of him; swallowed him up whole. He didn't know why he enlisted for the military, or why he hadn't quit so many years into the position. Perhaps for the adrenaline rush, or to endure the experiences of war, but the utmost possibility was to make something out of the miserable man he was — sculpt a more successful alternative.

In some way, that had worked out, made him whatever a hero was supposed to be. If that had made him a hero, then be it, if it didn't, then who was he to care? It's not like he cared for his general image, what others thought of who he was; only a man of great cruelty, inhumane and cold-blooded.

A lot of that shifted with you. One of the few women recruited, reserved and utterly meek when interacting one-on-one. You're instantly caught in the range of his observations, curiosity and skepticism as the two perplexing sensations that send him over the edge. Though he's afraid, and not in a tensed sense, it's more based on his feelings; those feelings that he thought would be triggered off in him, until he has you in his sights. That's why he scarcely ever partnered up with you on missions, putting some separation there to rid of those perplex feelings compressed to himself.

Unbeknownst to both you and him, that changes by a great deal. With Price's organization of the next mission, only in need of two personnel, it's down to the coincidence of him being paired up alongside you. The one thing that he was oh-so-successfully doing so well for the couple months you've resided in the task force, but shattered to bits when approaching this unfortunate expedition — it's pressuring, wearing his nerves out — tense. (As if you weren't as equally on edge about being collaborating with your intimidating, enormous superior.)

You're close to him, practically almost rubbing arms together. The overhead sky is dull of sun and some additional clouds, reflecting off the shade of his masked face and the tactical gear he displays. Forwards on, there's nothing but fields of fading grass and a waning path. The intercoms attached to both your uniforms are radio silence; no commands, no Price on the other end except from a few minutes ago when given the straight order to push on until Ghost gives direct instruction there.

Every so often you feel his eyes on you, causing you to adjust your head in his direction only to see him facing the path in front of him; yet sometimes you catch him side-eyeing you through the holes of his mask. Anxiousness boils in the pit of your stomach with each passing second — with his close physical contact, aware of him catching tiny glimpses of you — it causes you to distance yourself from him without your own awareness.

"Careful, kid," he said, his rasped voice the only sound you've heard in the rounds of minutes, "Stay close, don't want you wandering off now."

You blink a few times in a daze at the name, sliding yourself right back next to him, uneasiness tainting the void that was slotted right between you and him. Your hold on your firearm loosens, clutching it closer to your chest, the fingers of your left hand tightening around frontier piece. The sole use of his pet name intact for you leaving you flustered and weak in the limbs.

A sigh blows past your lips. "How much further?" you ask, "Been minutes, hours."

"Almost there, right through this path." he replies swiftly, crouching before gesturing to the right, "Cut here."

He takes lead, in front, and you linger close behind. The trail is cut off, there's more open field and sky where the sky darkens; shadows drawn on the ground, sun merely in sights and lowering beyond the horizon line. Arising in the distance, a structure stands its ground; a warehouse, seemingly deserted, dim light fixtures hung side-by-side with a half opened roll-up sheet door.

In a crouched position, he kneels in the fields of dried grass, signaling for you to do the same — which you oblige with. The slinging strap of your gun digs through your tactical wear, felt into your skin, marking the flesh with the outline of it. Around the airspace is tight and claustrophobic, your chest heavy with the beat of your palpitating, head weighed with a throb and some exhilaration.

"Visual on the hideout," he presses his intercom open to Price, gloved thumb to the button and his head tilted.

Price is heard clicking his own intercom through. "All yours, Ghost, your command from there."

Ghost pauses in his movements for a second then aligns his head back in position on his neck, closing off his intercom as it goes back to the original state of radio silence. He revolves his entire body in your direction, even crouched he's still so much towering and intimidating, eyes a shade of sepia surrounded with black war-paint dying right into your bare ones. "Stay close by me, then separate once inside, then you stay on watch while I locate, understood?"

It's a different request, more distant than what you were usually accustomed to, but in this position; there was really no arguing back on this, or better yet declining.

"Affirmative." you reply, getting off the ground and maintaining a standing position, still bent on your knees to avoid possible detection. He does the same, taking lead again and scurrying out of the grass into the open expanse of the warehouse's front, taking careful measures as he leans to grab a hold of the half-opened roll-up door's handle and widening the entrance so that's their enough space to set foot in. You're sweating, pumped of adrenaline as the whole situation sends yourself into a condition of delirium and kicked of a strange thrill — rifle no longer clutched to your chest, but in a prepared-aiming stance.

A scent, between a bitterness and saccharine, stings your nose. The inside of the building reeks of it, your face hit with a handful of it, causing you to pull up the cloth of your uniform and hold it over your nose.

(Luckily for him, he sported that damned mask of a skull all the time. The one time that you've fully understood to why he would need it, even coming across a situation like this.)

Fluorescent lights in tubes buzz overhead, flickering in flashes across each of your faces, background of quietude besides the shuffles of Ghost moving in his gear and the humming of the lights. He raises his arm to gesture the previous order given, you stay put up against a wall while he proceeds further and observes the stairs, the upper level with a room; unsuspected of the flat, low contour of a light that casts through the glass panes of the space. You watch across your shoulder, moving up to the bottom of the case of stairs, detecting each of his calculated steps, prepared to act on direction.

He reaches the top platform and eyes the door — though, before he has the chance to elbow the door wide open, his suspicions of there being lifeforms present are confirmed — the solid matter of the door bursts open without warning and a clink of an object hits the ground where he stood.

Adapting the consciousness to back away from it was far too late to act on now, a blow of the now-identified smoke grenade pollutes the atmosphere around, white and clouds around more than you had expected it to. Despite having your uniform stuffed to your nose, the scent is brought back to you — that bitter, sweet-smelling one — and it throws you into an abrupt coughing fit. Some of it breaches to your eyes, leaving a whole of you to be incompetent to retaliate against the enemy; hell, you couldn't even fend it off.

There's a grit of your teeth while slump back against the stairs. You lay against your rifle that had been abandoned from the clutch of your hands, your chest abnormally heavier; as if you were lungs were filled with a burdensome matter. Through the veil of your fogged vision and the diminishing sheet of smoke, the lieutenant held more strength than you, holding himself up against the wall of the room and held the handle of his knife up into one of the perpetrators.

His strength in the moment was impressive, nearing admirable, but it wasn't enough to overturn the situation with more than one perpetrator present. About two circle him while another three take notice of your debilitated figure haunted with the beginning side effects seeping into the fissures of your body, your head.

The last few recollections were of slow footsteps approaching your comatose-like body, your breaths heavier and more echoed against the shells of your ear. That sensation in your chest sourced from the smoke was growing into more crucial, dangerous areas; the smoke's aroma intense and all that you could really smell. They're crouched and talk over your body through muffled hoods, gas-masks.

It's difficult to make out what they're saying, (In this state everything was difficult, from vision to solely breathing.) A palm rests at your forehead, frigid to the touch before it burns down to a more scorching feeling once left more on contact to your skin.

You use your last bit of brawn to grasp at an attempt to get away downwards but there's an additional grab to your legs from below. A grunt flows from your throat in a strained manner, the ramifications of the unknown dust outdoing your own control.

A palm to your forehead, acidity stench, and the rear of a shotgun to strike you to a vacant space of unconscious void.

Against your skin, there's heavy breathing, and motions of flexing arms under your lifted thighs. You find your hands balled in fists at the fabric of his tactical jacket, his jacket, Ghost. To your surprise, he had proved your accusations of his strength giving out back at the warehouse wrong — overthrowing the opponents and beating them to pulps like his usual violent self, his bloodthirsty persona which slaughters the targets he chooses. Undeniably, he was rabid. No morals, no mercy for his rivals like the truculent brute he was.

His hand supports your back, the other to your legs which had explained the flexes that continue under you. He stumbles over to a tree which provides a temporary shelter as he slants at the bark.

He isn't vulnerable, he almost never was. It was either a violent, bellicose identity or one of great endurance. Ghost was an inexplicable man. On the battlefield, he's nothing more than a weapon — a masculine personification of warfare that taunts and douses his victim in a bloodbath of gore. (Who knew if he had developed some sick satisfaction from it, years of countless executions bound to his hands.)

But now he an absolute contrasting mortal to that, possessing you in his big arms right to his chest. You almost feel safe, sort-of sheltered more than you've ever felt in your entire presence of being restricted to the Earth's grounds. You take notice of how he checks over his shoulder then sloping his head down to your laid physique. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, lifting you slightly.

"Come on, c'mon," he whispers and buries his fingers deeper in your hair, "Stay with me, kid."

In response, your half-lidded eyes widen up a little more, hands ghosting over his forearm and leaving your fingers to brush over the sleeve. You think you hear a sound of relief, but it was complicated to say with his smothering mask dying down a mass of his words.

The collected scenery around had been ingested fully with the effects of dusk, nearing complicated to make out where you the both of you resided for the time being. All you could comprehend was that he accomplished to elude from the main origin of the danger, and had hid out nearby in this perspective of trees.

"How'd... how'd you get get away?" you ask, sitting up with his supportive hand still at your back.

"That's what years of military training does to you," he replied, panting, "Reinforced stamina, mask helped drag out some of the grenade too."

You blink slowly, bringing your middle and index finger to your face which gathers some of that bitter residue. "What is this shit, anyways?"

"Not sure, has to be some conjured batch of contraband. Never been out to be transported, personal use — that's what I say."

"Some strong stuff." you mutter.

His strength which is used to hold you up heightens when he stands from his crouched position, a grunt choked in his throat. You link your arms around his neck for more support, doe-like eyes staring right into the pit of skull and cloth.

He doesn't mind, you think.

"Saw a safe-house up there, we'll spend the night there." he states.

"What about the rest of the operation?"

"I'll get in touch with Price," he said, "Possible case scenario is the whole thing being postponed."

You can only bring yourself to nod your head; at the same time, those secondary effects of the substance flowing back into yourself, stronger. Ghost starts back up forward to where the safe-house was situated, and his motions produce perceptions of vertigo. A whimper is hushed from behind your closed lips, head pressed to his shoulder and submerging into his jacket. His own scent gives distraction from the sustained bitterness and swirling sweetness that made your head pulsate in equivalent palpitations to your rapid heartbeat.

Your limbs are brought to weakness, frail and shaky against the perimeters of your pants. Sweat sticks to you — your forehead, your skin, your clothes. The strap of your bra feels more mauled into your flesh, branding into your sultry skin. There's an unanticipated rush of heat that throbs out from between your thighs, another whimper muted from your secured lips. Right in the moment, like a natural instinct, you could't help but trail your eyes over to Ghost.

How his biceps flexed and bent underneath you, his distinctive scent stalling at your nose of gunpowder and pine. It was intoxicating, holding you in a trance complete of him; all your focus on your lieutenant. You were known to hold an admiration for him ever since recruitment, his particular set of skills and proficient demeanor that was worthy of your commendation. But now it had shrunk into nothing but merely a hidden, perverted desire that had been brought out in the faults of the anesthetizing matter. Pressing your head deeper into the cloth of his jacket, you force your legs to squeeze together — an aim to rid of the shameful sensations that were coming down at you at the same.

As you doubted it was never going to transpire, Ghost had successfully brought the two of you into the safe-house. No longer in use, abandoned and dead, the short-term sanctuary reserved for you and him only. One story, decently-sized, and ideal for hiding out from potential nearby threats.

You're supported up in his arms for an interval while he inspects the building until reaching the upstairs, in the single bedroom which had been the only one throughout the investigation. He leans downwards to allow you to stable yourself on two unsteady legs from his hold. You stagger over to the solitary mattress and sit on the edge of it, two hands resting on the edge, fingers compressing into the foam. By now, the effects the substance took on your body had evolved into a level of unbearable.

Sweat drapes over your body in a fitted sheet, that vertigo subsiding into a lower degree but adjoining to the intense pulsing of your cunt that you've managed to handle for a while now. You slap a palm to your forehead, down your face, examining the extreme sweat that stains the skin there. Ghost sits at the foot of the bed, close to you, and begins to strip of his vest and his jacket.

"Get some rest, you'll need it in the morning." he advises towards you, proceeding to strip of the rest of his heavy gear.

"Was there not another bedroom?" you ask.

"Just this one," he said, "Why? You ashamed of sleeping with a superior or somethin'?"

Sleeping. To your current perverted head, you take it a more immoral way, heat rushing to your face at the thought.

"No, no, I just... thought you needed more privacy. Wanted to have some alone time, you know?"

He glances to you. "If you're uncomfortable, I can just sleep on the floor, kid — nothin' personal."

"It's fine, Ghost, seriously." you said.

His stare drifts on you for a little while longer before shifting away, bending his upper half into the pocket of his tactical jacket for a lighter version of his balaclava; one that wasn't supported with the hard shell of a skull at the front, but printed with a the design of the skull instead. His eyes were more visible this way, tar-like paint on pale skin around the browned irises. You shyly strip of your own vest and jacket, leaving you in a black tank top and tactical pants. The only light that had really illuminated the room was the tranquilizing beam of the moonlight through the pane of the window, white and glowy.

You slump fully onto the bed and sink into the soften material of a pillow. Your resting position distributes some heaven from the tormenting sensitivity that throbs like hell through your pants. The space on the mattress from behind you droops with his weight, a breathy sigh leaving his lips as he settles close to you; the closest you've ever been with him, almost intimate.

After a slight period of time, he's knocked out in a slumber — but you're left awake, a hand now between your legs as the pulsing is at its height; panties drenched and your heartbeat thumping out of the cage of your chest. You gaze over your shoulder at him where he lays closer facing you, his eyes visibly slit shut with the gleam of the moonlight. He adjusts himself and moves in closer to you in his sleep, towering figure nearly pressed up at you. The adjustment leaves you flustered, shock.

Without hesitations, you remove your hand that nestled from the space of your thighs and slipped through the waistband of your pants; stripping of your pants, gliding into your panties and fingertips feeling the soaked fabric of it before trailing further, rubbing slightly against your cunt. Your back arches and you muffle a whine into your pillow, heartbeat sounding at your ears in impossible volumes. Shame was no longer present, libido taking authority over your body and leading you to do such perverted things while thinking of your superior — who was sleeping away right next to you.

In this sort of mindset you can barely grab control of yourself anymore and find yourself stumbling backwards into Ghost, your free hand over your mouth as you feel the area of his crotch press up against the curve of your ass. One of your eyes twitch, hand in your panties rubbing at your puffy lips while your hips begin circular motions at his clothed crotch. The hand at your mouth fails to stay together, fingers parting from each other and granting the noises from your mouth to spill out. His arm then wraps at your waist, unconscious or not, seemingly pulling you closer to him; a bulge in his pants felt at your panties.

"Lieutenant..." you whisper breathily, looking back at him only to see his eyes were no longer shut — but half-lidded and open.

His arm at your waist travels to your hips, trapping you in the enclosure of his hands while he pushes you down further onto his bulge; an audible whine leaving your mouth with additional pants.

"Look at you," he groans with a rasp in his tone, "Gettin' off on her superior like the needy whore she is."

"M' sorry, Ghost, fuck, needed you so bad..." you whine out as his hips grind against your ass harsher, almost in similarity to thrusting, yourself drunk on him and his cock.

"Yeah, love?" he questions, "Say it, how long have you've been like this for me? How many times have you touched that pretty little cunt of yours to the thought of me every night?"

Your eyes are shot vast, saliva pooled in your closed mouth and your panties moist — slick painting the inner sections of your thighs. Words struggle shape into coherent sentences through your mindless babbles and the disturbance of his erection prodding right at your clothed cunt, but you manage. "Ever since I joined the task force," you say through a half-whine, "Since I've first seen you."

A couple of months was your first appearance on working for the task force. Decently skilled and a couple of rank higher than your first impression of a rookie, barely given any training. That's how long you've yearned for him — how many times you've laid sole right at midnight, in your room of the barracks, a hand down your panties while breaths of weight exhale with personal noises of lust. You project his hand instead of yours in the fabric, veins and a bigger expanse of flesh that stretches your tight cunt out with lengthy fingers.

Now those momentary projections had manifested itself into the real life, the reality where your older superior had himself pressed up against you; hungering after you as much as you did for him.

He has his face in the crook of your neck. "Fucked my fist thinkin' of you," you said, "You and your heavenly body distractin' me on missions... drives me insane."

"Ghost, please." you whimpered.

"Tell me what you need, sweet thing, c'mon." he cooes against your neck, the arms around your waist locking you right to the area of his crotch when all you could do is whine and push yourself down for more of the relief. Your body burns and fits of sweat, the temples of your forehead pounding.

"Need you to fuck me," you pant, "Need you inside so bad."

Ghost places a masked kiss at your jaw at the confession and in an instant movement; you're underneath him, a caging shadow scarcely visible by the traces of moonlight through the glass panes. The loss of friction he once gave from behind you was no longer there, leaving you to press your thighs together once again in hopes to rekindle some of the loss. His palms are flat at each side of your head, the bulging muscles of his black shirt outlining through the material — and the thing you've longed for the most, the bulge that lines and becomes trapped in his fabric confines.

He uses his right arm and his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, ragging the drenched item down past your knees and left to be discarded on the mattress. His eyes preserve in a mature desire; bleary and focused on the exposed region of wet flesh. You bite the skin of your bottom lip, sheepish to never having another person being so up-close to an area that was so confidential to you throughout a large portion of your life. Two of his fingers slide up your puffy lips, soaked of your collected arousal while he elicits a low gasp from you.

"Fuck, angel, never seen someone so wet all for me." he said.

You had wondered if you should tell him now — after you were the first one to make such a bold move on him, you had to confess the private matter of never having intercourse; the only closest sexual encounter you've had was with yourself. (Those nights in the barracks with your single hand.)

"Ghost, wait—" you stutter out, a palm spread-out at his chest in a way to interrupt him of his doings.

"Somethin' wrong?"

You breathe, your throat gone dry. "I- I haven't done this before." you admit.

"You're a virgin, honey, is that it?" he asked with his accent swarmed of concern, "Never had a man touch you like this?"

"No," you said, "I want you to be my first time..." the admission was brief to a point, sure, but it was what you were so desperate in need of. You reserved this occasion just for him, and it had finally gave life to itself.

"Oh, sweet girl," he caresses your face with both hands, large palms squishing your cheeks and rubbing soothing motions into the skin, "Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, please," you whisper, "God, I've waited and waited, only for you to be the first. Nobody else."

