#also this section is getting away from me

[imustbenuts]

Wolfwood is an underdog character screwed by social hierarchy and Japanese cultural subtext more ways than one: a messy half-assed write up.

This is me saying that Wolfwood is in no way the equivalent of 'white' or even near the top in terms of class even when viewed with a Japanese lens and there's at least a few threads you can follow that will lead up to that conclusion. So to try and (badly) cover this topic as best as I can, the sections highlighted in this post will be the following

Colorism and imperialism

Tribes and burakumin

Shintoism and the burakumin people

Wolfwood's entire fucking design

I explode

Colorism

So in short. Asia has a colorism problem on top of a racism problem, but people like me get really frustrated when a more American POV is applied to try and shoehorn the discussion into purely racism. The reason is: history.

So. Japan was super imperialist back in history. And so was China, which Japan took many inspiration from in terms of language, culture, and most importantly, governance.

In order for their particular system of governance to work, both China and Japan ended up having their own respective court systems where the aristocrats and nobility would spend their days indoors as they administer governance. (Or more accurately, to be so educated, cultured and refined as the world outside implodes.) Thanks to this system, there is essentially a walled garden system where the well-educated nobles would spend their time well away from hard labor like farming under the sun.

This meant there is a greater amount of favoritism towards fairer skinned people as opposed to tan, since it became a quick indicator of class and status. Bc only laborers tended the field under the harsh sun, and women got this especially bad, bc imagine her having to tends the field like a peasant. Gasp.

Anyway bada bing bada boom white skin eventually became so associated with beauty and status. The old poverb, "色の白いは七難隠す", or White skin covers seven flaws, refers to women with pure white (sometimes powdered) skin is attractive no matter what their physical flaw might be. Think Geishas and their job of entertaining at private events with a face full of white powder makeup.

This colorism also hits men less, but the idea of status stays.

...Wink. (To note the above gif here for a sec: IMO Vash doesn't qualify as desirable purely because he's a blonde. A foreigner. An Other. But the hiding flaws part might be worth chewing on.)

And now we suddenly are looking at some kind of a vague hierarchical system. And indeed, Japan has had a caste system of sorts in with varying degrees of social mobility depending on which era you look at. The lowest in some era were slaves. And even then, there is another class even lower than that, the Burakumin. Put a pin in this bc it'll be important in the next part.

Tribes and Burakumins

There are actually, in fact, different tribes in Japan even today. Current day, the well known ones are the Yamato people, who make up 98% of the population in Japan. Mostly fair skin, black hair. East Asian.

Then there are the Ryukyuans, who live mostly in okinawa with their own culture, and then the Ainus.

I don't want to get even MORE historical, but those two groups were conquered and forcibly had their culture identity, language, and even land stripped off them. Attempted to have loyalty towards the emperor instilled towards them at various points. One might think the presence of these two might mean that there were more tribes back in ancient Japan, and, yes, you would be right!

Many of them might have been assimilated into what we think of as Japanese people today. There are always variation in skin color, hair color and facial features alone if one pays attention even in Tokyo. Not all East Asian are fair skin and have straight black hair, but an overwhelming majority do. (plus hair dyes and perms wahoo. who's to know sometimes)

One example perhaps is this. Ever watched Princess Mononoke? Did you know that part of the story centers around Ashitaka, who is part of the Emishi tribe, who are a group who has been rebelling against the Emperor Yamato for 500 years? And so he shoots samurais on the regular?

So here's the rub: the Emishi were in fact a real indigenous group who were basically conquered and assimilated. Some did resist during the 11th century, with their villages/hamlet out deep into the north of Japan. They were of course, greatly outnumbered.

These people who resisted the rule all over Japan with different identities, names and culture and survived came to be called the Eta 穢多 (lit. abundance of filth). Later, Burakumin.

Now I mentioned the Burakumins. Burakumin are written like this 部落民, and refer to a strongly discriminated class of people who live in discriminated villages/hamlet. The kanji though, literally translates to "People who falls outside of the order", or, "Outcasts". In other words, even though there's a caste system which basically at least recognizes people as part of a governing system, the Burakumins do not qualify to even as to be human in this system.