With that, his hands drag themselves down your face, your chest and stomach, and aligning at your thighs. He leans himself down onto the mattress, pinning his body onto the cushioned material. Your legs rest at each of his shoulders and his fingers create a restraint; powerless to thrashing or releasing from his hold. His thumb and index finger momentarily fix up the bottom of his balaclava to the brink of his nose, moving back to the flesh of your thigh. You squirm a little from the long, dragged-out desperation that spread through your body like a disease — a plague of lust solely meant for your lieutenant.

At long last his head descends to that throbbing territory right between your parted thighs, all bathed in your bloomed arousal and swollen clit. You feel his tongue kiss over your skin before running one long stripe up your cunt, lips fully puckering over you. To this new, overwhelming ease —out of the extended period of time with the substance's aches— you throw your head back to the headboard, a breathy gasp leaving you throat each time his tongue comes to work on your cunt. His nose adds to the ecstasy that he sends you right into, nuzzling and prodding right at your clit when his mouth works along your slit.

You stifle a moan, but ultimately fails when his tongue fucks itself right into your cunt, nearly felt at your walls. Whines echo off the boundaries of the room, the double simulation causing your eyes to flutter and your walls to clench around his tongue. Your thighs squeeze at his head while trembling, leaving your fingers to claw at the sheets, each and every assembly of your exclusive noises the nearest experience he would ever capture to hearing heaven — an angel, his very own angel.

"Fuckin' heaven right between your thighs, princess," he praised, running his tongue at the spots he was quick to learn that were sensitive to you, "Needy thing, you are."

"Y- Yes, yes... fuck." you whine.

"M' going to ruin you, bunny," he said amid his pleasuring, "Be the first man to ruin you, and this sweet pussy of yours."

Your thighs tremble, thrown-back head releasing noises of pants and disgraceful moans. His tongue works more diligently now, in the habit of working at your cunt. The ministrations are more faster and insistent. "Oh, Ghost..." you whimpered, bucking your hips onto his face and essentially riding his entire facial structure. He lifts his irises to your fucked-out face, staring in admiration, a raw visual of beauty — open-mouth, tilted head, sheet of sweat over skin, and all because of his own doing.

Rather than alternating between lapping at the exterior of your cunt and pushing his tongue right into you, he makes his mind up of only plunging his tongue in-and-out of you. The more rabid motions of his tongue driving up into you is a whole new degree of euphoria, a knot in your abdomen tying itself at the muscle fucking at your delicate walls. But it's not soon when that knot is unbinding itself, your body writhing under him as your hips roll and ripples of pleasure drive out from the undoing knot.

When Ghost arises from his spot between your now-fully soaked thighs, his mouth and nose are saturated with the liquids of your orgasm; the first orgasm you've had provoked by another person. You spasm, at some state of relief — but not enough to fully satisfy the explicit emotions that fomented right to him. Heavy breaths leave your mouth and his, trembling fingers of yours coming to pull off your tank-top and bra; fully nude and stripped beneath him now. You take notice of his eyes widening for a brief second behind the warpaint — astonished, or whatever he had going on at that unpredictable mind of his.

"Such a doll, baby." he said, inclining down to press a kiss to your lips, straightening his stance above you — towering you. He strips of his own shirt, a broad chest of muscles and pale skin, then lingering a hand down to his tactical pants where he shrugs the cloth down to his ankles; thoroughly peeling away from any fabric, except for his boxers with that prominent bulge at the forefront.

You patiently look up at him through your lashes while he slowly tugs at the waistband of the remaining article of clothing, a sensation at your gut anxious for the release of it. He wastes no time pulling the boxers down, cock smacking at his lower abs. Undeniably, he was as large as you've fantasized him to be — but with more length added, more veins that adorned him and a blunt head that oozed of pre-cum. Your breath hitched at the sight, a slow blink of your eyes while he clamped a fist over himself.

He pumped himself a few times in the fist, never once leaving the perspective of your near-goddess body all spread out for him. The stare in his eyes were darker, more obscured with shadows and a deep, perverted passion that you once obtained; only for it to die down at his domination on you, reduced to your usual timidity. Observing his cock in his fist, you bite your lip, that throbbing sense at your cunt returning in a more intense wave.

In a more bent position over your anatomy, you feel the head of his cock prod right at your entrance and you gasped when it starts in circular movements — gathering some of the remnants of your arousal on the head.

His fingers grasp at your jaw, gently forcing you to make direct eye contact. "Hey, hey, look at me," he whispers, "Relax, honey, it's going to hurt a little since it's your first time, yeah?"

You give him a nod, lip bitten at your teeth.

"If it hurts, we stop, no big deal — got it?"

You give him another nod of reassurance. It was a huge thing to give up, to put trust into the hands of another man — but it was him, your lieutenant, the man you've admired and personally worshipped like your own god. You trusted him with your life, that's how far it was taken, and now you could trust him with taking your virginity; ruining yourself for him.

With the given permission, he slowly fills you up, the head of his cock slipped into your cunt. He groans at the tight sensation, a whimper of your end at his lengthy size inside of you. You already feel so filled, and it was only the blunt head that had been in you. Ghost immerses in how you feel clenched around him, tight and leaving him almost unable to fully thrust himself in; the intimate way your legs bracket at his waist, how your arms wrap his torso like a bandage and your fingers jab at his back muscles.

"Ghost—" you whine out, feeling yourself clench around the head of his cock that left you almost brain-dead — unable to speak, or form a coherent thought at that, "Oh, fuck..."

His large hands keep you confined at your waist, lips pressing at your face while one hand frees itself and cradles you in it. "Still doing okay, sweetheart?" he asks with a genuine concern, and you nod, allowing him to thrust the remaining inches of his cock right into your cunt. Your back arches off the mattress at the sudden movement and the short sting that accompanies it. "Doing so good, love."

He starts out in slow, steady thrusts and you whine with the flow of his hips against yours. Gradually, he speeds up once coming to the realization that you were already adapted to how he moved up inside of you. Your fingers at his back begin to dig deeper, breaking the skin and leaving red marks in the wake. His stamina is a whole stage of extremity than your own, which is why he's able to pound into your cunt without pause.

"You love this don't you, sweet girl?" he pants, "You love having your sweet little pussy filled up by your superior's big cock, huh?"

You rapidly nod with pants between your lips, saliva down the corners of your widened mouth, "Love it s'much, Ghost, oh—"

"My real name, say it, honey."

You whimper, the bottoms of your eyes twitching. "Love how you fuck me, Simon — be rough with me, please, I don't care anymore."

At the your request, his particular set of thrusts afterwards of his are hard and nearing animalistic, right up at your cervix — nearly at your womb. He reduced you to nothing but a writhing, moaning mess where you laid under him; legs fixated at his waist and your arms at his torso forcing him down closer to you.

"Always wanted to fuck you like this, y'know?" he rasps between grunts, "Every-time one of those lowlife rookies eyed you, wanted to bend you over and show them who you belong to," he said, "Fuck in front of everyone like a bunch of animals.

An audible, echoing whine slips from your mouth at his own perverted confession. Who knew he shared the same fucked-up fantasies as you did? (Truly a match made in heaven.)

In the way he fucked into your cunt at a rapid pace, it could be considered animalistic — just like his fantasy. His veined hands caress your waist while every thrust of his hardened cock brushing past your walls and pounding into your cervix extracts an angelic sound from your mouth.

"More, please, please—" you whine out, head thrown back and nails into his skin, "I'll be your girl, 'mmm my god — your only girl, I promise..."

He grunts. "That's right, bunny. I'm the only man who can fuck you like this," he said, "I'll make you remember this night, the first man to ever ruin you like this."

Ghost throws his head back, his posture aligning itself out while his jaw clenches. Sounds of skin-on-skin and a chorus of high-pitched whines along with raspy, masculine grunts leave the safe-house no longer deserted; conducted of sexual nature in its walls. You squeal as he never fails to reach your cervix while he continues to pound into you, addicted to the way your cunt clenches on him like a vice and how your body reacts to his cock impaling it like a natural instinct — clamping on, soaked of arousal just at the mere thought of it settled in you.

The space between your two thighs are messier than the first time, when you found yourself being carried like a bride in his arms, when you ground yourself right to the bulge of his pants. It's sloppy, with a combination of your arousal and his pre-cum painting your inner-thighs like a piece of artwork; the whole scene a scenario of a sexual, brutal renaissance painting.

"M' so close, Simon!" you squeal, "Need you to cum inside, mmph — please..."

"You want that, sweet girl?" he asks, "Want me to cum all inside of your pretty pussy?"

"Yes!"

He chuckles. "You lil' fuckin' whore, all needy like this for her first time."

And with that, Ghost smacks his lips to yours. His tongue laps at each crevice of your mind, a hand coming to grab at your jaw and keep you in position. The results from him eating you out still linger on his tongue, causing you to moan right into his mouth and allow him to eat you all up. Your insides feel raw at this point in the way his cock leaves squishes noises each time he meets with your puffy, sticky folds — cervix bruised and kissed with his overwhelming contact.

"C'mon, princess, show your lieutenant who you belong to," he breathes between kisses, "That's it, I know you can, bunny."

Ghost feels the abrupt stop of your clawing at his back when your cunt spasms around his cock, clenching as tightly when a burst of liquid seeps out and decorates the head of his cock, drooling down the veiny sides. The pads of his fingers come down to rub at your swollen clit during your orgasm, a loud whine earned at the contact. His cock twitches inside of you at your noise, and at the discernment of your pretty cunt squeezing down on him; in some way telling him to stay, never let you go, claim and haunt you down to never leave your side, never.

With your orgasm already wrapped and concluded, he undergoes one of his own; not long after yours. A gush of fluid plants at your walls and floods past your cervix, felt at the inners of your womb. Sensitivity still contemporary, you find yourself mewling at the impact when it spills to the parts deepest inside of you — coddled in the warmth of his seed, filled to the brim. He's quite the artist himself, painting your insides one of the prettiest tints of white. You capture him in a hug, pressing your face into the open slant of his neck while he sinks in the position for a little while longer. He returns the embrace and massages at your breasts before wrapping you in a full hug, collapsing to your body.

He rearranges the stances of your bodies while in the embrace — him on the bottom, while you lay on his larger structure. Your head rests on his naked chest, tiny pants from your mouth while he is successful in catching after his own breaths; his hand in your hair, petting in comforting strokes while he presses repeated kisses to your scalp.

"How was that for you first time, love?" he asks once in breath again.

"Brutal," you said, "I liked it, though."

"Think that grenade powder had quite the effect on us," he said, "fuckin’ hell."

You nosed at his jaw, kissing at him, inhaling his scent of sweat and gunpowder — addictive. "Never knew my superior could be such a pervert just cause of a little powder."

"Not only the powder, doll," he said, "It's you."

[drgnflyteabox]

Malewife Gaz comes back from deployment desperate for his mean, office siren gf <3

MDNI / dub con-ish / public sex / overstim / anal play / grinding / Kyle is kinda gross lol I luv him / he eats it from the back :D / they're both switches / squirting

Reader works in an office, but it's not clear what she does. She does have her own private office though ;) you go girl!

You're ignoring him.

Your phone isn't turned off, it's not even on silent, but you haven't flipped it right side up despite the near constant buzzing. Kyle has been texting, calling, but you're cross at the moment and don't feel like having it out with him on a work day.

You should turn your phone off. It's distracting, and a little inappropriate to have it making so much noise even through the walls cushioning your personal office.

The thing is, it's a little gratifying that he's desperately trying to reach you. Part of it is the satisfaction that he's a little anxious and wants to make it up, and part of it is wanting him to be extra sorry when you gets home.

Kyle had been able to call you all through the past month despite being on deployment. At least twice a week, you'd be laid up in bed or tucked away on lunch in your office telling him about your day. A rare treat for someone of his vocation, and something you appreciated greatly. The expectation you always set for yourself was zero contact - something to keep you from being hurt or placing more stress on him. Truly, your workaholic tendencies made you perfect for somebody that spent so much time deployed. When he came back, he made you take a break. There was a balance.

Typically you'd get a window of time for when he'd be back home. Your favourite thing to do was to cook a British classic for the occasion, usually bangers and mash - his favourite. You always had his preferred beer too, a brand you noticed he copied from Price. So cute. Yesterday morning he'd sent you a message that he'd be home for 9pm, a little late for dinner but the boys wanted to catch up at their favourite pub before they separated.

Only last night you'd sat at the table waiting for two full hours by yourself before giving up. His meal was packed in the fridge while you'd eaten yours by yourself on the couch with a glass of wine, texts going unanswered.

The worst part wasn't that he hadn't shown up. Sometimes that happened, when missions ran long or he'd gotten too into his cups with his team. It was annoying, but your tradition was to spend the day together when he got back, and you didn't mind having breakfast with him instead. You just didn't appreciate that he didn't even call or text about it, and that in the morning you found him sprawled on the couch with just his boxers and a mess of clothing tossed on the ground from the door to the living room couch. Socks, pants, his tank top.

So, petty as you are, you go to work and forego the tradition. Ignoring him. You dressed nice, too, black stockings and as tarty as you could without getting a call from HR. He hadn't seen you leave, but you wanted to get home and remind him what he was missing.

Your office phone rang once, twice, "hello?" The secretary at the front of the building was a nice enough lady, but she rarely called you directly. "Your lunch is here - the deliveryman is just waiting."

"Deliveryman?" You say skeptically. You hadn't ordered lunch. You'd brought Kyle's leftovers.

"Yep. Should I send him up?" Though you probably know who it is, you tell her you'll be down in the lobby instead. You'd prefer to be safe than sorry, in case it isn't Kyle.

It is.

He looks like a kicked puppy, holding some kind of takeout bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. He knows you love Los Vaqueros, the little coffeeshop next door. It's probably a macadamia nut latte, your favourite.

"Babe," he starts, sounding a little rough. Probably battling a hangover. He's wearing your favourite shirt, a tight black compression shirt that shows off his tits. Grey running sweats. Oh, he's good. "Is your phone dead?"

"I've got a pretty busy day today, Kyle," you're a little snotty about it. Your hip is cocked to the side. You want him to work a little. "I was in the middle of a meeting."

"You can't be that mad at me. I brought you macadamia and a caesar wrap. Come on, baby." He shifts the bag into the same hand as the coffee, using the other to show you his palm in apology.

You peer at him a little warily. It's times like this you wish he wasn't so tall, so that you could look at him all judgemental secretary like. You settle for arching a brow and squinting. "Go away now, I'll see you at home. I better not see any dirty socks on my floor, either."

"I cleaned them this morning, I swear."

"Good. Now scram, and give me that coffee." You reach for the coffee, but he intercept and grabs your elbow. Pulling you closer. "What- kyle--" his hands slides up to your upper back, making you shiver. When you don't pull away, he grins like a schoolboy and starts steering you down the hall. "I have work -!"

"I know, baby, but I really wanna make it up to you. Let me make it up to you." He's speaking quietly as to not alert the secretary a few feet away. He's leading you to the bathroom.

"No! Kyle, I'm at work. Goddammit, I have things to do-"

"No you don't." When you've turned the corner and are out of sight, he slides his hand from your back to your ass, squeezing hard, making you squeak. "And I need you. I woke up so hard. I need your pussy." He's close to whining, tucking his face close to your ear, smelling your hair.

Your voice goes high pitched, flustered, not expecting him to try and cajole you into fucking in a public bathroom. At your workplace no less. "We can't!"

He used to do this when you first started dating; get needy, corner you in some barely secluded place and get you both off one way or another. Quick and dirty. He swore he never fucked anyone else while deployed, and if it wasn't the trust you had in him it was how desperate he seemed to get when he got back that assured you of his faithfulness. Sometimes it was your favourite, just how whiney and flustered he would get. As a treat, if he'd been very good during dinner, you'd wake him up by sucking him off the morning he got back. Surely he had missed that this morning, what with how fast he'd led you to the employee bathroom. Good.

He locks the door behind you, and you let him kiss you a little. You don't see him put your food down, but he must because both his hands squeeze your waist. You rub your thighs together to soothe the pulsing arousal building in your belly.

You hand goes to his chest, pushing him. He's so strong, it takes you slapping his chest and shoulders to move back, panting. "We can't, I'm serious. Do you want me to get fired?"

He licks his lips, not even looking you in the eye. "You won't get fired, baby. Just be quiet. Let me take care of you-" you interrupt him by grabbing his face and squeezing his cheeks hard, making his lips pucker up.

"Can you not think with your cock? Couldn't you have dropped lunch off and waited for me back home like a good boy?"

He slides his big hands down your waist to your hips, tilting his hard cock so its pressed against you. Despite you holding him, he walks you both forward until your back hits the wall and he can grind against you hard. "Kyle- I'm not kidding," you say sternly, but don't move away. His cock rubs deliciously against your mons, not quite where you want it, but a good enough tease that your breath shudders out in a moan.

"Please, please, let me," he begs, grinding. Pressing his body right up to yours. You acquiesce a little, moving your hand from his face to down his pants and into his boxers. "Hrmmn-nn fuck, fuck," he whines. Bypassing his dick, you feel him start to hump desperately, like a dog. He shudders hard and you're squashed against the wall as you palm his balls, playing with them a little. You feel wetness drip down your wrist.

"Did you just come?" Honestly, you're delighted, but you make sure your tone is disappointed. Mean. Your pussy squeezes, wets your panties a little more. "Bad boy. I thought you were going to make it up to me?"

"Oh fuck, thank you baby. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you still. Just give me a second."

"No way. Get to work." It's easy to bully him a little when he's so fresh from his orgasm. You push him onto his knees and lift a heel to rest it on that big, muscular thigh.

Your tits feel squashed in your bra as you breathe hard, looking down at him. He pushes his forehead against your stomach, pushing your skirt up while murmuring something into the fabric. You palm yourself, pinch your own nipples through the fabric. Feeling empowered, your hand goes to his hair and you grind your panty covered pussy right on his nose.

"Go on."

He licks you through the fabric, long laps of his tongue. Sucks on where your clit is, wetting the fabric. Kyle grips your thighs and pulls them wider apart, making you teeter dangerously on one heel, the other digging into his leg. He mouths at your panties and bites gently at you while your scratch his scalp and neck.

He moans, and finally pushes your underwear down. You clench as your wetness is exposed to the air, cooling you. Your clit stands up, peeking out of your hood. He gives it a little lick, directly on the underside where you're most sensitive. It makes you jump, not expecting it. He doesn't let you move away, instead wrapping his lips around you and sucking, hard.

"Oh Jesus--" your knees buckle a little, "Kyle, fuck," he pulls back and turns you around forcefully, making you arch. His hand finds your ankle and lifts your leg up and out, tongue finding your cunt once again. He eats you out like he's making out with you, like a sloppy kiss. His other hand squeezes where your ass and thigh meet, spreading you open.

"I missed you so much," he says. "I missed this pretty little cunt. Oh, jesus, I'm hard again." Of course he is - his refractory period has always been quick. This is a new record, though. "Can I fuck you, baby?"

You have to really force your words out, with how he spreads your asscheeks and licks your other hole. "Nn- no. You haven't - haven't earned it yet."

Kyle doesn't say anything to that, just curls his tongue in your ass and let's your ankle go to pinch your clit between two fingers, twisting it. You shout, then go still, remembering where you are. "Kyle --!" It sneaks up on you, how fast your orgasm comes. From your toes to your nipples, electricity shoots through you and tightens your skin. You tremble violently, soaking his fingers and his face. He stands up while you go through the aftershocks, hands stroking your belly and holding you from behind, crowding you and making you feel safe.

Kyle kisses your nape, sucks your earlobe a little. Waits like a gentleman. You lean back against him and squeeze his fingers.

"I'm gonna fuck you now." He's not asking anymore, and you're boneless, so you just spread your legs and let him push his cock into you slowly, enjoying the stretch. It makes you rise onto your tiptoes, letting him take your weight. He rocks into you slowly at first, hands roaming from your stomach to your tits to your throat. Pinching and squeezing, having earned your submission.

"I missed you too," you admit finally, breathily. "I love you, big boy."

Kyle hums, sucking a mark into your neck, picking up his pace. "I love you too." He nibbles on you a little. His thumb finds your asshole again, pushing in, making you whine high and thin. "You gonna be a good girl and come all over my cock? I've been waiting for this, you know. Your pussy feels like home."

Your cunt drips on him, making wet little sounds while he fucks you hard against the wall. You're still sensitive from coming earlier, so you squirm on his cock, squeezing around him. "Come inside me, please," you beg. You need to feel it. He uses his free hand to push your face into the wall, bucking into you once, twice, then holding himself taut as a bowstring. His hips grind minutely against your ass while he comes, flooding your pussy.

Kyle doesn't let you go, just pulls his cock and thumb out quickly, taking advantage of your stupor to cup your pussy and roughly squeeze your clit. You yelp, jumping, but keep your legs spread. Your peak is building again, and he knows it. Two of his big fingers find your stretched hole and push in, curling and rubbing viciously until the pressure builds and builds and your pussy contracts, pleasure slicing through your abdomen painfully. You cover your mouth with your hands just barely in time to shout, knees buckling with your orgasm.

If not for Kyle holding you up, you'd have fallen down to the floor. You shake, feeling cored. He nuzzles you sweetly, licking your ear. His hand pets your pussy gently until you push him away, way too sensitive.

"Can I take you home, babygirl?"

"Yes please," your voice is a croak.

Kyle is a little inconsiderate in this but I hope it didn't read as angst and more playfulness between established partners <3<3 I feel like Kyle is a very noble character and he puts a lot of pressure on himself. Always worrying about what the right thing is. I figure with reader he can let go a little :') reader is a little miffed but she's soft for her man <3

Also I wrote this on my phone between shifts during a 13 hour day so please forgive any typos or grammar mistakes

[peachetteprice]

Driving Habits | TF141

Disclaimer: Some of these are UK specific, including the style of car, manoeuvres, terminology, and gearbox. That's what happens when the boys live and work mostly in England! Also, I am almost taking my practical test in September, and I need to rant about certain habits. Sorry in advance to Soap and Ghost. Love you both, boys.

Credit to @soaps-mohawk for giving me the inspiration to explore this headcanon! It began with an exploration into what cars TF141 might drive! You can see the original post that inspired this here.

+ Including interactions when driving with an S/O!

Notorious one-handed driver. The other hand is either on the gearstick - just resting, contemplating - or mediating between the gearstick and your thigh. He loves a good reverse bay park. (He's an absolute beast at it, too. No need for minor adjustments. He just... knows the space. And he will make fun of you when you can't park as perfectly as him). Helps to get the shopping in better, because at least you can get to the boot! Has been known to swerve a little bit for birds in the road, but that's because he's an avid watcher, and the poor things get enough grief as it is - he wants to still be able to watch Robins and Thrushes in the trees on the weekend!

Captain John Price:

He does, however, neglect rabbits, foxes, badgers, squirrels, and rats. And the... occasional deer in Scotland? Not out of malice - not at all - but they're not worth swerving over and potentially causing a collision for. He might, only if you're with him - because you'll squeal if he doesn't and positively become harrowed by its body popping beneath the rear tyre - but it's much safer for a driver to simply ram it into the gravel than to mess around with the safety of himself, other drivers, and - of course - you.

Takes extra care around vehicles with stickers that denote that the occupants of said vehicle - bar the driver or secondary passengers - are animals or children. He will be extra sure to check his mirrors, touch on the brakes if need be, and will actively scan for dangerous drivers that he can shield the car from. His duty is to protect, after all, in whatever capacity.

That being said, in his youth, he was known to drive... a little faster than required. Only on country lanes does he still retain some of his more... reckless habits. He may go a touch too fast around corners, and ignore the chevrons that indicate the severity of a turn (one arrow, two, three), and if the road opens up to a sprawling range, whereby speed control for tight corners and blind junctions is not an issue, he will... perhaps... occasionally - only rarely if you're in the car with him - let her rip.

Begrudgingly drives your shuddering little Fiat 500 or itty bitty Hyundai i20 (hey, what do you mean, tiny, it's perfect for the city, John! Pay no mind if your boys giggle and point when you turn up at the base in it...), though much prefers the Triumph Spitfire, 1979, mint-condition, that he bought in 2008 for three grand and fixed up over a ten-year period (when he wasn't deployed, that was) which is now worth £18,000. That is his profit! But he won't let another soul touch it, drive it, or so much as look at it - unless it's you, on a good day - until the day he dies. It's in stunning condition, but God help you if you reverse into the driveway without him watching like a hawk, wiggling his hand as if it were the paddle of an aeroplane conductor, telling you to move closer to the wall and risk scratching your car just to protect his darling baby. It... oh no... it might be the only thing he loves more than you...

But those roads are his home, that's all!

Always, always, always over-revs the engine to get out of a junction. He can't help it! He's used to manoeuvring through rough terrain with a car the size of a military tank - he's bound to forget to treat a normal car with a normal amount of strength. He comes flying into and out of roundabouts for that exact reason! He has to get on and off them quickly enough - don't you know, they're deathtraps, they are!

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley:

He's also prone to checking his side mirrors and rear view mirror an inordinate amount of times for a twenty-minute pop to the shop. He is convinced that the Kia Sportage behind him is right up his tail - he's sure it's stalking you in the passenger seat, especially with your bumper stickers on the rear, the nasty perverts - no matter how many times you explain to him that the mirrors are convex! They will make everything seem closer than they truly are! Now, however, he does not and will not ever brake-check a car, but he will sure as hell give them the dirtiest stare if they decide to overtake him... or until they back off a few more feet behind you.

The poor man gets impatient at lights. He does. And crossings, too. Train, tram, pedestrian, any and all of them. Despises them all. He'd rather a set of traffic lights for people to cross at, than have those silly zebra, pelican or toucan markings along the road that he has to pray Grandma Doris won't divert her walking cane in its bilateral direction. Oh, and he bounces his leg like there's no tomorrow. Again, he can't help it! He isn't used to waiting in cars. He's used to tumbling down roads in Middle Eastern deserts as the crow flies. None of those silly turns and re-routes into estates because he took the wrong turn at a junction. He wouldn't have messed up had he had time to think! Had there been no traffic! And, oh, Christ, the traffic. Simon does not like traffic. He does illegal U-turns as soon as he sniffs there being a road closure - that's how much he dislikes waiting!

You'll never forget the day that he wrenched the handbrake up way too high, and you had to get your father to re-tighten it. You're sure there aren't any more notches he can lift it to. You're rarely ever on a hill that warrants it. He'll crank it up six times just to stop at the traffic light before the Tesco. It's bloody Tesco! It's not Mount Kilimanjaro!

Never gets the bite point consistently. Never gets the damn bite point. Always too low or too high. He doesn't over-rev it like Ghost does, but the amount of times he stalls the bloody car, thinking he's in another one of those tank-sized vehicles that has a brand-spanking new bite point - or dare he say, an automatic gearbox that doesn't even require a clutch - is incalculable. You'd think the man has only just learnt to drive!

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish:

Notoriously speeds through built-up areas. Often commits to doing 45mph in a 30mph zone. Only when there isn't anyone around, like at nighttime! He consistently zooms past speed cameras in his BMW. His poor 3L engine is just too powerful for those dinky little roads. And, promise, he doesn't do it on purpose! He just routinely forgets to glance at his speedometer (and his mirrors, but that's another issue), and he drives for himself and himself only. In fact, he often hums to himself and forgets you're even there, beside him, clutching onto the internal handle on the roof in case he veers too suddenly to either side. His object permanence doesn't prevail unless he has one hand on your inner thigh, and if he doesn't, well, you can kiss safe driving habits goodbye.

(Oh, and he always sits on the brake. And bite + gas. The handbrake is too cumbersome, and his feet are strong enough, Goddamnit!)

Alright, that isn't to say he's an... unsafe driver. He's only slightly inconsiderate. He brakes too harshly, too late, too suddenly, he coasts on the clutch around corners, he never feeds the steering wheel, and he sometimes forgets to check his mirrors before turning into a junction (but he's never T-boned a cyclist... yet... you can give him a tick for that one). But he hums and whistles a nice tune to himself - he prefers it to the radio, and that's not to say he prefers quiet so he can hear the sound of the engine, no, no... never... not at all - and he always makes an overt point to note every field of cows, sheep (especially horses!) as well as every cat he sees lurking along the pavements. Never dogs. Doesn't like the bastards. Got bit once. That was enough to turn him right off.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Beautiful driver. Test-accurate. He could re-take it today and pass with flying colours. What a brilliant driver. The only bad habit he's picked up is driving with one hand (he tends to bite his fingernails on the other when he drives - helps with the stress of commuting in London), and never feeding the steering wheel through his hands. He does the wipe-on, wipe-off manouvre, mostly because he looks hot when doing it, though he tries not to. Mama Garrick always swats his hand whenever he does it because that's how drivers get into accidents, baby!

Car-shares with his mother, whether it's in her duck-egg blue Kia Picanto or his lime green Ford Fiesta - it has failed its MOT three bloody times, and he's revived that girl from death's vice grip more times than he can count, it has the mileage of a postal worker in the 1700s, nearing 200k - but this gentleman always remembers to bring the seat forward and upright after he's finished using it, so that her feet can touch the pedals, and to, naturally, reduce her back pain. He does the same with the headrest, too, because if there's anything he cares about more than his job, it's the safety of his family and friends!

Tends to drive on the cautious side. The only minor fault he'd get in a test would be hesitance because he simply doesn't trust any other driver but himself. His mother drilled that into him. She said that there's nothing worse than watching a car flash its headlights and signal you to go, with caution, as always, because the flash is not universal for 'go', only to pull in front of you and trigger you to emergency brake. Or, God-forbid, a pedestrian puts their hand up at you before they've even crossed the bloody road, and he has to slam on the brakes like he's Speedy Gonzalez at a traffic light. Lordy Lord.

Never mind the fact that he waits too long at pedestrian crossings because there could be somebody shrouded by that tree on the corner there. Do you see it? Over there! No, behind the sign, love! There could be someone - oh, whatever. He has to wait to make sure it's clear - otherwise, Grandma Doris is getting bumped in the legs and thrown fifty feet along the road! And he cares about the elderly!

Always nervously bites the insides of his cheek at roundabouts. Which is the most bewildering part of all, because he's so good at them! He always signals onto the roundabout. Never cuts lanes. Always follows directions perfectly, and if he doesn't, well, I guess you're taking a different route until you can turn around in a safe place. He always signals off the roundabout, too - even at mini-roundabouts - but he'll scrunch his face up every time, huff, and mutter:

"Yeah... botched that one."

...Regardless of how many times you tell him that he's a gorgeous driver! It's sexy, too, how he abides by the Highway code and gives way to more cars than he really should - no, except he really should stop doing that, actually, they're starting to take advantage of his kindness and he doesn't realise it - and how he's so... so... so fucking smooth with gear transitions. Going from stationary to a comfortable 20mph? He'll pop that sucker so fluidly into third (or second, if it's his mum's car) with such prowess that you barely notice the engine take the gas he's giving it. There's no jolt between first and second. He plays those gears like he's bowing a violin. How delicate his fingers are. How gentle his touch. It's mesmerising to watch.

And, you're about ready to give him your hand in marriage when you notice that every time he comes to a stop - on a hill, at a traffic light, in crawl traffic, waiting to turn into a junction, he puts the handbrake on, then takes his foot off the foot brake, then knocks the gearstick into neutral, then takes his foot off the clutch, and waits patiently like the darling man he is. Unlike someone else, he never sits on the brake...

Gaz even brakes in ample time, and you thought he couldn't be more perfect! That's what really gets you going - he gives the car behind him just the right amount of time to slow down that it's almost a waltz, and he's the conductor of traffic. Though... maybe don't let him get trapped at a stalemate on a mini-roundabout where all cars are turning left and are subsequently blocked by the need to give way to the right... his poor brain will short-circuit! If he does, give him a pat on the thigh and let him wait for someone else to make the first move - he hates decision-making when he's off-duty.

Bonus Round - Road Rage!

Captain John Price:

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Road Rage? You mean, showing a healthy amount of anger and vigour towards a bloody idiot driver? You mean... baring his teeth and swatting a hand at them, occasionally honking the horn past eleven-thirty, even if people are sleeping, or pulling out one of his anger-insurance cigars? That's what road rage is? Well... Christ, he must be terrible for it. Don't tell his boys that... they think he's the most level-headed man on base.

He's slightly oblivious to the technique of cars around him. He drives like he's the only driver in the world, because usually he is - except for those fuckers behind you who won't back off - but if something does happen, and if it isn't too much of an issue, he'll grunt, clench his teeth, grip the steering wheel and let out a muttered 'bastard'. If, however, something really irritates him - especially if another car puts you in danger - he'll honk the horn and flail his hand at the windscreen in the hopes that the driver sees his frustration (even if you're the one driving, he'll reach over and honk the pad for you, even though you've told him not to!)

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish:

Well... he certainly knows a lot of Gaelic, doesn't he, your boy? You've hardly a monkey's bottom of what he's saying, but the vitriol in which he says it - he's not known for bottling his anger very well - makes it clear to you that he needs a hug and de-tox before bedtime. If the accused does anything on the defensive or antagonistic, he has been known to pull up beside them on a two-lanes-go-straight-on road marking, even if it isn't the right way to your destination, just to glare at them and give them the... stern finger. Maybe... maybe a word or two about precious cargo.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Gaz is a simple guy when he's off-duty. He will sigh, tut, shake his head, and mumble 'nutter', or a very hushed 'oh, you absolute...' (bonus: he never finishes his sentence!) It's what his mum does! If another car puts you in danger, he may groan and roll his eyes - but he always asks if you're okay as soon as, and apologises for the sudden violence of his attitude! What a sweet man.

| Masterlist |

[lahnafreak]

MDNI!! taking you to the shooting range!

JOHN PRICE X WIFE!READER 1.8k words just testing the waters 🥺 very short snippet idea, no smut just slutty

↓↓↓

"Keep your legs spread— yes, just like that." John says, rough hands guiding your arms.

It's sick, you think instantly. It's sick that he just had to say perverted things right now. He leans even closer, and you can feel his heat radiating like he was a goddamn bear.

"Now, nice and steady, love. Nice..." His voice trails as he aims for you, nudging your arms up the slightest bit. A hand moves between your shoulder blades, trails up your spine. "... and steady."

Your gaze is never actually focused on the target in front of you; rather, you're entirely focused on the smell of him. Something woody from his cologne and the undertone of sweat from his morning workout.

It's silent for a few moments, and you only stand still, reveling in the gentle touches and posture fixes. If you weren't stuck in this stupid shooting range that he made you come to, you'd—

"...gonna shoot, love?" His tone is so damn amused, that you almost want to glare at him. "The bullseye isn't gettin' much stiller than that."

—probably still getting bullied like this by your own husband. "Yeah, yeah." You mumble, shifting your weight slightly.

His hands glide over your shoulders, and your eyes go unfocused again. This time, it's easy to tell he's fucking with you, the way his hands brush down your back, then over your stomach.

Gentle, and yet, just firm enough to make you really feel it. Feel how his hands dip just a little too low for him to be acting so innocent.

You take the shot, shoulder bumping back into him from the recoil. Squinting down at the paper sheet, you struggle to find where you've landed the bullet.

Of course, you've actually managed to miss the whole target.

You hear John chuckling over your shoulder, voice low and rumbling. "Maybe we should work on our focus, yeah? Can't have my wife getting so easily distracted, can we?"

You huff, glancing back at his crinkled smile. His heat makes your cheeks warm, and you give him a very weak dirty look. "Yeah? Are you going to be feeling me up while we fight off a home invader?" You shoot back, softening under his touch.

He chuckles, beard scratching gently against your neck. "No." He trails, voice fading into something rougher. "But after...? All bets are off, love."

You look away, voice terribly fond.

"Bastard."

[amerricanartwork]

Quetzalli's Needle Felting Commissions: OPEN! (5/5 Slots)

That's right, after YEARS of wanting to do some needle felting commissions, I believe I'm finally ready to put this plan in motion!!

If you're interested, make sure to read the important info below, or you can message me for other details! I also may update this post as time goes, on, including adding more categories of figures.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

GENERAL INFO

I update my prices from time to time. For now, checking this original post is the best way to get the most accurate pricing estimate.

My prices are ultimately based on an hourly rate of $15. Anything on the subject that would require more time to make than the base prices, whether that be because it requires me to add more wool or because its features are more complex, will therefore increase the price.

My felted figures are made primarily using Maori wool batting and natural core wool, wrapped atop aluminum wire armatures that make them semi-poseable as well.

Right now, I'm most comfortable making animals (particularly mammals), but I'd be willing to try other creatures and humanoid figures to some degree.

I can make real animals of various species and breeds, including pets, and OCs, both completely original and fan-characters

My figures are typically stylized with a somewhat cartoon-y appearance, especially in the face. If you don't want your figure(s) to look this way, please let me know so we can discuss it. I'm open to making figures in other styles, such as a more realistic look or a chibi-esque style.

Unfortunately, I will only be shipping to the United States as of now.