And indeed, some of these tribes who had their culture and identity stripped off them are not even people in the eyes of the ruling government. Today, the term refers to the descendants of these people, and they do encounter a lot of discrimination and abuse in their daily lives from social to work. It's so bad that parents do not tell their children of the ancestry to avoid discrimination. Also its possible to know if one is a burakumin just by checking family names and registers jsyk, since they were once location based.

EDIT: those judged to be criminals also become part of this group!

More info by a Japanese guy regarding current day burakumin problem here on youtube.

Oh and also, many burakumin ended up joining criminal gangs like the yakuzas. Put another pin in this.

Shinto and the Burakumin people

Preface: shinto is a very sacred religion to many Japanese people and is still actively practiced today. Be respectful and just know I'm being hyper specific about this singular aspect of shinto. It is a very old religion and history which is fascinating.

But to not talk about this specific topic would be to kinda miss what Studio Orange has been doing to Stampede Wolfwood so I'm just gonna do this super quick. A more indepth messy write up can be found here if you like.

Right. So. Like with many religion, Shinto was also used as a means to convince people to fall in line. One thing that Shinto has is the concept of spiritual dirtiness, which is generated upon contact with death, blood and disease. Being dirty would then draw evil spirits and invite terrible misfortunes, so being clean is important in Shintoism. So important that meat was considered dirty. (With the exceptions of game meat and the whole religion thing applied to them.)

It's so important that certain professions such as Butchers, Tanners, Gravediggers etc were seen as so terrible that no one but the etas, the burakumins would do it. This whole thing then reinforces the hierarchy. And meanwhile the rulers in their court and shinto priests could conduct rituals to purify themselves.

And for me, this is the most insane thing since dirty jobs like that must be done no matter what era it is. Just by being alive, people get dirty and there's no avoiding that.

Anyway. In Trigun and even Japanese media, this gets translated into what I would call The Tormented Ones Whose Hands Are Permanently Stained With Blood.

Nicholas the Undertaker was certainly an interesting choice of writing. At least imo.

FUcK

Ok now to recap. I've established that even without colonization and talking about (american pov) racism specifically, there are still very real elements of Japanese history that is too strong, too deep, to intertwined with classism to ignore.

This is the historical baggage of Japan's colorism. Whether or not if Wolfwood is a burakumin here is not the point, but rather that it borrows from that issue all of its influence in varying shades.

It's the erasure of ethnicity and culture in its totality, or to be so consumed by the bigger ruling group that this thread straight up disappears. And to be considered so unwanted that even their descendants today are considered dirty.

They abolished the feudal caste system in the 1800s by the way. Still dealing with like over a thousand years' worth of shit though.

Now I can finally talk about Wolfwood.

Wolfwood's entire character design and writing choice.

Since trimax wolfwood is the base, I'll start with that.

Dark(er) skin, sunglasses, a business suit and a kansai dialect.

All of those are significant.

Now remember that I've mentioned Fair Skin and Black Hair to be the most defining trait of an East Asian. Even people who say East Asian even casually have that specific image in mind. But Wolfwood with the exception of BLR has always been depicted as just slightly tanned especially beside Vash.

The shade fluctuates all the time depending on the artwork, but it's clear that the production staff knows the roots his character design is touching on in order to elicit that "otherness" from the Japanese audience. Which is all that above. The entire post.

Sunglasses and business suit also has a significance. One might think it's just the outfit of an average Japanese salaryman, and yes, that would be technically correct. More so though, this combo is also the outfit style of the Yakuza. Sans ties maybe bc Ww hates his organization.

This is a picture of a Yakuza group known as the Yamaguchi-gumi. Their leader stands in the middle of this photo, the oyabun/father of the group, Kuzuo Taoka. More info and another rabbit hole here.

The Yakuza are a historically violent criminal gang whose membership often consisted of societal outcasts. Outcasts like the Burakumins, who due to their status in society could not find a proper job, and suffer abuse. Being in the Yakuza meant respect and status, and turned boys into men.

All that was needed is absolute loyalty to the leader, the oyabun or the patriarch of the group. If he says it, white is black and black is white. Disloyalty means to chop one's finger off.

If any of this sound even familiar.... Well, yeah. Unhinged criminal boss Knives and his merry Gung Ho Guns.

Next, kansai dialect. So, Japanese dialects are never properly taught when one attempts to learn Japanese. It's a thing that's not Standard and therefore unnecessary to learn. We learn the -desu's, -masu's, the keigo, but never the '-yan's', the 'eenen', the 'akan' or the chau's. (Or even the many other dialects out there)

I will now ask you to hold the idea that 'dialect' and 'language' can be interchangeable. The implications of the Standard Japanese is that it is the ruling class' language and the most proper form of it above all else. Seeing as the Capital of Japan is Tokyo, and their government centers there, it would not be stretch to also call Standard Japanese Tokyo Japanese.

Which means, Tokyo is the classy city and Osaka, the largest city in Kansai, is not as classy. Not as important. Not as well educated or hold as important of a place to the entire country.

It is also very common to hear Japanese people mask their dialect with Standard Japanese when they're in Tokyo, and then go back to their hometown and code switch. Because it's considered 'hick'.

Which, if you haven't considered is also a thing many of us do, I now present you the gift of this fun knowledge.

I Explode

In closing I hope this at least is interesting to chew on for anyone interested. It's by not means perfect and I might have gaps in my knowledge but fwiw, I hope it's at least fun.

Nightow has stated Wolfwood's ethnicity is ambiguous, which I would also interpret as him saying indirectly that Wolfwood is as valid an interpretation to see him as anything but a privileged guy having a good time in the story of Trigun.

It's possible that his ambiguity of roots is meant to simply elicit the idea of a "stolen child".

One fun thing I do consistently notice is that Fanon Wolfwood almost never is in a comfortable position in life even in AUs, and always somewhat broke. In both EN and JP. Which, yeah. Yeah.

There is intersectionality going on and I hope this post helps people see some of it at least. So thanks for reading! (sorry it got so long...)

Additional cool posts other people have written from their pov:

udon-tea's write up about wolfwood's unestablished canon ethnicity

interesting thoughts about tortoise matsumoto being the base and what they think of wolfwood's possible ethnicity

[moeitsu]

The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 7 - Bound Beneath a Sirens Song Summary: With a storm looming on the horizon, the air crackles with an undeniable energy—every moment, every touch is charged like lightning waiting to strike. When Arthur invites you to take a swim, how could you possibly refuse? After all, it’s just a swim... what harm could come from that? wc: 11k tw: none! Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: Longer chapter, got a little carried away. But reader finally gets to kissy on her fishy :3 (also like 80% of this takes place underwater, so pls don’t read too much into the logic of it)

tag list: @photo1030 @v3lv3tf0x @ireallyhonestlydontcare @shygamergirl01 @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @sevikaspuertoricanwife @abducted-cowz @ilovethatforyousworld @gatodebiquini @onyxlune @bomdada

I was searching for trouble and I knew it

The pull toward him was undeniable, like the tide dragging me into deeper waters, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it. There were a thousand reasons why I should pack up my things and head home, but none of them were strong enough to make me leave. Every day, his voice echoed in the back of my mind, a secret siren song ringing in my ears, impossible to ignore.

I told myself this was an adventure—something new, something extraordinary. When in my life would I ever experience something like this again? But deep down, I knew it was more than that. He wasn’t just some fascinating creature to be studied, he was a person. A complicated, intriguing, wonderful person who had been through hell and somehow still found the strength to trust. Over the past week, I had watched him transform before my eyes, shedding his fear and anger like an old skin. Seeing that change unfold lit something warm and dangerous in my chest.

I knew I was going down with this ship, but I refused to raise the white flag in surrender. 

Not when he had come so far. Not when I had seen the way his shoulders relaxed when he listened to Mary-Beth ramble about her favorite books, or how he watched Tilly’s hands with quiet fascination as she scribbled down notes and hypotheses, pausing only to tap her pen against her lip in thought. He was still wary of the men, his trust slower to form, but he was trying. And that effort—it meant everything.