Though the figures I've made so far range in size, in general, the minimum size is 3 inches tall (bottom of the feet to the top of the head, not including any ears/horns/hair/etc.) or long (the front of the face to the end of the thighs, not including any tail), and the maximum size is 8 inches tall or long. These constraints may change depending on the complexity of the figure(s).

Unless the figure(s) is based on a general species/breed and not a specific animal or character (ex: if you want a German shepherd, but not a personal pet or other specific German shepherd), make sure you can provide reference images from as many angles as possible for the subject(s) you'd like me to make, whether that be photos of a real-life pet, or drawn reference sheets and images of a character.

All transactions will be done via Etsy. I require 50% up front and 50% after the artwork is completed, which can be paid by purchasing corresponding listings on my Etsy shop.

I may not have all of the right wool colors for your subject. If the figure requires me to buy additional wool, the cost of the wool will be added to the total cost and it may take longer for me to make. In this instance, I'll let you know when the wool arrives.

I often make traditional blueprint sketches of my figures before starting. During the process, I may ask for confirmation on the blueprint to ensure I interpret the subject to your liking.

While my figures are somewhat durable and meant to be slightly posed, they are not toys, so avoid being rough with them after you receive them.

I may reject a commission offer for any reason.

Rain World-inspired commissions, unless explicitly agreed to before any payment, will be posted under the "project: rain wool" tag on this blog.

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PRICES

The prices below are base rates for types of figures I already have experience with and examples of. For all figures, the prices may change based on the size and complexity of the figure.

Real-Life-Inspired Animals: $115 to $150

These figures will be animals inspired by real life species and breeds, including pets. While I can vary their size, the minimum size is 4 inches on the longest side (for quadruped animals, this is usually from the tip of the snout to the end of the thighs, not including the tail), and the maximum size is 8 inches on the longest side.

$120 is the base rate for a 4 inch figure, and $210 is the base rate for 8-inch figure, like those shown in the photos. The price may changed based on the complexity of the figure, such as one that requires more colors or has special features (antlers, horns, clothing, accessories, etc).

Rain World-Inspired Slugcats & Lizards: $45 Base per Slugcat, $60 Base per Lizard

These are figures inspired by Rain World's player characters: the slugcats, and a common type of creature in the game: lizards of various colors. The minimum size for a slugcat is 3 inches tall, from the bottom of their feet to the top of their head (not counting the ears), and the maximum size is 8 inches tall. The minimum size for a lizard is 3 inches long from the tip of the snout to the end of the back legs, and the maximum size is 8 inches long.

The base rates are for the respective minimum sizes, and will increase for larger figures. The base price also assumes only 2 colors for the figures (a body color and a "face" color for slugcats, and a body color and head color for lizards), with little to no special features besides perhaps simple scars. More intricate features, such as clothing, detailed markings, special appendages (like Rivulet's gills) or additional colors will cost more depending on the complexity of the additions. I can also make small props for these figures, such as spears and food items, at an extra cost.

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PROCESS

If you're interested in a felted figure, fill out this form so I can put you on a waiting list, which will start out at 5 slots for now.

Once I'm available, I'll contact the email you provide to discuss more information about what figure(s) you want, how long it will take to make the artwork, how much it will cost, and any other important details. I will also send you my Terms of Service document, and if you aren't comfortable with any of the terms, I'm willing to negotiate some details before payment. We must both agree, in writing, to the terms before I proceed.

Once the terms have been explicitly agreed to and the price established, I'll send you a listing on Etsy at the price of the first payment. Purchasing this will give you access to a digital file acting as a receipt for your commission. It will also contain the date I plan to start working on your commission, and up until this date you may request a refund.

From there, I will continue to email you update images of the figure(s), and may ask for some feedback before continuing.

Once the final artwork is done, I'll send you another Etsy listing at the remaining payment price with images of the finished figure(s), marked as "Commission for [Buyer Name]: [Figure Name(s)]". After purchasing this, you will be shipped the felted figure(s).

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

A drop of your love

request: can I please request a lucien x reader fic? where they're "just friends" and lucien has a rough day. to help him feel better she prepares a bath for him and washes his hair and back (scars from under the mountain still shining there), all while giving him soft kisses on his cheeks, neck and ears, whispering how much he's beautiful and how much she loves him.

a/n it's my first ever Lucien story so go easy on me but also enjoy. 🤍✨

warnings: scars, mention of murder, blood, torture, trauma.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The kitchen felt stuffy and warm, despite the rain pouring outside. Eight other females were twirling around the place. Pot lids were clacking, and the sound and steam of boiling stews and sauces steeped into the smallest of places. It was nearing dinner time, so the commotion was a usual thing. Yet in the midst of it all, you managed to find peace in kneading the dough and shaping it into little loaves before carving delicate leaf shapes into each.

"They're back", the voice rang through the door as Maria, the youngest, ran in, making the older woman pick up their work and ordering whoever was assigned to help them to work more swiftly. You were just finishing up putting the loaves in the oven when you felt the presence of someone beside you. "It looked bad. Worse than the past two times", Maria's voice was low and cautious. Gossiping about anything was forbidden. Even more so when it came to the high lord and his family. There wasn't a thing that Beron did wrong in his own eyes, so everyone was to believe that as well. Many had lost their tongues for a word or two said at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Was he on his own?", you asked while wiping your hands onto the apron, keeping your head turned in the complete opposite direction from the girl. So your mouth moving could be mistaken for you just muttering recipes under your breath. "Lord Eris was beside him", you frowned. That was not what you expected, especially if the situation was bad. Eris was Beron's pride and joy, at least in front of the court's eyes. Mother only knew how many times you had washed the blood out of his clothes and brought him remedies for the bruises. But he was initialed to take the throne one day, and so that gave his father more than one opportunity to make him fight for that spot like a wild animal, urging the rest of the brothers to attack and try to take Eris out.

"Y/N, you're asked for", your head instantly turned to the guard calling out your name. Wasting no time, you shrugged your dirty apron off, reaching for an already prepared jug of wine before rushing up the stairs. By the laws that Beron ruled by, you belong to Eris. A price. A gift, if you will. From his father himself, after they burned the village that wanted to rebel against the high lord. Dragged by the hair to the main mansion. Forced to kiss the high lord's feet as a thank you for taking you in. Not all females made it here. Most were butchered and left to rot. Only the prettiest and most fertile were brought in.

"My lord", you said, knocking on Eris's chamber doors carefully, waiting for his approval before walking inside. The place was dimly lit. You didn't dare lift your hand. Eris didn't like to be gawked at. Time spent away from his father was sacred to him. He got so little of it. Never enough. "As pleased as I am to see your face, petal, I'd prefer if you sought Lucien out", his words made you still in your place. Usually, Eris was way more subtle about how he approached this subject.

Back then, Beron let his sons pick the girls they wanted. And it wasn't Eris who picked you. No, it was Lucien. But Beron despised Lucien with everything that he had. So the moment the youngest made a choice, the high lord burst out laughing. Mocking the fact that he even thought that he had the right to pick anything at all. And because he wanted to cause Lucien more harm and show him even more that he wasn't ever going to get what he wanted, he gave you away to Eris instead.

"Is it… bad?", You cleared your throat, settling the jug onto the side table. You two had formed a weird sort of friendship through the years. Eris was a good male, even if he was forced to portray this cruel creature. Regardless of his father's urging, he never bedded you, never force you into anything you didn't want to, and besides his little anger outbursts, he never shouted at you either. "You women gossip around, so what would you say?", the lord said bitterly, making your cheeks turn crimson. "My apologies, my lord", you said quickly, hoping to not get Maria in trouble for any of it.

Eris rubbed a hand over his face and said, "Go to him, will you?", you nodded your head quickly, bowing one more time before turning to leave. This wasn't an unusual practice. Eris saw the way Lucien's face dropped when his father dragged you and shoved you into Eris's arms, "Yours to keep or kill, son". He celebrated you as his win in front of everyone's eyes, but the moment the door to his chamber closed, you saw a completely different person in front of you. Someone who cared, someone who loved deeply but couldn't show it. It was Eris who arranged your and Lucien's first proper meeting. He sent you to his cabin to fetch an old book with court documents; however, what you found there instead was Lucien. Fumbling with a lira in his hands. So lost in the sound of music that he didn't even hear you. He never played in the main villa, but in the safety of his brother's cabin, he must have felt safe.

Pressing both of your palms onto the cold wall, you pushed slightly. You couldn't enter Lucien's chamber from the hallway. Folks around the villa gossiped too much, and now that Beron was getting out of hand, everyone was looking for the smallest misbehavior so they could run off to the high lord and prove their loyalty that way. "Shouldn't you be with my brother?", Lucien's voice greeted you before you had even fully stepped into the room. "Tia is of more use to him now", you said rather bluntly, before forcing the passage back closed and wiping the dust onto your skirt. You turned to the red-haired male, who looked as pale as the paper. So Maria was right; it was indeed bad.

"Lucien", you muttered softly. You two had grown closer. Call it an instant connection back at the village after the slaughter. Or maybe it was the fact that you had found comfort in one another's presence through the years. You weren't a servant to him. There were no titles when you were together. It was just Y/N and Lucien. Eris's cabin was where you met most of the time. Some evenings, instead of tending to Eris privately, you were let off to spend the night with his brother instead. Yet even in the beauty of the moment, you never let yourself forget how whatever had been blooming in your chest would never become a reality.

"It's okay. Just… need to", the youngest of the Vanserras shook his head, pulling at the strings of his cloak, which he forgot to take off once he stepped into the room. His clothes were dirty. Dried blood still coated his skin, even if he tried to wash it off. "Should I run you a bath?", you asked, keeping your voice warm and gentle as you stepped closer. Lucien said nothing, moving to reach for your wrist so he could pull you closer to him. He wrapped a hand around your back, guiding you down onto his lap. You carefully cupped his face, tilting your head to the side, hoping to catch his eyes.

"It was the usual", Lucien touched your wrists, pulling them away from him, as if trying to keep you away from the filth that he was coated in. That still lingered. "Just this time he made us slotted children", your heart fell. Lucien was indeed the softest of them all, and not in a weak way; he had a good heart. Something that was looked down on in this court. He had a heart that cared. A heart that considered others' feelings. Beron had tried to choke out that part of his youngest for a while, but it didn't work. And the more Lucien cared, the more Beron wanted to make his life a burning hell.

"I sent Pipper to bury them. If father won't catch them…", but this time you captured his face, pressing your forehead to his. "You are not to blame; you are not like him", you whispered. Cautious of your surroundings but wanting nothing more than to pluck all the bad thoughts away. Lucien turned his face slightly to the side, brushing his lips over the inside of your palm. "You will never be like him", you knew words could be hard in moments like this. And how could they not? With a sigh, Lucien stuttered, "But what if…", You shook your head instantly, "There are no what-ifs, Lu". The years you two spent getting to know each other had proven to you over and over again that he was nothing like his father or brothers. Lucien's love ran deep. He was strong-willed and fearless when needed, but just as much, he brought a shield of calmness and that autumn coziness with him.

"What?", You had been lying in the field of flowers with Lucien the whole evening. Tia had offered to cover for you back in the villa. You two had been looking up at clouds, pointing out shapes, and making up stories. It felt calming and easy. So easy, it almost scared you. And then a giggle slipped past Lucien's lips as he shook his head. "Nothing", he muttered, his eyes not leaving you. You nervously brushed your fingers through your hair, fearing that something might be tangled in it,"That's not fair now".

However, Lucien giggled softly anyway. You playfully shoved at his chest, "Tell me", you pleaded, "Why are you smiling like that?". Lucien reached out, threading his fingers through your hair carefully. "You", he muttered, your heart skipped a beat right as he spoke up again, "Still don't know why Mother would send you to me". His voice sounded more like a whisper. As if he was scared for someone to hear it. For someone to make the happiness disappear. You cupped his face, leaning closer to him. "Good hearts call out to other good hearts, Lu".

You smiled at the memory as you brought the autumn male closer to your chest. Waiting for the shakes to ease. Knowing that pushing him around now wasn't going to get you anywhere So you stayed put. Letting him soak up the warmth and smell of your body. For Lucien, you were a haven. Autumn wasn't his home; you were. You've been there since the moment he saw you. No one had truly shown him kindness until you came along. No one had taken the time to get to know him. To let him be himself. Lucien had been heading down a dangerous route back then. Beron had been close to bending his will. But then you came around. And something shifted.

"How about I make you a nice bath? You know, with lavender…", You brushed a kiss over the top of Lucien's head, rubbing your hands up and down his back. Yet his grip on you only tightened, "I will stay close by and will brush your hair. We can even braid it", it felt almost silly how you were trying to bribe him into it, but you knew that affection was what he truly needed. "Four plats?", he asked, making you let out a soft chuckle. "Whatever you want, fireboy".

The bath chamber was filled with steam. At this point, you were convinced that Lucien was close to boiling himself in that bathtub. You let him get undressed before you walked back in. Thankful for the stuffy room, it hid your rosy cheeks, which had turned crimson at the sight of Lucien's naked chest. You've seen him shirtless before. Mother… You two had made out in the stables once. You had let go of all your boundaries. That one time you let yourself dive headfirst into whatever was blooming deep within you.

"Hot baths are fun, but how about we don't cook you alive?", your much colder hands pressed down onto Lucien's shoulders. You let your fingers wander across his skin, kneading the tense muscles. Lucien let out a growl of satisfaction. Hands gripping the side of the tub once your fingers found a particularly painful knot. "How you do this is beyond me,", he muttered, and you couldn't help the smile that tugged on your lips. "Braking bread is no joke", you laughed under your breath. "I never doubted your skilled hands", Lucien practically purred, causing your cheeks to heat some more.

You reached for a cloth, dipping it into the water before moving it over Lucien's back. A light frown suddenly tinted your eyes as you once again turned to the scars that painted Lucien's skin. It never failed to make you feel this burning pain in your chest. No matter how many times you saw them. Lucien was weary of showing them to you at first. You only got to see them when he stubbornly hid them from you after the latest beating from his father, getting them infected and causing a fever to break out. You nursed him for a couple of weeks while he remained practically unconscious as he lay on his stomach. You had never been so scared in your life.

You ran the damp cloth over his back a couple of times until your hand stilled. Your brain was telling you to stop, but your heart fought back harder. So you leaned in, dipping your head lower as your lips brushed over Lucien's shoulder once, then over his shoulder blade. You let your fingers dance over the grooves of the scars before accompanying the touch with your lips. You knew that he hated this cruel reminder, but to you, this was a part of him that you wished he could learn to love. This wasn't a sign of weakness. This was a sign that he survived.

"I love you", those words slipped past your lips dangerously quickly. A gasp followed right away when the realization hit. "What?", Lucien turned your way. You two had grown closer. Way closer for it to just be called friends, but you never let yourself think of it. "You… What did you say?", Lucien had shifted inside the tub so he could face you. You shook your head, moving to pull away, but Lucien grasped your wrist gently. "Y/N", you knew, that wasn't a demand. If you wanted, you could leave. He wouldn't hold you back, but you couldn't. Not when his desperation filled the room. You could sense his emotions. All of a sudden, they were all around you, and you couldn't feel anything else. A golden thread glistened all of a sudden. Catching both of your attention. A breath hitched in your throat. "I love you", you muttered once again carefully, and the gold seemed to beam.

Lucien practically jumped out; of the bath, causing you to quickly turn your head to the side and for him to lower his hands. A nervous chuckle left your lips. You felt his arms around your shoulders; next, he was still dripping but he didn't care. Pulling away from you slightly, Lucien pushed a finger under your chin, lifting your head to meet his gaze. "You love me?", he whispered. You bit down on your lip. A part of you screamed that this was wrong, wrong but the mating bond danced around you. Happy and satisfied now that you have finally acknowledged it. You didn't trust your words, simply nodded your head. Lucien did the same, mimicking the movement. "My gorgeous girl", his fingers cupped your face as he leaned his forehead onto yours, "I always knew it would be you".

Your bottom lip quivered, your hands restted on his hips as you moved to stand even closer to him. Lucien ran his fingers over your lips gently. "Say it again", he urged you. "I need to hear you say it again", a tear ran down your cheek as you stepped onto your tippy toes. Cupping Lucien's face as you leaned closer, you whispered, "I love you, Lucien, with all that I am" right by his lips. Lucien let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes for a moment before crashing his lips against yours. For a kiss that said it all. The kiss was more than just the aftermath of an emotional moment. It was a promise. A plea for love. A chance for Lucien to finally get a glimpse of what true happiness looked like.

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All acotar writing taglist: @brekkershadowsinger @cityofidek @baebeepeach @lucyysthings @hideing @urfavbrunettebish @historygeekqueen @marina468 @courtofjurdan

[konigsblog]

About kidnapper!könig and kidnapper!horangi... Yes, please? I want to feel like fucking dumb toy as they trip guilt me and gaslight me

cw: manipulation, guilt tripping, humilation, sensory overstimulated (?) tell me if i missed any 🎀

i adore these two, adore this pair.

i don't think i've talked about horangi as a yandere. he'd be very manipulative, he's only slightly delusional as he believes this is what's right for you—that he's protecting you. not only that, but he's playful. he isn't one for punishments, mainly just cornering you like a wolf with his prey, manipulating you into apologising.

instead of apologising, you could just sit on his lap and let him toy with your clit?

mixed with kidnapper!könig... oh boy. i've talked about kidnapper!könig a lot, he's probably the worst, or atleast second after price. he's very delusional and manipulative, he used his faux tears to guilt trip you into crying yourself. he has made you cry from fear, or from guilt due to him gripping your shoulders and forcing you to watch what you've done to him. flushed, tearstained cheeks. other than that, he's usually gentle with you, occasionally too rough though...

these two together create a very teasing pair. they get along—unlike krueger and könig—they seem to enjoy eachothers company and will look at eachother to chuckle when they have you preforming something as punishment. punishments with horangi—whenever there is any—is fuelled off the sight of your embarrassed and humilated face. waiting for them to order you around. “turn around and touch your toes, baby.” horangi orders, earning a chuckle from könig who was picking up another beer.

your eyes are filled with tears, so uncomfortable in these dumb costumes they have you wear when they're punishing you. it could range from cat ears to erotic outfits, of perhaps just a short, short skirt without a bra or t-shirt. they're still not finished, ordering you onto their lap, and getting you to lean back against könig's chest. they touch you all over, hands groping your tits while you sob quietly.

photos are taken. as i've said before, könig takes candid photos of you when you're not looking to stick into his diary and write about how you'd been doing. he does this everyday. however, horangi only takes photos of you during punishments so they can stand above you while you're crying on the ground after being slapped, laughing at embarrassing photos of you.

they rarely have sex with you as a three, it's occasional, but usually they take turns of that pretty body. they record for eachother, watching you moan and shake and babble, trembling and whimpering softly while könig thrusts between your thighs, grinding against your cunt, his tip curving upwards to your clit.

i believe horangi is into sensory overstimulation, like price, just not as extreme. he enjoys putting you in uncomfortable clothes and positions—like a claustrophobic cage, or itchy clothes—and scolding you for whining. until you're sobbing because you really, really can't take it.