Tilly pestered him with inquisitive, practical questions, always seeking to unravel the mysteries of his existence. She wanted to know what he remembered about his mother, about his people, about the depths of the ocean he had never been free to explore. She wanted to see his lights up close, to hear the cadence of his native tongue, to piece together the puzzle of his biology with a scientific curiosity. At first, Arthur was hesitant, his answers clipped, wary. But I was always there with them, and at times, it felt like he looked to me for permission. A gentle smile, a small nod, and his face would soften just slightly, his bioluminescence flickering to life.

It was as if I was telling him, Go ahead. You’re safe to be yourself here.

Mary-Beth, on the other hand, was smitten with his personality. She had a habit of chatting his ear off, switching from one topic to another with the ease of someone who never ran out of things to say. She talked about her love for writing, about her life back at college, and the not-so-secret crush she had on a certain fisherman at the facility. And Arthur—he listened. Really listened. He hung onto every word, his curiosity evident in the way he tilted his head, the way he asked his own questions. It was clear that as much as we were fascinated by him, he was just as eager to understand us.

And for the first time in his life, he was free to learn without the shadow of pain and fear looming over him.

It was the end of the week. The summer sun was sinking low in the sky, bathing the outdoor section of Arthur’s tank in molten gold. The facility had closed to the public not too long ago, and the girls would need to head home soon. The warm eastern wind carried the briny scent of the ocean, filling my lungs with something grounding, something familiar.

I, for one, did not plan on leaving with them.

There was a part of me that longed to dive into the unknown. To explore someone who, in ways I couldn’t yet explain, felt just a little bit like me. Every day, the pull had grown stronger, the ache sharper. I wasn’t sure if it was curiosity or something more—but tonight, I could no longer ignore it.

Mary-Beth was carefully braiding a section of Arthur’s sandy blond hair, her fingers moving with practiced ease as she wove small strands together. Arthur sat comfortably with his elbows resting on the platform, arms crossed as his long tail floated lazily in the water, the gentle sway of it almost hypnotic. Tilly, stretching her legs with a sigh, checked the time before nudging Mary-Beth.

“We better get moving. My mom doesn’t like when I’m late for dinner.”

Mary-Beth groaned dramatically, her lips forming an exaggerated pout. “Oh, come on, Tilly. It’s Friday! We’re young adults—we should be spending our weekends staying out late, having fun! Can’t we stay with Arthur a little longer?”

“Ouch, guess I’m just chopped liver,” I muttered with a laugh, shaking my head. Though, in truth, I didn’t really mind that they preferred Arthur’s company. Because it meant I got to spend time with him too.

Arthur chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through his chest as he gave them a reassuring smile. “It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” he said, amusement dancing in his glowing blue eyes. “We can pick up where we left off when you girls come back. Go home, get some rest—study up on those science books so you can teach this old fool some new tricks.” He added a playful wink, making Mary-Beth giggle as she gathered her things.

I stood as they did, walking them to the door, dragging my feet ever so slightly. The anticipation in my chest was a restless thing.

And then, finally—the door shut behind them with a heavy thud. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing softer until they disappeared completely.

And just like that, it was just us.

Arthur and I.

This was what I had been waiting for all week—just a moment alone with him, without the others, without distraction. But now that it was here, now that the opportunity had fallen right into my lap, I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with myself.

I wanted to talk to him, to ask him questions, to know him in ways no one else had. But I had already spent every day listening to his stories, absorbing the pieces of himself he was willing to share with the others. And yet, there were still so many things I desired to know. More personal, more intimate details about his life that I had no business prying into.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I barely registered the way Arthur tilted his head at me, eyes searching mine.

“You alright, darlin’?”

The smooth timbre of his voice pulled me back to the present, washing over me like the tide pulling in.

I blinked, offering a small smile. “Yeah, I was just thinking.” I hesitated for half a second before adding, “Mind if I hang out for a bit?”