[thestarfishinjootsoffice]

okay hear me out!

Imagine a little kid buys a Chucky doll and after a while the doll starts acting weird and stuff. So the kid doesn't realise what's going on but the parents just want to throw the doll away.

The kid, doesn't want to throw the doll away but after the parents told the kid that they would get a new one she was like ''okay whatever.''

Later that night, when the kid was about to go to bed Chucky just sprints right in front of the child. Chucky expected the kid to be scared but instead they were confused.

Chucky did everything he could to get the child to be scared of him but the child is just so dumbfounded it kinda hurts.

AFTER THAT. The parents end up throwing away the doll and Chucky goes on a killing spree etc.. then Chucky gets bored and goes to find that kid again..

I wrote this at 12 am and turned out to be so cringe help.

Also be specific with me, like idk wtf to do after u said that last sentence without any more information??

"you're actually not that bad..."

You've had your eye on those famous good guy dolls for a while. Your parents didn't mind buying it, after it was really popular and seemed to bring positive vibes. Although tad bit expensive.... It was okay.

There were soo many of them so you just closed your eyes and waved your pointed finger like crazy and picked the one it landed on. Your mother chuckled as she got your selected pick and went over to your dad to get checked.

Your mom's jaw was almost on the floor as the cashier announced the price.

"four ninety two!? I thought they ranged from only a hundred or two!" even your father seemed startled by this.

"yes but it seems this one is a chucky doll, these are very rare and so cost a lot."

Your mother turned to look at you. And then decided this wasn't the time to argue and agreed immediately to taking a coupon the cashier suggested.

You had placed ur newly brought friend on the living room as your parents watched you open your toy.

It was just like you've seen everywhere. Permanent plastic smile and ginger hair and a cute little overall outfit.

"hi, I'm chucky! I'm your friend to the end." you smiled at this and as soon as it said it liked to be hugged you immediately did so.

This interaction warming both of your parents hearts and were glad they bought that doll for you.

It has been a few days since you had gotten that doll but it emitted an uneasy feeling to both your parents. They would often find sharp objects around their house missing and end up near you and the doll.

They confronted you about it but you denied their accusations.

Or that one time you talked to them about over hearing chucky move around your room and the house. Your parents were concerned as you never had any experience like this before.

And they have been lately feeling if the doll is watching them. And having quite fed up with this as well as worried for the safety of their child they choose to get it rid of it later.

They announce this to you but being an oblivious child this was confusing to you. Why? He didn't do anything, (that bad) and besides he was a good friend.

Your parents not being able to come up with a good lie as to not freak you out or confuse you any further they told you they would buy you another toy a much better one at that. So you just agreed. He was a bit weird at night anyway.

After it was bed time you got ready to climb on your bed when a flash of colors as tall as you sprint in front of you.

Getting to properly look at the colorfull object, you see that it's your chucky doll! And he's smirking at you. Almost as if looking down on you. But then the more you stared at him the lesser the wide smirk on his face stayed.

"...."

"..."

"I thought dolls weren't supposed to walk."

"what? That's what you're more focused on?"

His voice sounded nothing like the ones before, it was masculine, rough and raspy.

"well I've never heard of walking dolls in real life. That's actually kinda cool!"

"what?" he some kids would be scared or running... Well it is kinda nice to be complimented from time to time. But screw it.

Chucky went under the bed and pulled out a sharp large knife and threatened you with it "okay kid, there's no time for talking. Let's play a game, it's called hide the soul. If you refuse or cause me any trouble this knife is going right into your throat."

"....."

"but I don't wanna."

"YOU- little shit..." the doll mumbled to himself he couldn't kill you, he needs you alive. Then he got the idea that if he scared you enough you would finally listen to him, he could just tie you up but his height and body severely disadvantage him. Its not like if he tried to you couldn't just defenestrate him.

He tried to scare you by throwing the knife near your head and you said to him to use a ball to play catch instead. Threatened to kill your parents, you said he was too little. Your other toys? They aren't alive. A trick by trying to fool you into thinking he gave up and so you can just sleep now and he'll go away. Of course it didn't work!

He's not a very patient man so he snapped and lunged at you but you acted quickly and picked him up from his tiny arms and locked him in the your closet then ran to your parents.

"Y/N! y/n.. Unlock the door, I'm sorry okay? I just got a little mad because that was my favourite game and you didn't wanna play.... I promise I won't do it again. Unlock the door y/n." you hesitated and didn't reply. And answered with a "I'll think about it."

At this point he had zero patience left.

"UNLOCK THE DOOR YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT!" besides his voice, thrashing and banging was all that could be heard inside.

*knock knock*

*𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖆𝖆𝖐𝖐*

"mommy.. Daddy.."

"jesus... What is it honey..?" asked your mom

"what are you doing up so late?" said your dad after. Looking to the clock it was currently 09:52 pm.

"chucky's being weird, he's calling me names and has a knife."

"......"

"..........."

"honey what? A knife?"

"that damn doll." your father replied under his breath shortly after, obviously sick of what's happening cause of this one small toy. getting ready to return or throw that doll away immediately.

Unfortunately it was too late to return it. Your father unlocked your closet door and got chucky out just like you told him and threw it in the trash. Finding no knife but too tired to even care anymore. He tiredly told you to go to sleep and to discuss it later.

You only nodded. And did so. Still on guard if he comes back again, he was quite scary.

Chucky was livid and internally exhausted from all that action earlier. And the only way to charge him up is by taking his anger out. He took the knife from behind his shirt and so went his way to the unattended car and approaching owner.

It was evening and he had a killed a total of 6 to 9 people in a span of 2 days. But he got bored out of his mind and still no luck in successfully finding a child somehow. But he could always come back to you. But this time. he wasn't going to steal your soul.

Well although you were dumb, you are actually not that bad.

It was 8:45 and past your bedtime. You forgot to lock the window and just as soon as you were getting ready to get into your bed a voice behind you called out to you.

"hey y/n." the same raspy voice said.

You turned around and see your once toy sit on the edge of your widow. immediately taking caution. "are you going to yell at me again?"

"what!? Noo!" Chucky said playfully. He was kinda surprised you didn't ask him if he was going to hurt you instead.

"I have a change a heart." he got down and starting slowly walking towards you.

"the last time you screamed at me you were acting nice." you replied sadly with a frown on your face.

Chucky stopped and then let out a loud cackle. "this one's different!" a smile was visible on his face as he walked even closer but not maliciously.

"I think you and me are going to be best friends." he added one last time.

__________________

Yes, you and him DO become best friends and he is now your other father figure 👹

[granddaughterogg]

Captain John Price comforts you

SUMMARY: You're going through Something (TM) and your commander offers you a hug and some kind words. Wholesome fluff with a tinge of simmering attraction. (Is it mutual? Who knows?)

Captain Price is an extremely perceptive man. He may be quite literally carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but that doesn't mean he can't spot when one of his men (or women) is in a bad way. You were hoping that both your face – unsightly red from all this crying - and your general wet cat aura would have escaped his attention. No such luck.

"A word with you, Private?"

"Yes Sir," you sighed obediently. You have survived a week from hell, and now it felt like you've been called to the principal's office. What could your impressive commander want from you? You didn't particularly feel up to the challenge.

The door of the Captain's office closed behind you with a quiet click, but to your ears, it sounded like the swish of a guillotine.

Price circled around his desk, perpetually cluttered with paperwork. He produced a cigar from his pocket, glanced at it - and then put it back. He seemed to struggle with something, which was strange for such a quick-witted and decisive man.

Finally, he sighed, ran a hand over his face and leaned his shapely bum against the edge of the desk. You waited patiently, keeping a proper distance and staring at your boots.

"Tell me, Private…" 

That honey-smooth voice of his always disarmed you. So rough, so well suited to shouting orders amidst battle, and yet so warm. Like a caress dipped in steel.

Sometimes you imagined him using this voice while talking to his children - two mythical beings whom you've never met. It was meant to stay that way.

"…Are you all right?"

The question blindsided you. You lifted your head abruptly and gave him a wide-eyed stare. You could feel the damn tears already welling up.

You hadn't expected this. You were ready for remarks about the quality of your work, which has diminished lately. For a succinct rebuke even - Price didn't like to prolong such things. 

You didn't expect concern.

He obviously noticed that something odd was going on with your face. It would be hard not to.

"Oh dear." Price stated, cutting you a worried look with those tired blue eyes. "That bad, huh?"

"Sir." You swallowed, desperately trying to cook up some excuse that would be halfway plausible (Something got stuck in my eye.) 

"I'm…"

"I prefer not to pry into things that are none of my business, y'know," the Captain admitted, sticking both hands inside the pockets of his regulation breeches. 

"But it just so happens that you're a part of my squad and therefore you're my business. Your well-being is my business, Private. For the past few days, I've seen you slouching around, bumping blindly into things. You've stopped reacting to Sergeant MacTavish's unsavoury attempts at humour. Yesterday at the shooting range you tried to stick the wrong end of the mag into your rifle. If you go out in the field like this, you'll get hurt."

So he did notice that, too? Damn that old man. Your face was burning.

"So understand well what I'm going to say now, Private…" Price took the damn cigar out of his pocket again and twirled it in his fingers. "I realise that a young woman such as yourself might not want to confide in someone like me. You don't have to confess all your sins, but for God's sake, if you're struggling...with anything, really…then say so."

"Sir." The lump that has been long stuck in your throat finally thawed. Compromising moisture trickled from your eyes.

It was impossible to lie under that inquiring, steely blue gaze. The man oozed with embarrassment. He didn't want to do it any more than you did, but he felt that he should.

Captain Price was such a decent man. It's a shame that decent men are always married.

You decided to repay him with honesty.

"Indeed I have not been at my best lately, Sir," you said in a trembling voice. "Last week's been…difficult, for personal reasons."

"A crisis, eh?" Price sighed and began rummaging through his pockets again.

Your head darted up. "A clusterfuck of crises, if I may say so, Sir."

His chuckle was a raspy little thing. Pleasant. Frankly speaking, every noise that Captain Price ever emitted was pleasant to your ears.

"Eh, haven't we all been there? Here. You could use this."

He extended one of his long arms, firm yet slender, placing an immaculately clean handkerchief in your hand. Like nothing else in Price's possession, it was snow-white and smelled of fresh laundry.

You accepted it and wiped your face in silence.

"I'll give it back as soon as I wash it," you assured him. "And thanks."

"Never mind." He gave you one of those smiles which lit up his whole face, turning those blue peepers velvety and narrow. John Price must have laughed often because he had charming, deep wrinkles around his eyes. 

"Say, Private, would you be interested in a hug?"

You gasped at the idea. On the other hand...

"Yes, please," you declared, smiling at him through the tears. "As long as you don't mind having a wet spot in the front of your uniform."

"My vanity won't stand for it." He spreaded his arms, still grinning. 

"Come 'ere, girl."

You did.

It was a strangely solemn moment. He hugged you slowly, clearly trying his damnedest to avoid any impropriety that might arise. Price smelled like gunpowder, like those cigars of his and some musky cologne – all of the above mixed with the faint undertone of sweat. It was an intoxicating mix. You knew better than to imbibe on it, but it was hard to avoid it while the strong arms of your superior enclosed you in a warm, prolonged embrace. You chased the anxious thoughts away and just enjoyed the here and the now.

"Better now, huh?" He muttered from somewhere way above your head. Price was so much taller than you.

"Yes, Sir..." You whispered into his crumpled green shirt, faded from the desert sun.

"You know, it always feels like the fuckin' end of the world when those things happen...breakups, I mean. But it never is."

He chuckled ruefully. 

"As my ex-wife said when she was fed up with me: It's easy to find a replacement!"

You returned to your quarters fully soothed, warmed up - and stunned by the discovery.

Ex-wife?!

EX-WIFE???

[thisapplepielife]

Written for a @astrangersummer.

What You Need For Today

Week #3 Prompt: Flowers | Word Count: 1400 | Rating: T | POV: Lucas | Pairings: Lucas/Max | Characters: Lucas, Dustin, Steve, Erica, Max | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Recovering, Buying Flowers, Dustin Has Opinions (Doesn't He Always), Hospital Visits, Always the Goddamn Babysitter Steve (But He Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way)

Looking through the glass door of the cooler, Dustin at his side, Lucas checks out all his options. They all kind of look the same to him, to be honest. Different colors aside, they are just flowers wrapped in paper or arranged in vases. 

He can't stand here forever, so he opens the door and reaches for the nearest bouquet, one wrapped in a pale blue.

"That looks like it's for a new baby! She didn't have a baby!" Dustin snaps, shoving him out of the way. Lucas moves away from the door, willingly. He isn't sure what he should pick, doesn't have the brain power left to decide, so any help, even if it's just Dustin steamrolling him, will be better than nothing.

Dustin is rifling through the options, touching them all far too rough, and Lucas doesn't want to be associated with this at all. The florist isn't looking, isn't paying any attention to either of them, but Lucas is not in the mood to be yelled at. Not today.

The place has had a steady stream of customers, in and out, and he assumes that's because so many people are still hurt, still grieving, after the town was ripped to shreds. And those who stayed need to do something, anything, to feel like they're helping. And buying flowers, that's normal, a relic remaining from before.

He understands that, deeply.

Dustin is still making a spectacle of choosing, so Lucas looks over his shoulder, and sees Erica sitting on the bench by the door of the shop, feet scuffing against the tile of the floor, ever so slightly. Uncharacteristically quiet. The way she's been since, well, since. He wishes she'd get up and come over and have an opinion just as strong as Dustin's.

Embarrass him, shame him, anything.

But she doesn't.

"You need to get these," Dustin finally declares, picking up a huge bundle of red roses.

"I can't afford those," Lucas hisses, because while he doesn't know the price, he knows they are damn well out of his price range. His allowance is good, but it's not that good.

"Can you put a price on love?" Dustin asks, like it's that simple.

Lucas takes the flowers from him, and puts them back, "Not those. Someday. But not today."

Dustin rolls his eyes, "Fine. Be a dumbass. See if I care."

And Lucas just stares through the glass, again. Still unsure. 

He isn't sure how long he's stood there, mulling, unable to choose, when he hears from behind them, "What are you little dickheads doing here?" 

Oh, thank god. Steve. 

Maybe he can rein in Dustin, or at the very least, distract him.

"What are you doing here?" Dustin crows, like he's caught Steve doing something he shouldn't be. 

"None of your business, you little twerp. And I asked you first," Steve says, and Dustin is getting wound up, Lucas can see it.

"Help me pick flowers for Max," Lucas says in a rush, cutting Dustin off before he has the chance to derail this opportunity.

"Well, you can't go wrong with red roses," Steve says, and Dustin throws his hands up in an 'I told you so' motion. 

That's not enough for Dustin, it never is, he has to rub salt in the wound, given an opportunity, so Dustin adds, "I told you so."

"I know, I know," Lucas says, conceding, "but I don't think that's, uh, exactly, right," Lucas says, "for the…occasion."

And Steve nods, like he's understanding what Lucas is laying down.

"Of course, you're totally right," Steve agrees, arm draped over his shoulders as he's standing next to him, also looking, while Dustin prances around impatiently. 

Lucas is leaning towards the yellow bouquet. It's pretty, and bright, and would really liven up Max's hospital room. Even if she can't see it. Even if she'll never know it's there.

When he brings her red roses, he wants her to know it.

"How about the yellow?" Steve asks, finger pushed against the glass, pointing at the arrangement that Lucas was contemplating.

"That's what I was thinking," Lucas admits, happy to have confirmation that it's a good pick.

"Max will love them," Steve says, and reaches in and plucks them out of the cooler, handing them to Lucas, then demands, "Henderson, go get him a blank get well soon card from the counter."

Dustin grumbles about it, but blunders away.

Once he's gone, Steve's voice is low, "You got enough, Sinclair? If not, I can loan you some cash."

It's nice. Steve is really Dustin's friend. Or even Erica's, in a weird way. But he still shows up when he's needed, and it hasn't gone unnoticed. 

"Thanks, Steve. But I think I do."

And Steve just nods, turning back towards the cooler, reaching in and grabbing a big bundle of the red roses.

Dustin reappears, and they both stare at Steve.

Steve looks back at them, "What are you little shitheads looking at? It's a classic, and I like what I like. You don't mess with what works."

"And red roses? They work?" Lucas asks.

"I told you that, asshole," Dustin says, adding his two cents, yet again. 

"For some occasions they definitely do, but these yellow ones? That's what you need for today," Steve reassures, and Lucas puffs out his chest, feeling happier, more confident about his decision. 

They both pay, and on the way out, Steve stops in front of Erica and pulls one of the roses out of the bouquet in his hand, holding it out for her to take. She rolls her eyes, but gives him a smile, and it's one of the few Lucas has seen her offer up in days, weeks.

Erica takes the rose, and Steve lowers his hand over her head, like he's going to touch her hair. Lucas wouldn't recommend it, but she takes care of herself, like always.

"Watch it, nerd," she says, batting his hand away, and Steve stops short of touching her, but he's made her happy. Lucas can tell, and he wishes he'd have thought of it first. Maybe it wouldn't have been the same, coming from him, her brother. Maybe it had to come from Steve Harrington, the ringleader of her beloved Scoops Troop.

"Good thing you showed up, we need a ride home," Dustin demands, not asking, never asking. 

"Maybe I have other places to be, Henderson. You ever think of that?" Steve snarks at him, holding up the roses, but he still unlocks his car, letting them all inside. Erica puts on her seatbelt beside him in the backseat, clutching the stem of the rose in her hands, looking out the window.

Lucas wonders when, if, things will ever go back to normal.

Dustin and Steve banter in the front seat, lobbing barbs back and forth that are familiar and normal, so Lucas supposes that's a start, at least.

Later that afternoon, Erica standing at his back, Lucas pauses in the doorway of the hospital room, listening to the steady beeps of all the machines keeping Max alive. The vase of yellow flowers in one hand, a new Stephen King book in the other. This time, he checked out Skeleton Crew from the library. It's a short story collection, and he likes the idea of having something new, something fresh, to read to her everyday during visiting hours. 

A new story for a new day.

She's still asleep, body still broken and trying to mend, and it squeezes at his heart. He doesn't know when they'll let her try to wake up. How long it might be, even if it has already felt like forever. Her hair is braided to the side, bold red against the white pillow, and that means El must have been here earlier. 

The vinyl creaks as Erica sits down on the couch behind him. She's been a near constant presence at his side since the Creel house. She goes where he goes, and he honestly has no complaints.

He places the flowers on Max's end table, and scoots the chair up as close to her bed as he can get it. Once he's situated, he cracks open the book, smoothing his hands over the borrowed pages, holding it in his lap, as he begins to read.

"This is what happened. On the night that the worst heat wave in northern New England history finally broke..."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @astrangersummer and follow along with the fun! 🌞

Notes: The end book snippet is from The Mist, the first entry in Skeleton Crew.

[michixoxo]

"𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙣?"

you and main cast, where yall going?

John

put on your sunscreen! cuz you're going the fuck outside

takes you to a carnival in town for your first date.

he instantly wants to get you every single prize there is, doing multiple games, all rigged against him, and his frustration gets progressively higher.

until, the fated claw machine.

it was your mistake to mention that you'd love the cute pig plushie, because he spends quarter after quarter determined to get you it.

it gets to the point that you end up leaving to go get you both a soda, seeing how he won't even move from the machine.

with his last failed attempt, he slams his fist against the side of the machine, impossibly frustrated and out of quarters.

but, fate seems to be on his side, as the metal panel guarding the inside of the machine falls as a result of his punch.

can you really blame him for reaching his arm inside and taking a plush or two? or three? or... all of them?

he carries as much as he can, excited to show you. he can see you in the distance, only a little bit more, just a little—

"freeze! you're under arrest!", aw shit.

"you are being charged with destruction of property and theft. anything you say can be used against you in court.", he feels shame and embarrassment pool in his stomach as the altercation draws your attention, your hands covering your mouth in shock as he's cuffed.

as he is put into the carnival police car, he hangs his head low. i'm such a screw up. how could i be so fucking idiotic? they hate me, don't they? i fucking hate mysel—

"john!", your voice rings out even in the police car. he sees you, standing in the middle of the mountain of plushies. he sees as you pick up the prized pig plush, holding it in your arms.

"thank you!", you shout, smiling at him and waving. he tries to wave back, but resorts to shaking his head left and right, indulging in the laugh it pried from you.

even as the police car starts to move, his feelings are replaced with more welcomed ones: feelings for you.

he would take you mostly on casual dates when you start dating. you would go to places like arcades, fairs, and the like. cute picnic dates with each other, just talking and loving each other's company.

cute couple that ends up getting kicked out of every establishment they go to.

Sera

takes you to woaba boba for your first date.

what? it's not romantic? welp, that's rough buddy.

honestly, she doesn't feel the need to overly impress you. of course, she wants you to have a good time and have a good impression of her, but she isn't gonna stress herself out.

also uses it as a sort of test. she's had people, if they're brave enough, try to befriend her in order to benefit off her family's wealth, connections, and power.

so, if you don't like it, then you can happily take your business elsewher—? oh? you love boba? you always wanted to go here? you're thanking her?

hm. well, she may have been a bit rash. maybe you aren't like other people...

you blink slightly as she sips her boba, looking strangely pleased. did something happen..?

takes you to different hang out spots.

you'd go shopping together at the mall or spend time at a skating ring, whether or not either of you can skate is entirely irrelevant.

similar to john, you both get into a lot of trouble on your dates, though your chances of being caught are now halved 👍

badass couple that get progressively dumber the longer they are around each other.

Arlo

first date on the moon

okay not actually but its still exuberantly fancy

french restaurant in the heart of Wellston that has three michilen stars and a price range that would make the average man cry.

you're not surprised when you show up and he's wearing a suit that's the cost of the same man's salary.

classic candlelit dinner, the chef personally comes to serve you both. you pray that he doesn't believe in 50/50

not nervous at all. in fact, bro thinks he's the shit. (and he is but don't tell him that)

he knows he outdid himself with this one, and he knows that it's gonna impress you. still... you look sort of... bored—? well, no matter. he didn't pay the chef just for them not to have any tricks up their sleeve.

date goes well, because of course it did. still, as he walks you to your home, you look... less impressed than he hoped for.

did he do something wrong? did you not like the food? did you hate the restaurant—?,

"arlo!", huh? "there's a cat in the tree!", what did you want him to do about it? you stare at him with those pretty eyes, looking up at him. don't you remember that this suit costs a fortune? why not just call the fire department— "please, arlo..?"

...so what? he got a few twigs caught in his hair. and sure, maybe his suit is completely stained and torn from kitten claws and branches. but that sweet smile of yours, the impossibly bright light in that dim alley, is more than enough to make up for it.

takes you to expensive, classic dates. dinner dates are always a favorite, but you also go to nice lounges and country clubs to play golf or drink champagne.

elitist couple that thinks they are better than everyone and technically is.

Remi

first date is bowling, 90s style

she's very excited for the date, isen and blyke? not so much.

she had to practically chain them to a street lamp to be able to go with you on the date, and still, two guys in employee uniforms seem to be glaring at you an awful lot huh...

but anyways! the date is great! you both spend time with each other and take turns bowling. a fun sort of competition evolves from every passing round. she's... happy. she's really, really happy with you. and it's like she never wants it to end.

alas, a rumble of her stomach catches you both off-guard, resulting in a light chuckle from you and an embarrassed blush from her.

enjoying a burger, fries, and coke, you both sit together playing footsies in the food court. except, no good thing lasts for long.

a stray fry passes by your table, hitting someone behind you on the head. yet, despite doing something about it, the person simply cowers further in fear.

then, another fry. and another. and then a soda cup splatters hard and fast against them, covering them in a sticky, brown liquid. it's disgusting. it's revolting. and remi can barely stand to see it.

yet, for some reason, you grip tightly onto your own soda cup and stand up, your face obscured by the overhead light.

there's no way. no way you're gonna join in this, right? you were better than this, right? you wouldn't stoop to their level. no. no, how could you—?

your own soda cup slams against the face of the perpetrator, a sticky, orange fluid plastered all over them.

after the shock, remi's face almost shines. maybe, maybe you aren't like everyone else. she was right about you. and she's so happy she was.

takes you on classic dates. sharing a milkshake or pasta in a small diner is only one of her many ideas for you both. also likes going to fairs and carnivals, she'll win you so many plushies.

sweet couple that gives everyone diabetes with how cute you are.

Blyke

tries to do something similar to arlo and fails miserably.

first date at a fancy restaurant but he shows up 15 minutes late covered in dirt and mud on his suit.

ask him what happened and he'll brush off the fact that he lost his phone in the sewer drain and bought a fishing rod to get it out and it worked until he accidentally flung both fishing rod and phone into a tree that he had to climb but didn't realize was being actively cut down and got stuck on a semi-truck as he fell and terrifyingly slid off until he bounced and bumped and conveniently landed right in front of the restaurant.

but don't worry! just a few scratches and stains and oh, is there a bird in his hair?

sits down and— "pfft, do you see them?", huh?

"please, what an embarrassment. people like that shouldn't be here, they ruin it for everyone."

...y'know what? fuck them. it doesn't matter. he's here with you, and he won't ruin it by getting angry. he shouldn't be mad. don't get mad—

and suddenly, a cup of water is thrown at the talking man.

"hey! keep your ass out of our business! what makes you think you can talk about us when you're balding at, what, 30?"

after a few more comments comparing the man to mr. clean and a couple profanities later, you're both thrown out of the restaurant with nothing but the clothes on your back.

"psh, assholes. let's go, blyke.", "go? what do you mean?", you smile at him, standing up and offering your hand. "our date isn't over just yet."

he might just love you.

takes you on gym dates. just gym dates. only gym dates. and maybe a few coffee dates or dates at the beach.

superhero couple with all the energy of a shonen anime and the bad decisions to show for it.

Isen

first date at the mall

think about it, it's casual enough to not be taken too seriously but also enough activities to make it seem like he's putting in more effort than he really is.

he's a genius, isn't he?

sometime during the date, you both go inside a stationary store. there, he might've just met the love of his life.

a pen, no, the pen. everything from the smell, to the sleek style, to the vibrant red and black accents. it's beautiful. but he'll be damned if he's spending $300 on a singular pen, even he has his limits.

so, after staring longingly at it, he leaves along with you to the next place. it's fine, surely nothing wrong could happen now—

"hey! you there with the bad haircut!", huh? first of all, rude—

the security guard yells at him, telling him that he apparently stole the valued pen at the stationary store. that the cameras saw him looking at it and they know it was him.

not only is the dude embarrassing him in front of you, but his integrity is being called into question.

why is it always him? can't he have a simple day without things going wrong? he didn't even do anything! why is it always his fault—?

you step in front of isen, almost to protect him. "he wouldn't do that, he isn't like that. just because he was looking at it doesn't mean he did it. you don't even know him, not like how i do."

..? you're taking his side? even after what the security guard said?

his thoughts are stopped as the store owner comes up to the security guard, saying that after checking the cameras, someone with invisibility probably took it.

the security guard stops, looking rightfully embarrassed. "s-sorry, then. my mistake." what an—

"asshole. you think we're forgiving you that easily. you better start groveling right now, you pig."

... you're worse than him... which is kinda hot.

instead of taking you on dates, you both just do everything together. if he needs help with the press team, then you're the first person he's going to. if he needs to share a secret that's been weighing him down, then you're always there to lend an ear.

annoying couple that pisses everyone off in 0.420 seconds.

based on the values i think the main cast would appreciate/need in a partner:

john: forgiveness

sera: authenticity

arlo: kindness

remi: righteousness

blyke: courage

isen: loyalty

[midnighmoonligh]

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Fandom

Call of Duty / CoD

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Characters

Y/N ; Gender Neutral ;; They/Them ;; little

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick ; He/They ; CG

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

⚠Content Warnings⚠

Violence, Blood, Rope Burn, light cursing, refusal to regress, bed wetting / potty accident, & impure regression.

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Plot Summary

Y/N was mistaken as a traitor, thus interrogated as a result. After Kate Laswell reassured the 141 that you were not, Gaz came to get you and care for you.

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Y/N was a criminal that Task Force 141 was stuck with working with. After some unfortunately events, they pinned you as a traitor. Your are not, at least in this case, but was interrogated anyways. You weren't stupid enough to give out information, no matter the price tag, about the task force. As much as you didn't want to admit it, they were growing on you.

You had been in the interrogation room for at least a week, not that you could keep track all that well. Each day people were cycled out to keep an eye on you or generally try and get something useful out of you. Of course, you didn't give anything worth of use to them. He didn't have anything worth of use and they weren't seeing that. The more they pushed, yelled, and even hit you, the more you were collapsing.

Currently, you were in the room with only two operators, Price and Ghost. Price you were pretty sure was asleep against the wall by the door. Ghost on the other hand was staring you down with a death glare. It was unnerving, to say the least. Hearing the door to the interrogation room open, you looked up from the floor our of habit. You we're so tired. Seeing Gaz peek into the room cause such relief to wash over you that you almost cried.

You and Gaz have gotten the closest out of everyone. While you didn't mind the others, you tended to just click more with him.

You were binded to the chair, emotions swirling within your mind. You were angry to be so quickly assumed to be a traitor, but also not blaming them. You're naturally secretive due to your work, that much was obvious about you. It couldn't be helped. The relief of seeing Gaz made him loose his grip on his headspace. You had been fighting with regressing for so long it made your head throb with pain. Thankfully, as a conversation began you were able to pull yourself back together.

" Laswell says to let them go, " Gaz's voice rang out in the deathly silent space. He walked into the room, leaving the door open and letting much needed light into the space.

" You're joking right? " Ghost snapped at the younger.

" No, she cleared them. They didn't do it, isn't that much obvious already? " he shot back. The anger of the situation making it far too difficult for him not to be afraid or off put by Ghost.

" Leave it be Ghost, gotta trust Laswell, " Price suddenly spoke up from his spot.

You watched as Price and Ghost stared at each other for a moment. The energy they held in that moment was unsettling. Thankfully, with a scoff out of Ghost, the pair left without further argument. Accidentally, both you and Gaz sighed at the same time. You both paused and looked at each other, a playful smile appearing on Gaz's lips. You couldn't help but notice how it had such a saddened underlay to it.

Gaz immediately and felt bad. He kneeled down in front of you and gazed over the bruises and injuries. Nothing too bad, mostly minor injuries.

" I see they were rough with you, " Gaz tried to joke to lighten the mood.

You didn't say anything, but gave a slight sheepish smile. The smile didn't last as long as Gaz had hoped it would. You weren't sure what to say. A few tears began to escaped you as you tugged against the ropes, more silently asking if Gaz would remove them now. The years on the other hand, you couldn't tell if it was from the pains, losing your battle with regressing, or just relief that someone finally believed you. In several places, you had rope burn. The main spots that hurt the most we're on your arms. It hurt, stung for the most part.

With a swift movement, Gaz pulled a knife out and cut the ropes. He took in a deep, nervous, breath as he carefully peeled the rope away from the rope burns left on your skin. He unconsciously winced any time you did.

" It's okay buddy, it's over now, " he muttered. He rubbed near the spots to soothe the skin. " They won't be hurting you ever again. "

You flinched as Gaz rubbed near the raw spots. Some spots were bleeding, others were just raw. In all fairness, you knew it was your fault for having moved so much. You let out shaky breaths, trying your best to control your breathing. You knew you were regressing, but didn't want to let yourself. Not when so many eyes were on you. It was embarrassing. You hated that you regressed.

Gaz could tell Y/N was regressing, which didn't surprise him at all. Though he knew you would never out right tell him, he has caught you regressing a few times. Gaz didn't know exactly how old you regressed to normally, let alone now, but he knew it wasn't too young due to the fact you still had self-control over your own actions. You were still an adult, likely trying to suppress your regression.

"Hey, is it okay if I hold you?" he asked hesitantly with the tilted of his head for you to look at his questioning face.

" No, I just, " you paused and closed yiur eyes for a few seconds. Your body throbbed with pain, but your head definitely hurt the most.

Your tears had finally stopped at least. Even if your breathing would hiccup whenever you took a deep breath. You were too scrambled brained to even acknowledge the fact Gaz asked such a strange thing. You didn't tell him you regressed, nor did you know he knew you did.

" Just help me to the med bay, okay? " you mumbled awkwardly.

" Want me to carry you there? " Gaz offered playfully as he pulled himself up onto his feet. You just glared at him as you got up shakily. You felt thankful that the chair had arms, otherwise you probably would've fallen again.

" Okayyy, off we go then, " he huffed in reply to being glared at.

The walk to the medical bay was painfully silent. The amount of eyes the burned into you was uncomfortable, more so than you were willing to acknowledge. You crossed your arms over your chest as you walked through the hallways. Thankfully, the walk was over faster than you thought it would have been. As soon as you arrived, you found a medic who wasn't busy. They had you sit by their desk in a shitty plastic chair as they looked over your injuries and treated them.

It hurt, that much you could admit. You winced while tears pricked your eyes. The medic was sweet and soothing, often reassuring you that it was alright that it hurt. Rope burn sucked, after all. Each reassurance only caused you to loose grip on your headspace more. You couldn't really control it. Gaz on the other hand was just looming out of the way while watching you. He watched to find any signs that you were regressing.

By the time the medic was gently wrapping your rope burns in bandages and gauze, you were falling into little space. You didn't watch the injuries, rather you looked to Gaz while trying not to sniffle or straight up cry. Gaz looked down at you with a look of surprise. He didn't expect you to regress so soon, but that's what trauma does to someone.

" Hey," he rubbed at your head soothingly. " You'll be okay, the medics are almost done with you, " he smiled gently as he pulled you into a half-hug to console you.

The words comforted you, but only made you want to cry more. You looked at the floor as tears escaped your eyes, slowly, but they still did so. You felt yourself slip into the headspace you disliked so much. It was embarrassing. You gently leaned against Gaz as he rubbed your shoulder, but still remembered to stay out of the medics way.

" All done, you're good to go hun, " the medic spoke up with a soft smile. They slid their chair back and went back to their work at their desk.

You sighed softly, glad to be done. Your eyes flickered over the bandaging, using one of your hands to run your fingers over them to feel the rough texture of the fabric.

" Wooo freedom! " Gaz playfully cheered in hopes to cheer you up. He smiled and gently nudged you. " You alright buddy? " he asked softly after spotting how you were analyzing the bandaging.

" Yeah, just tired, " you decided.

You carefully got up from your spot, wincing from how sore you were. You couldn't wait to lay down. You rubbed at your throbbing head, still fighting with regressing and not regressing.

" Let's just go, " you unconsciously whined.

Gaz watched you as you winced getting out of the chair. Once you stood up, he still wanted to carry you, just to soothe you a bit more. He wanted you to just regress, if that's what you needed to cope with what happened. He held out his arms for you and waited for you to get the hint.

" You might need some support getting to your room...you're very wobbly, " he chuckled quietly.

" Shut up, " you snapped at Gaz with a huff. Your head hurt too much for you not to be irritated with you. " I'm not a baby, " you grumbled as youmoved past Gaz. You just wanted to get out of there already.

" No, you're not. But you still need some support, " he chuckled softly as he caught up to you. At least he got the hint and kept his hands to himself. Though, you found yourself unable to argue that that. You did need the support, the comfort.

" Do you want to talk on the way back or are you too tired? " Gaz glanced down at you, hoping he didn't come off as condescending or babying you.

" What's there to even talk about? " you pointed out as you glanced over to Gaz.

You let out a soft breath while you unconsciously chewed on your bottom lip. Quietly, and hesitantly, you reached out to hold Gaz's ring finger and pinky, sort of like a child would do when a parents hands are too big.. even though you're perfectly capable of holding Gaz's entire hand. Gaz was surprised that you grabbed onto his fingers, it was so adorable that it melted his heart. He was about to speak, but had to take a minute to process what just happened.

He then slowly pulled you closer by his fingers. " You're not okay, Y/N, You keep regressing, " he sighed and shook his head. Finally, he said something about knowing.

" What? " you stopped in your tracks completely, causing Gaz to jerk back due to you holding his hand. " Wait what?? " you repeated before letting go of his hand.

You rubbed over your face, then looked up and down the hallway to make sure that there wasn't anyone listening. Thankfully, it was late enough in the day that most people were busy.

" You- you knew? " you whispered yelled at Gaz. You felt angry that he never said something sooner, but also upset that he knew at all.