His eyes lit up, and it wasn’t just the setting sun catching in the water.

“Sure,” he said, shifting slightly as he regarded me. “This ain’t gonna get you in trouble, though, right?”

He had a point. There was no reason for me to stay after hours. But surely, I wasn’t breaking any rules. Not really.

I smirked. “Only if I get caught.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh, the sound warm and familiar, as if we had known each other for years instead of days. I realized just how much I needed to know him. Not as some scientific marvel, not as a myth brought to life.

But as Arthur.

As I moved toward the edge of the ledge, letting my legs dangle in the water, Arthur followed without hesitation. It was as if we were tethered by some invisible thread, an unspoken pull drawing us together. He stopped just before reaching me, lingering in that space between caution and longing, his hesitation palpable. I could see the gears turning in his mind—how close is too close?

I reached out, offering my hand in a silent invitation. And when he took it, I felt the warmth of his palm against mine despite the coolness of the water. He pressed himself against my legs, his chest firm and solid, his heartbeat strong beneath my skin. Wet arms came to rest on my thighs, soaking through my shorts, but I barely noticed. The moment was too charged, too fragile, as his gills fluttered against my legs, I parted them slightly as if breathing him into my embrace.

He was so close now. Close enough that I could study every detail of his face—the faint scar hidden beneath his short beard, the dimple at the base of his nose, the way his lashes curled like delicate brushstrokes. Freckles dusted his cheeks and shoulders like constellations etched into his skin, mapping stories I would never fully know. His second eyelids, faint but visible, reflected the soft light filtering through the water, a feature evolved to protect his irises, and yet, he still looked at me with such openness. His lips were smooth, and when he parted them, I caught the glint of sharp teeth, a stark contrast to the tenderness in his gaze.

Content had settled over his handsome rugged features. 

“Arthur.” His name slipped from my lips, quiet but sincere. And before I could stop myself, the question that had been lodged in my heart finally surfaced. “Are you happy here?”

I felt him tense, his body stilling against mine. He took a slow, measured breath, but there was no avoidance in his gaze, no flicker of hesitation. Only the truth.

“Happy is... a foreign word to me,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime of uncertainty. “I like it here, but it’s not exactly what I’d call… home.”

The word sounded strange coming from him, like he was tasting it for the first time, unsure of its meaning. My chest ached.

“It’s a bit lonely when you’re all workin’,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Quiet. But it’s a nice feelin’, like I can just be.” He shrugged, as if that small solace was enough, as if it didn’t matter.

A sigh escaped my throat before I could swallow it. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I wish there—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for, sweetheart. You’ve given me more freedom than I’ve ever tasted in my whole miserable life.”

I smiled at that, but it was a poor attempt to mask the tightness in my chest. I wanted to do more for him. I wanted to erase every wound, every scar of his past. Show him true happiness, not just some artificial slice of freedom. 

“Besides,” a slow, knowing grin tugged at his lips, revealing more of those sharp teeth. “If you had never brought me here, I never would’ve met you.”

His hand—webbed, calloused, yet impossibly gentle—lifted to my face, his fingertips tracing the curve of my cheek with aching reverence. Like he was afraid I might dissolve beneath his touch, fade into the air like seafoam.

“And I’m happy when I’m with you.”

The words settled between us, sinking into my bones, heavy and undeniable. I should have said something back. Should have acknowledged what was happening between us.

But I couldn’t. Because if I did, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to pull myself away.

Arthur held my gaze for what felt like an eternity, a storm of emotions swirling between us like the eye of a cyclone—hot and cold currents colliding, the pressure building, pulling us into a dance neither of us dared to break free from. It was unspoken, this tether between us, but I felt it with every pounding heartbeat, with every inch that closed between our bodies.

“Would you swim with me, my girl?”

My breath caught. The words barely registered, not because I hadn’t heard them, but because of the way he said them.

My girl.

It rolled off his tongue so effortlessly, like it was already a truth neither of us had acknowledged yet. My stomach twisted, and a rush of warmth bloomed across my cheeks under the golden light of the setting sun. Arthur watched me, eyes shimmering with mischief, but there was something else there too—something deeper, something that sent a shiver down my spine.