Gaz raised an eyebrow as he chuckled quietly. " Well, I suspected it, " he tilted his head. " and the way you've been acting is just telling me more. Plus, you holding onto my fingers like a small child is a pretty big giveaway. "

You felt your face grow hot with embarrassment as he called out your childish actions. You couldn't help it.

He pulled him back to him slightly. " It's not that surprising, Y/N. You've been through a lot recently and anyone would've regressed with that trauma, " he spoke in a softer tone.

" It's just a coping mechanism, " Gaz added as he gently patted your upper arm. " It's nothing back, it won't bite you, " he joked.

" You... don't care? " you questioned hesitantly. You fidgeted with your hands in front of you. " I'm not.. gross or whatever? " you whispered as you looked away from him.

" Am I supposed to care, Y/N? " he tilted his head up for you to look at his face. " I don't care that you're regressed because that's not the 'real' you. It's just you wanting to escape the hell that you're currently living in. "

" And if anyone says otherwise, they're lying out of their asses. Besides, you're still you even when regressed. You're still Y/N, just younger. "

You felt speechless. Gaz's words made you feel stupid for hating how much you regressed. You pressed your lips together while your eyes burned with the urge to cry.

" But- it's.. Not normal, " you mumbled awkwardly.

" For a grown adult, it might not be 'normal'. But this is you trying to cope with what you've been through. It's your head just trying to escape the horror. And you know what? I don't blame you."

Gaz put a hand on your shoulder, " You're not gross or whatever that other bullshit people have told you. You're not. "

You didn't really believe what he said, however, you did compromise with your thoughts. You believed Gaz didn't think of you as weird or gross, just not others. It was about as good as it was going to get.

" Okay, " you whispered with a small nod. You felt unsure as to how to go about things now.

Gaz could tell you wasn't believing his words, but tried to convince you in your own way. He then smiled warmly at you and turned to look at the way to your room.

" Follow me, I think the best course of action for you right now is to get some rest, " he spoke softly.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a moment. He pondered over a few things before walking forward towards the barracks.

He was thankful that the conversation ended so soon. He didn't want to be out in the hallway discussing this for much longer. After some more walking, they arrived in the barracks and soon after his room. He opened the door, left unlocked as usual, then pushed it wide for Gaz to walk into it before him.

Gaz glanced around for a couple of seconds and sighed softly. The room was bare, so bare it looked as if no one has slept in there for years. The only indication that there had even been life, was the extra blankets on the bed.

" It's good to know you still keep your room neat.." He looked over at you, glancing at the way you made sure Gaz got inside before you. It was rather adorable, even if Gaz was rather tired.

After he had walked in, you gently closed the door behind yourself. You watched Gaz almost awkwardly look for a place to sit down. He ended up sitting on the bed. Then patted at the bed, indicating for you to come sit with him. All this felt awkward, but even so, you sat down on the bed beside him. You left about an arms length gap between you both. Gently, you rubbed your head in hopes of soothing the headache that still raged on.

" There's not much in this room, huh? " Gaz joked and looked around the bare room.

" Funny, " you replied sarcastically with the roll of your eyes.

No pictures or anything to decorate the room. Not even any personal items like a hair brush or some personal items that would make the room feel like it belonged to you. He shook his head as he set his backpack down by his feet on the floor quietly.

" You okay? " He tilted his head up for you to see his face. His tone was a bit softer now to try and make you feel comfortable, maybe ene encourage you to fall back into little space.

" Tired, starving, need to shower for sure, " you sighed as you listed off the amount of things wrong with you. " I feel awful, " you added after a couple of seconds.

" And you think I'm okay? " you chuckled, but didn't have any meaning behind it. It was an empty laugh. You felt like you were going to break down at any minute. Your mind begged and craved for you to just be little already.

" Okay, so...what do you need first? " He asked, wondering what you should do first.

" Do you want something to eat, shower, or change your clothes first? " Gaz raised an eyebrow as he looked at you, waiting for your response.

He hoped his tone was soothing and soft enough for you to at least feel more at ease and relaxed in this moment. Which it was, even if you weren't good at showing it in the slightest.

" Umm, " you trailed off as you tried to collect your thoughts. You felt so scattered brain, it was hard to focus. You rubbed at your face in frustration. " I'd like to shower, at least, " you decided as you tugged yourself up from the bed.

You winced at how much your body ached. It was hard to get up. You rubbed at your shoulder before moving to your dresser, digging through it for some soft and comfortable clothing.

" Got it, " he nodded towards you. " I'll go warm you up some food then and change the sheets on your bed, okay? "

" Oh, okay. If that's what you want to do, " you replied with surprise that he wanted to do that for you, but didn't argue it. You knew he'd do it regardless of what you said anyways.

Gaz turned and walked out of the room to fix the bed and to cook some food for you in the meantime. While he was doing that, you gathered the cozy clothes you wanted to wear and left to shower.

Once Gaz returned, he set down the food on Y/N's desk for you to eat when you got out of the shower. He looked around the room and decided to decorate it with some fun and cute things. Hopefully you would enjoy it once you got back inside here. He had fun with it. Gaz placed several stuffed animals where any adult looking at the room would most likely notice them. He also covered the bed with one of them, making the impression that you slept with stuffed animals. He even placed some small figurines of different franchises all around the room, just to decorate it.

You walked into the room after about an hour. You wore a T-shirt and some comfortable sweatpants. While you shut the door behind yourself, your free hand was gently patting at the bandages to dry them. Your hair was still wet, but not to the point it was dripping. You winced at every pat he gave the bandages. The injuries burned with pain. It took you a moment to notice the added things. You paused at the room. It didn't look like something you lived in, yet it looked like someone did live there now. It was off putting, not that you could get upset with Gaz. Your eyes flickered around quietly, clearly unsure how to process the rooms appearance.

" What do you think of the room and everything? " Gaz turned to look at you. He was curious at the thought of your thoughts. If it was off-putting, creepy, or anything. He was also glad that you didn't get upset with him about the changes he made.

Gaz then took note that you were wincing at the bandages being dried. "Let me help you?" He walked over and grabbed some towels from his bag. " Just lift your arms up and I'll dry them for you. "

" It looks... Nice, thank you, " you told him. You did like it, but you were so all over the place you couldn't really say anything nicer. " Um, you don't have to.. " you trailed off awkwardly.

" Your welcome, " he happily replied as placed the towels down. " And I want to. "

Gaz gently took the towel from your hands and helped you dry the bandages for you, being careful and making sure he didn't move his injured limb or hurt you. You flinched slightly from pain, but he quickly adjusted so it wouldn't hurt. The action made your mind slip a slightly. You enjoyed having things done for you.

" There, done," he laughed gently. " Now, food or bed? "

" Food, I'm starving. "

" Sure, " Gaz grabbed your hand and led you to the desk. He even brought you some utensils to eat the warm food with.

You chuckled as your hand was grasped. You let yourself be lead over to your desk, where the food Gaz had made waited. You sat down without complaint, gently rubbing at your joints to sooth their aching. Gaz sat down in one of the chairs at your desk as he gently handed you the plate.

" You should probably eat. " The way he spoke sounded a bit more like talking to a child rather than an adult.

You gently took the plate as you were handed it. It smelled amazing. You smiled warmly, but the way he was talking to you annoyed you. You knew Gaz wanted to meet how you were while regressed, but you were too scared to be regressed around other people to just give in.

" Does your tummy hurt? " he tilted his head at you. All of this could be seen as talking to a child, or... to a regressed you.

Hearing the word *tummy* made you want to cave into your headspace. You chewed your bottom lip in an attempt to keep from regressing. Your head hurt so much the more you forced yourself to represss it.

" No, I'm okay, " you reassured before picking up the silverware and beginning to eat.

The food tasted so good, you weren't expecting it. The warm home cooked meal was definitely needed. You hummed before eating faster, practically inhaling the food from how hungry you are. You hadn't eaten much while in that room. It was a pain to even convince them to feed you at all, in all honesty. Gaz didn't say another word, though he did wonder what would happen if he called you a pet name a regressor would normally enjoy. Before you knew it, you had completely cleaned the plate.

Gaz waited patiently for you to finish up. Once you had finished, he let out a soft chuckle. " I didn't think you would've finished it that quickly. Are you still hungry? Do you need more food? "

" No I'm okay, so full, " you hummed as you gently set the dishes onto your desk. You leaned back into the chair with a small sigh, only to gently rub at your head in an attempt to sooth your head.

" Alright, " he shrugged his shoulders as he looked at your face again.

Gently, he grabbed your hands when he noticed you rubbing at your head in an attempt to soothe it.

" You still have a bit of a headache? Are you sure food is all you want? Nothing else to sooth your headache? " he questioned, concern lacing his tone. He wanted nothing more than to help you feel better.

" Nothing can really help, " you mumbled awkwardly, though it wasn't quite true. If you would just let yourself regress it would stop hurting.

Slowly you got up from the desk chair. You gently pushed it in so it didn't take up too much space. You walked across the room to your bed then flopped over right into the mattress. Gaz tilted his head then just shook his head. He knew you wasn't telling him the truth, he thought you were being cute the way you were trying to hide your regression. But he wouldn't press you to regress.

He then followed you over to the bed. He decided to do something rather childish himself. He jumped into the bed and fell on top of you, who had just flopped onto the bed like what a child might do when they're tired and don't care to get under the covers. He laugh as he looked up at you.

" AH-" you shouted in surprise as you were jumped on top of. Though it hurt, you bursted into laughter. You smiled and slapped your hand against Gaz's upper arm. You smiled so hard it made your cheeks hurt.

" Get off you're heavy! " you laughed.

Gaz didn't listen to your request to get off you. Instead, he just smiled back and laid his weight on top of you. He then hugged you with you underneath him.

" No, " he said, in a playful tone. " I don't think I wanna move. It's too comfy. "

You groaned in reply, but kept smiling. The weight felt nice against you, soothing. You let out a long sigh before gently wrapping your arms around Gaz. You gently ran your fingers across his upper back, rubbing it in a soothing manner.

" Fine, " you mumbled in defeat.

Your hands rubbing across his back soothed Gaz. You were so calming and the way you rubbed Gaz's back in such a way that he felt very tempted to fall asleep. But even if Gaz felt sleepy, he wouldn't fall asleep. Instead, he would continue holding you and hugging you.

" Are you comfy? " He asked to check in with you, but you only nodded quietly in reply.

" Head hurts tho, " you mumbled, tone sounding a little childish. You were exhausted, the weight of Gaz made you feel safe. It was hard to keep fighting your headspace. You couldn't fight sleep and regressing at the same time either.

Gaz looked down at you for a moment and then kissed your forehead. His smile was gentle and calming, as if he was kissing his son's forehead.

" It's okay, " he whispered. " I'm here. You're safe with me. "

Gaz then held you closer to him, hoping it helped your mindset. " Just drift off and go to sleep if your head hurts. I'll watch over you. "

The words made tears prick in your eyes. Suddenly, and finally, you felt a wave of anxiety, relief, and general grief wash over you. Gaz made you feel so safe, protected from the others. What had happened, the way you had been kept, finally processed through you enough for you to express something. Your tears began to fall fast, thick and hot. You kept quiet though, besides some small hiccups of breath. The downside of crying was loosing the grip on your headspace further. Really, one word would be enough to tip you over into little space.

Gaz's face showed a concerned look and he scooted a bit closer to you. He brushed his hand against your forehead, pushing some of your hair out of your face. He moved to lay next to you, instead of on you. Apart of you missed the weight.

" Shhh, " he shushed gently, " It's alright, Y/N. Let it all out. Don't fight it. I'm right here with you. "

It was easy to tell that you were almost regressing due to stress and anxiety. You hiccuped softly in reply, letting your tears fall faster. Soon soft sobs began to heave out of you. Your fingers gripped Gaz's shirt as you hugged him tightly. You buried your face into his shoulder while you cried. Your mind begged and screamed for you to just let yourself regress, but you were too scared to do so. You were scared Gaz would judge you, or find you gross... or just something negative.

Gaz didn't mind the crying at all. In fact, he didn't mind you hugging him so tightly, and he also didn't mind you burying his face into his shoulder. He didn't even mind your tears dripping down onto his shirt as you cried. It would leave spots, but it won't dry later, so why care?

Gaz held you close, rubbing your back gently in a soothing way. He wanted to show you that he wasn't ashamed or disgusted with you. He found it difficult to even think of you in such a way if he had to be honest. Soon, your sobs turned to quiet crying. Your exhausted body couldn't keep up, so you weren't able to cry for very long without feeling completely wiped out. It had only been ten minutes and you felt like you were going to pass out. As a result, you lost your battle with fighting falling into little space. You kept your head buried into Gaz's shoulder. Your breathing softened into a calm, low, pace.

Gaz noticed right away that you had regressed as he was holding you. He could tell at first glance that you were more relaxed, less tense. It was also your breathing that caught Gaz's attention as he spoke again.

" You're little now, Y\N, " he guess, using a tone of speaking to a young child to keep you there. " Do you feel okay? Anything hurt at all, or do you feel okay? " he asked gently while rubbing your back.

" Nuh uh, " you mumbled towards Gaz, instantly denying the fact you were regressed despite how obviously it is. All the questions overwhelmed you though, so you didn't say anything to them, just slowly curled up against him.

" Okay," Gaz chuckled, just holding you close instead. He rubbed your back in circles quietly for a little while before moving to see your face. He knew you are still denying you regression, but he didn't push it. He didn't want to cause you more distress.

Your fingers kept clinging to his clothing, refusing to let go of Gaz. You slowly melted against him when your hair was played with. You felt safer in his arms, knowing he'd protect you. You barely lasted a few minutes being awake. You fell asleep without even realizing you had done so.

Gaz smiled as you fell asleep so quickly. He continued to hold you and play with your hair a bit more.

Gazing down at you, he found himself finding you really adorable when you are regressed. He still wanted to give you some time to heal from what had happened, so he didn't disturb you. You deserved your rest. He waited patiently for you to wake up again. It'd probably be a while however. So he settled down and rested with you while he waited. He slept peacefully, being so cozy with the little in his arms.

***

You woke up at about three am feeling uncomfortable. You woke up feeling little, having a headspace at about seven or eight, so you were on the older side. Gaz was fast asleep when you woke up. You whined softly and uncomfortably squirmed in your spot, that's when you realized the bed was wet. It was odd. You didn't drink in the bed, so you couldn't have spilled anything.

Then, your heart dropped. Your eyes pooled with tears as you realized you had an accident in the bed. From the anxiety of the fear of being yelled at or called disgusting, you fell into a younger headspace as you began to cry. As you started to whine and squirm around, Gaz woke up due to the noise and movement. You hiccuped out your sobs, crying harder as he woke up and realized.

Gaz looked down at you with nothing but confusion written on his face. He didn't understand why you were moving so much, let alone upset. Not at first. Then he finally noticed the wet spots on your side of the bed, which helped him put two and two together. Despite how gross it definitely was, Gaz remained calm and didn't yell or become angry. He couldn't be mad over something you couldn't control. It was an accident and that's what really mattered.

" Oh no, " he murmured when he realized what you had done in your sleep. " You regressed in your sleep, Y/N? "

You soon sat up, the mess clearly having come from you with your damp sweatpants. You're uncomfortable, embarrassed, and all around humiliated. Above all you're scared he would be mad and not talk to you again after this.

It was clear to see that Gaz wasn't mad or disgusted with you at all. If anything, he was just sympathetic towards you. He could see that you were worried about how he would react. It made his heart ache.

" 'm-" you tried to speak as you choked on your sobs. " Sorry, " you cried.

" Hey, Hey, " Gaz whispered as gently as he could manage. " Don't apologize. You didn't do it on purpose, alright? There was nothing wrong in regressing in your sleep. I also told you that I wouldn't find you disgusting or weird for regressing. "

He kissed your forehead to give you support and love. " Come on, we can take care of the bed and then you can go back to sleep. Do you still feel little? " he asked you in an attempt to try to get you to be more upfront about your regression. Little did he know, you were past the point of being able to suppress it.

You tried to wipe your face as you cried, but it didn't do much since you were still bawling. Your sobs softened to be quieter as Gaz kissed your head, soothing you effectively. You let out small whimpers on reply to Gaz's words. You felt so little now, more because of the amount of stress you're experiencing. You nodded in agreement regardless though.

" K-Kay, " you stuttered out through your hiccuped breaths.

" Come on, " Gaz rubbed your back and then stood up from the bed. He didn't mind that you were still so overwhelmed with the emotions that you are crying. He didn't blame you for it. Instead, Gaz just picked you up to show you that everything was okay.

You raised your arms as he picked you up. You let out soft whimper as you were picked up, being clearly worried about getting him dirty too. Though, being picked up quickly stopped his crying.

" 'm dirty, " he mumbled with clearly embarrassment showing.

" That's okay, " Gaz innocently spoke, " I'm happy to help you get cleaned up. "

Gaz began to walk you over to your bathroom so he could help you clean up and put the soiled bedding to wash. You clung to him as you were carried to the bathroom, you didn't complain in the slightest. It soothed you time be carried, more because it rocked him and calmed your emotions the rest of the way.

" Let's get you taken care of, my little one. "

Once being set down on the bathroom counter, you uncomfortably squirmed from your soiled sweatpants. It didn't stop you from sucking on your thumb, though, either. You just wanted something to calm you while you watched Gaz. Gaz was taking a wet washcloth and wet it some water from the sink before beginning to wipe your face. He cleaned your face gently, rubbing it in a soothing way. He made sure not to focus on one spot too much, not wanting to irritated the skin. One hand wiped your face, the other gently held your chin up with a few fingers.

As Gaz cleaned your face, you closed your eyes and leaned into the touch. Small giggled escaped you as he wiped your neck too. You also stopped sucking on your thumb so you wouldn't be in the way either. You could as it to trying any time he paused to adjust the towel in his hold though... you couldn't help it.

" There, cleaned up your face a bit, " he said, before moving onto the problem of your pants. " Alright, are you okay with me helping you with this, Y/N? "

You giggled now that Gaz was finished, more so because he had cupped your cheeks and playfully brushed his nose against yours. It never failed to plaster a smile on your face.

" Mhm, bu 'm wan pants, " you slurred your words as you pointed to the dresser just outside the bathroom door where you kept your clothes. You didn't mind Gaz helping you like this, but you did want to wear pants.

" You want to wear pants? " Gaz blinked as he repeated what you said, just in a more coherent way. You nodded as he repeated you. You were too little to really form words properly, but you were doing your best to be vocal. He could tell that your headspace was a bit younger than originally thought. He didn't mind helping you in that way either. Even if you were younger than he expected.