“S-swim?” I squeaked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and rich, like I had just recoiled from something ridiculous—like he had asked me to eat a raw sea urchin instead of simply taking a swim. “Yeah. If you can ignore the sharks and stingrays, it’s practically paradise,” he teased, tugging at my hands as if I might just leap in fully clothed without a second thought.

The meaning of his request finally sank in. My pulse kicked up a notch. This wasn’t what I had planned when I stayed behind with him, wasn’t how I thought I’d fill my time. I had imagined more talking, maybe more of those easy laughs he shared with the girls. But this—this was something different. Something thrilling.

I’d be in the water with him. In his natural element.

A voice in the back of my head stirred, whispering a reminder of what Lenny had said about siren courtship. His bioluminescence, the purring, the gift-giving—he’s in mating season.

I shot those thoughts straight to hell.

This wasn’t about that. This was just swimming. Nothing more. Nothing dangerous. What harm could be done?

Right? Right. 

A grin broke across my face, excitement bubbling in my chest as I practically sprang to my feet.

“I’ll go change into my wetsuit.”

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

I bounded down the corridor, my heartbeat matching the quick, eager rhythm of my steps. Excitement thrummed in my veins, bubbling up inside me until it felt like I might burst. This is happening. I could barely contain myself, giddy at the thought of what was to come. To see Arthur as he was meant to be—in the water, in his element. To watch the way the water broke for him, how effortlessly he moved, commanding the space with just the flick of his powerful tail. The thought sent shivers down my spine, a thrill unlike anything I had ever known.

I was so lost in the fantasy that I didn’t notice the electrical closet door swinging open until I nearly barreled straight into a solid chest.

“Woah!”

Hands gripped my shoulders to steady me, and I blinked up to find John staring down at me, brows raised in surprise. “Hey, uhm—didn’t realize you were still here…you going for a swim or something?” His gaze flickered down to my wetsuit, to the towel in my hands, then toward the hallway that led to Arthur’s tank. His expression shifted, concern knitting his features. “Shit, is Arthur alright? Did something happen?”

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. Just like John to assume the worst. He always played it cool, pretended not to give a shit, but deep down, I knew better. The fool had a heart bigger than his ego—not that he’d ever admit it.

“Arthur’s fine,” I assured him quickly. “I’m just… going for a little swim. That’s all.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, but before he could grill me on why exactly I was voluntarily diving into the water with a half-siren, I cut in.

“What are you still doing here, anyway? You hate working late on Fridays.”

He sighed, exhaustion lacing his tone as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Hosea asked me to check on the generators. Since we got that big storm coming this weekend.”

Right. The hurricane. I had been so wrapped up in Arthur, in my own tangled emotions, that I had almost forgotten.

“Oh, right. Hurricane Eliza.” I rocked back on my heels, clutching the towel to my chest, suddenly feeling exposed. “I heard she’s gonna be a real beast.” I tried not to sound uninterested, but all I really wanted to do was turn back to Arthur. 

John hummed in agreement, but his eyes lingered on me a beat too long, as if he could see straight through my flimsy attempt at nonchalance.

A quiet laugh rumbled from his chest. “Yeah, uh—I guess I’ll leave you to it then.”

He turned, heading back down the hallway, but not before shooting me that look. The one that said he wasn’t buying it.

“John! Uh…” I swallowed hard, nerves creeping back up my spine. Why did I feel like I was a child getting away with something? “Please keep this between us. I-I’m just—” I fumbled for the right words. Just what? Just going for a swim? Then why did it feel like I had been caught sneaking off to do something much more nefarious?

John smirked, dragging a finger across his lips like he was sealing them shut. “Your secret’s safe with me. Have fun with your shark boyfriend.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “He’s not—”

John was already strolling away, ignoring my rebuttal. “If he tries anything, I’ll gut his ass personally,” he called over his shoulder, his voice echoing down the corridor. 

I laughed, shaking my head. “Think I’ll take my chances, Marston. Seeing as you still can’t swim!”