He left you on the bathroom sink as he slipped away to the dresser. He made sure to stay in view of you as he pulled open a few of the drawers. After a few tries he found your pants drawer. He tugged out some soft sweatpants at random before making his way back to you. He smiled softly to you while settling back in front of you. He gently rubbed your thigh to sooth you before handing you the sweatpants. Though he didn't quite let go of them yet.

" Do you think you can dress yourself, Y/N? " he asked you in a gentle voice. You let out a small whine at the question.

" 'm don think so, " you mumbled with a soft sniffle. " 'm sorry, " you apologized.

" Shh. Don't be silly, Y/N, " Gaz rubbed the outer side of your thigh in a soothing way as he tilted his head down to look at you. " I won't get mad at you for regressing, alright? I don't mind having to help you, " he reminded you.

The reassuring helped you relax a lot. You're scared to regress in front of others, down right terrified even. You never regressed with Gaz before, but so far he was doing well.

" I'll help you into your pants, okay? You just need to keep still. "

You unconsciously wiped your cheek despite not crying any more and your face being clean. He gently helped you off the counter. He held you a bit more securely than before and moved to help you out of your pants and into the fresh sweatpants. Your hands grasped Gaz's shirt on his shoulders as you did your best to help him with getting out of the soiled clothing and into the new one. You felt so much better now that you're in clean, dry, clothing.

Now all that was left was to change the soiled bedding.

Gaz smiled as you held onto his shirt while he was trying to help the little out of your pants. He had noticed that you had become more relaxed in his tone. He knew you still felt a bit anxious about the whole situation, but he was glad you didn't feel so overwhelmed anymore. It made him want to do more to help you relax.

Now that you're all settled into your sweatpants, he made sure you were stable enough on your feet before pulling away. You removed your hands from his shoulders, one instantly pulling up so you could suck on your thumb peacefully. Gaz smiled softly, gently running a hand through his hair. Then he left the bathroom and changed the bedding. You kept following you around like a lost puppy. Whenever Gaz got close enough, you kept trying to reach out to him to grab onto him. He didn't let you grab him, but each time he would kiss the top of your head. Gaz was touched when you continued to follow him. It also was a good sign that you trusted him enough to do so.

Once everything was all clean, Gaz smiled again and hugged you. He felt so content. You giggled as you were hugged, happily hugging him back without hesitation. It made his chest feel warm.

" How do you feel, Y/N? "

" 'm sleepy, bu happy an comfy, " you happily told you, clearly having gotten over the accident now. " Gaz bestest, " you giggled happily.

Then, Gaz felt his heart melt when you said you're sleepy, but happy and comfy.

" Aww, thank you, " Gaz smiled. " You're the best, too. How about I take you back to bed? " He asked you in a gentle tone as he tried to guide you to the bed.

" Yea bu-" you began before escaping Gaz's hug and walking to your night stand. You dramatically flopped down to sit on the floor in front of it. Gaz was very tempted to laugh at how you flopped down to sit on the floor. It was so cute

You then pulled open the top drawer and dug around before proudly pulling out your favorite pacifier. You showed him, of course. You gladly placed it into your mouth afterwards, chewing on it with no hesitation. He also found the action of you getting your pacifer funny. You was showing off your favorite pacifer with such a proud stance made him have to take a deep breath so he wouldn't laugh.

You got up onto your feet, wobbling a little as you waddled over to Gaz with your arms out for him. Gaz giggled when you waddled over to him. You are so precious in this moment. He smiled and held your hands to get you back into the bed. He used them to balance you better but also to guide you. You hugged him before getting into the bed with it's new, fresh, bedding.

" Come on, my little adorable Y/N, let's get some sleep, " he chuckled as he tucked you in.

You felt so safe with Gaz, that's for sure. You chewed on the pacifier quietly and rubbed at your eyes. You trusted him more now, that much you knew. Gaz has proven to be safe to be around. You didn't want to be away from him now as a result. You wanted to regress around him more in the future. With a soft yawn, and some cuddles with Gaz, you were soothed right back to sleep.

[herdelreydear]

„xo xo“

pt.1

warnings: alcohol, smoking, modern!au, drummer!abby, basist!ellie, fem!reader

summary: after moving to a small town to be there for your best friend while she needs you , you start working at a bar. The lokal band that plays there every sunday seems pretty interesting after spotting a blond haired and pretty attractive drummer

{not proofread}

notes: I promise the second part is going to be more spicy, I think this is going to be a small series maybe a bit slow burn but maybe the next chapter is going to be nsfw idk yet :.) also i’m new here so i‘d appreciate reposts, likes or even comments so so much <33

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Things were going to be different this summer, you felt it. After a long winter it finally started to get warm again, and the sun felt so good. While blasting music through your headphones you walked towards the little bar your friend mentioned, hoping to find them searching for new workers.

Since you moved here you didn't really had the time to focus on applying to a new job, all that mattered was to be there for your friend. Dina was one of the people, you would do something crazy like that for.

Moving to a small town because she had just broken up with her boyfriend and being on the edge of an identity crisis you were there to support her. But because of everything being pretty spontaneous the time and money it'd take to find a new place wasn't something you had right now. Till you'd manage to do so, Dina let you stay at hers.

„stay as long as you want cutie!" was what she told you the day you arrived at hers. But god no you didn't wanted to ruin her privacy and personal space. Her apartment wasn't big, and you knew she didn't like sharing her place (that's why she never moved in with Jesse, her Ex boyfriend).

She wasn't satisfied with you having to find a new job just to afford living here and stressing about finding a place to live just because she wasn't stable enough to be on her own right now. But Dina knew that you would do nearly anything for her because she was always there for you too, through hard and rough times she never turned her back on you. You two kind of became each others family.

The little bar she mentioned was just about 10 mins away, and while you walked there you got to know the small town. Pretty old houses and lots of greens and gardens. Where you stayed before was very different from that. Dina lived with you before she decided to move here because of Jesse, and you couldn't afford it yet to visit her and now you're moving here anyways. God, Dina is lucky that you're pretty easy when it comes to moving around, some people might would've lost a good job with moving spontaneously. Not you. After moving away from your dad, you tried to work as much as possible to afford your apartment and the food for your two cats. From being a bartender to working as a cleaning force, you did it all and you didn't mind. At least you didn’t had to share a place with anyone but Dina after moving out from you dad’s.

The bar was really sweet, Dina just knew what you liked. When you stepped in a little bell rang, and the person behind the counter bar glanced a welcoming smile at you.

"hey! you're new here right?" she nodded in your direction and you came closer while looking around.

"yeah, is that so obvious?" in this town they probably all ready knew everyone's face. You gave her a little smile.

"Kind of, yeah" she pointed at a board that showed all the drinks and prices. You thought about what to order. "Just a small coffee, please" you answered counting your money. After you gave it to her you sat down at a barstool right in front of her. "I'm Cat." she held her hand towards you and you shook it lightly. "y/n" taking a sip of the coffee she just had put right in front of you. Tilting your head to the side, unsure to ask you started: „Do you guys..perhaps..need another hand?" She looked up at you "I'm sorry i don't want to bother but I kinda really need that money right now-" you brabbel faster than your thoughts can follow. Silence. She looks at you with a little smile. "you're lucky you're talking to the chef right now."

„Dina!“ with a grin on your face you shouted her name while entering her apartment. You heard music coming from the kitchen and as you came in you saw her in front of the kitchen counter. As always she looked as if she knew what she’s doing but that was just her confidence. Sometimes you really questioned how she managed to live on her own with those cooking skills. „hey“ she smiled and turned her head over to look at you for a sec. „Guess who’s gonna start working tomorrow“ holding back a big smile you walked over to her to look at what exactly she was cooking. „No way-„ she looked surprised. „oh yeah“ with a grin on her lips she turned over to hug you. „NO WAY!“ she repeated while hugging you excited. „Oh my god tell me everything about how you managed to get the job right away!“ you started telling her about the sweet manager that was pretty young for an owner and how open she was with helping you by applying to the job at her bar. Dina was really proud of you and rewarded you with the dinner she cooked. Surprisingly it tasted better than anything she ever cooked for you. You noticed how she changed since you last met her. But that wasn’t a bad thing. Better cooking skills, and she became so independent (you were an exception). You were happy that she broke up with Jesse after she told you how off their relationship became after being together for 2 years. Since she moved here to be with him all the time they started to notice that they just didn’t fit together anymore. „maybe it‘s time for a girl again“ Dina joked. Her last relationship with a girl didn’t ended that well either. You chuckled. Summer just started and you were both single, could be worse.

Time goes by, and after two weeks of working you settled in. Working at the bar was exhausting, but fun. This sunday was your first shift while a band would play. That meant: working all day and working late. But at least they maybe would play something you’re into? Dina joked about the band members and how she thought lokal bands always consisted of some old people that had nothing to do anymore. Great. A bit downturned you got ready that Sunday. While looking into the mirror you tilted your head to look at your face from different angles. Why don’t try something new? You normally didn’t wear that much make up, but foundation, mascara and a nude lipstick were your go-to. Maybe some dark red lipstick for today would make you feel more confident (you also thought of how you could get a bigger tip if you’d do that to be honest). Working at the bar your clothes had to be subtle so you mostly wore all black but comfy. Sticking to that tonight you wore comfy black jeans and a black top with lace framing your cleavage. Putting on your silver hoops and necklaces you felt complete.

„looking hawt“ Dina approached you with a grin. „So i’ll see you tonight when the gig starts right?“ you nodded. „Should I bring some food? I mean you’ll be already working hours when it starts..“

„No thanks Dina, but very sweet of you. I’ll take something from the store for the way“ you pouched a kiss on her cheek, teasingly knowing it’d leave a red kiss stain she’d be annoyed about and waved her goodbye.

Arriving at the bar you saw the band’s equipment already built up on the little stage across from the counter you’d be working. Nice, so at least you’d see something and it wont get boring working that long.

„Sooo in the band are Manny, Owen, Ellie and Abby“ you nodded, not really knowing what you could’ve answered. „Don’t worry you’ll get to know them over time, they had a break for the last couple of weeks but now they’re back and luckily playing for the Planet.“ (The Planet = name of the bar) „So.. what genre do they play?“ you asked while starting to wash some of the used glasses in the sink.

„hmm they most of the time just cover songs, I‘d say rock and metal because they love to cover classics from the 70s“ interesting. „and some other alternative sub genre, but don’t worry you’ll enjoy if you like hot men making music“ cat grinned and leaned over to you. You started laughing and shaking your head. „No not really, i’m on the other team.“

„girls? I like that. I think you’ll love the drummer and the basist then“ you raised your brows. „I’m gonna have to work cat, not crushing on some band members that’s something i’ll leave to you“ you chuckled and she just shrugged. „Well, I’ll definitely enjoy the show. By the way, don’t underestimate us. Just because it’s a smaller town, people from elsewhere come here too when they’re playing.“ Cat left and you were alone at the counter. No visitors yet, so you could relax. Listening to the radio, you hummed quietly while focusing on getting everything ready for tonight.

„They’ll soon start, why don’t you get a small break before the bar fills?“ Cat came by to check on you after some hours of your shift and you took the opportunity and went through the back door outside.

You were about to search for your cigs in your pockets, when a group of people came closer. Before you could care to look up a girl came closer. „You want one?“ a girl with long blond hair in one braid held a pack right in front of you, now you looked up. You smiled shyly and nodded. „Uh..Thank you, and sorry i forgot mine“ you said without being asked but you were nervous and it just came out. Gosh she was so pretty.. Her little smirk, her nose covered in freckles and her whole appearance seemed to attract you. After you took a cig between your lips she immediately took out a lighter. You looked up at her to look in her eyes while she lit it for you. You inhaled and took a step backwards to fully look at her. Exhaling. „Thanks“

„You work here?“ her voice was a bit raspy and her big hoodie hid whatever was under there, you could just imagine. The other people of here group circled around you two and you started to reckon who these people were. Not bad, even Dina would find them attractive and yet she didn’t date a musician. „Yeah I do, I’m new here though“ you smiled and the others started to greet you too. „Yeah I would’ve recognized you otherwise“ she grinned and while she exhaled the smoke she respectfully tilted her head to the other side.

„Nice to have you guys here, Cat told me about you. Seems like we should be honored to have you playing at the Planet“ you jokingly exaggerated a bit and they chuckled. „I’m Abby by the way“ she looked to the right „that’s Manny,“ pointed to the other guy „Owen. And that-„ she layed her arm around the girl on her left „is my girl Ellie“ they all smiled at you and you also introduced yourself. So, she has a girlfriend? Not that you really should take the first hot girl that seemed like your type that kind of works with you. Ellie was also more masculine, a thing you were most of the time attracted to. She was a bit smaller and less talkative then the blonde. Anyways, you should focus on your work first, dating comes last. Even though you were more then desperate. You needed to get laid soon our you’d actually just grab the next best lesbian that was down to fuck.

When y’all finished the smokes you walked them back into the bar, or they walked you in there. Next to them you looked so unintimidating it was almost embarassing. You walked back to the counter while they went to the set up across from you. Staring at them you didn’t notice how full it got and had to take some orders right away. While serving the costumers one of the guys, you forgot the name, started opening their gig.

God, it got so full you became a bit stressed, but when you saw Dina coming in you relaxed a bit. People started to move away from the counter and gathered around the little stage.

„hey sexy barmaid“ she squeezed herself through a group of men that just ordered, to get to you. „So no old men band, god for you“ you rolled your eyes. „And for you too right?“ she giggled. „yeah of course“ she sat on a barstool infront of you and glanced over her shoulder. „damn, they actually are surprisingly good looking..“ pouring shots for another costumer you nodded. „i know..“ she leaned back to you. „The brown haired one seems to be your type. Tatts, short hair?“ you shrugged, she just knew you to well. But she didn’t knew that your eyes were on the other girl only. Now, while thinking about her you tried to see her through the small crowd. She was the drummer, of course. You raised your brows, she had taken her hoodie off, god…you blushed embaressed. Her arms toned, and muscles flexed from playing the drums. A view you couldn’t deny to find very appealing. Hoping Dina wouldn’t notice your red cheeks, but the lights were dimmed and drawn to the stage.

„Am I right??“ Dina tried to get your eye contact. „hello bar momma i’m talking to you“ you snapped out. „Dina gosh let me enjoy the view for a moment“ you laughed and she ordered something. While mixing her a drink you two talked about how she needed someone to get over Jesse and how you needed to get laid. And coincidentally there was a group with potential right infront of you.

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y’all are welcomed to give any tips/ideas for the next chapters! I have some ideas in mind but maybe you guys have ideas on how to make things more spicy🐇

[fictional-men-have-my-heart]

Hello all! Welcome to day 22! Today I was thinking about what hidden talents the 141, Los Vaqueros, and Konig may have. Simple, yet sweet type stuff :)

Price:

He doesn't like to admit to it, but he can sing quite well. Most of you have caught him singing quietly in his office as he goes through files or when he thinks he's alone in the range. You caught him off guard once during a mission when he was on watch and thought everyone was asleep.

"Got a nice voice Cap." You mumble, watching him jolt.

"Jesus kid, don't spook me like that." He'd grumble, shaking his head.

"Sorry sir, just thought I'd let you know."

Ghost:

He secretly likes to read. You weren't sure whose books you kept finding hidden in the bunkhouse, but they were certainly well-worn. You had asked Gaz and Soap, but neither knew either. It wasn't until you borrowed one to read on a long flight to a long-haul mission that Ghost noticed.

"Where'd you get this?" He growled, tugging it from you.

"In the bunkhouse? It kind of just appeared, no one knew... oh." Suddenly it clicked. He seemed to recognize you had no clue, so he holds it out to you.

"Don't get blood on it, understand?"

"Yes sir." You smiled, finding your place again.

Soap:

Doesn't like to admit to it, but he sketches a lot. You didn't take much notice, figuring he was writing back home to someone when you'd find him scrunched up over a notebook. Once though, one of his books fell out of his locker, spilling intricate sketches across the bunkroom. You had lept to help gather them, stopping as you saw a lovely drawing of Las Almas from when you guys had been there.

"Holy hell Soap, did you draw this?" You had asked quietly, holding the paper out to him. A red flush had started creeping up his neck, tinging his ears.

"Yeah, I did. Look, I don' like showin' these off. Keep this quiet, yeah?"

"Sure thing, just... know they're really good. Frame worthy." You had grinned. He nodded, shoving the book back into his locker.

Gaz:

You learned Gaz was one hell of a cook. You hadn't noticed at first how at ease he seemed in a kitchen, nor how he seemed to never use recipes. Now, you sat watching as he seemed to glide around the kitchen almost like a dance, preparing some food for the team on a relaxing evening between missions.

"Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"Picked it up over the years. Takes a lot of practice."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Plus, I figured it would make it easier to find someone if I could cook y'know?"

Alejandro:

You didn't think much of it when Alejandro easily stitched someone's wound in the field, most people could do rudimentary stitching with combat first aid. However, watching him meticulously repair a shirt after a rough undercover op had you fascinated.

"Where'd you learn to sew like this Colonel?"

"Mi mamá. She told us kids we would need to know how to fix our clothes since we shouldn't always look for someone else to do it for us. This was mostly because I kept ripping my clothes while cutting school with Rudy."

"Sounds like your mom is a smart woman." You had laughed. He smiled fondly.

"Oh, she is. Loving and stern even with my hardheadedness."

Rudy:

You could always tell Rudy was a smart, graceful guy. He moved quickly and damn near silently, his footfalls minimal. You finally broke and questioned it at one point.

"How are you so quiet all the time?"

"I took dancing classes as a kid."

"You what?" Your eyes snap to him, eyes wide.

"Took dancing classes. I like to think it helped round out the combat training I got when I joined the military. Quiet and ruthless." He smirked.

"Now I have to see you dance sometime." You laughed.

"Anytime, I can even teach you if you'd like."

Konig:

It's astounding the things you might miss about people if you're never in the right place. Konig was a reserved and quiet person, and it never crossed your mind he might have a talent for music or instruments given your line of work. But, when a mission was over and you were settled back at a relatively nice base with a piano, he watched as you and Gaz tinkered with it.

"You two disgrace such a lovely instrument." He joked, leaning on the doorway.

"Oh, can you do better big man?" Gaz had retorted. Konig motioned for you two to move, and he settled onto the bench.

It was a sight to see, his frame almost making the instrument seem normal-sized. You watched as he began playing softly as if trying to recall the notes.

"It's been a long time..." He murmurs, slowly gaining confidence. You grinned, enthralled with the lovely sound as he played.

"Even so, you play very well." He nods, offering the seat back to you and Gaz.

[stylesavingssavvy]

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