Without turning around, he raised a middle finger in the air.

Grinning to myself, I clutched my towel a little tighter and turned toward the hallway that led to Arthur’s tank. My heart pounded for an entirely different reason now. This was finally happening.

The moment I stepped onto the platform, my heart clenched with a brief flicker of doubt. Would he still be as eager now that I was actually here? But before that worry could take root, the surface of the water broke, and Arthur emerged with effortless grace, resting his arms on the ledge like he had been waiting for me all night.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, his voice a low rumble beneath the gentle crashing of the waves beyond the facility. “Was startin’ to worry you changed your mind.”

I grinned, shaking my head as I tossed my towel onto a plastic chair. “Like I’d pass up this opportunity,” I mused, reaching for my flippers. “Spoke too soon about getting caught. Ran into John in the hallway.”

Arthur hummed in acknowledgment, but his attention was already elsewhere. I followed his gaze down to my feet, watching the way his expression softened with curiosity. Slowly, he reached out, his webbed fingers glistening under the golden light as they ghosted over my ankle.

I stilled as he lifted my foot slightly, his thumb brushing over the sharp ridge of ankle bone before gliding downward in a slow, deliberate motion. When the back of his claw traced up the arch of my foot, I couldn't help the quiet giggle that escaped me, my toes curling instinctively.

Arthur's eyes flicked up at the sound, his lips twitching with amusement before he focused back on my foot, turning it this way and that as if studying an artifact he couldn’t quite make sense of.

“Why do you wear these?” he asked, finally shifting his attention to the flipper I had yet to put on. He tapped the stiff rubber with his claw, brows furrowing.

I chuckled, slipping the other one on. “They’re flippers. I can’t swim like you do. My feet aren’t smooth or streamlined, and I don’t have the muscles like you.”

Arthur’s lips parted slightly as he mouthed the word to himself. “Flippers,” he repeated, testing the sound on his tongue before looking back at me. “So these make you more like me?”

His question sent a strange warmth through my chest. There was something so earnest in the way he asked, his fingers trailing along the length of the fin as if he were trying to understand what it meant for me to move through his world.

“Essentially, yes,” I murmured, a small smile playing at my lips. “They’ll help me keep up with you.”

Arthur let out an exaggerated snort, giving me a pointed look. “Darlin’, that’s a bold statement.”

Grinning, I kicked my foot out of the water, sending a spray into the air. He flinched slightly, watching the droplets rain down before glaring at the stiff black rubber with playful disdain.

“That’s just insulting.”

I laughed, adjusting the strap on my other flipper before sliding a pair of goggles over my forehead. Arthur cocked a brow, tilting his head as he eyed them.

“Ain’t even gonna ask,” he huffed, but then his tone shifted, growing more serious. “How long can you hold your breath?”

The change in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. The playful banter faded, replaced by something quieter—something deeper.

I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the edge of the platform. How long could I hold my breath? I was about to dive into his world, a place where he was strong, fast, in control. The thought sent my pulse skittering, but I forced a steady breath, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Less than a minute,” I admitted, though I knew it was probably closer to thirty seconds.

Arthur took in the information with a slow nod, his ocean-blue gaze flickering downward to the depths of the tank. The water reflected against his skin in shifting ribbons of light, making him look even more otherworldly. “Just stay close to me, alright?”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

Pulling my goggles over my eyes and nose, I inhaled deeply, letting my lungs expand before slipping off the ledge. The cool water embraced me instantly, a rush of sensation flooding my senses as the world above blurred into nothingness.

And then, through the clearing bubbles, there he was.

Arthur moved—no, glided—with an effortless grace that no human could ever hope to match. The full arc of his powerful tail cut through the water like a blade, propelling him forward with a strength that sent ripples cascading outward. The bioluminescent blues and purples that traced his scales shimmered like stardust, catching the fractured light that filtered down from above. His tail fin, a broad, elegant half-moon, unfurled behind him with each movement, undulating like the slow, hypnotic pulse of a jellyfish. The way it rippled through the currents, fluid and weightless, was mesmerizing—a dance like the ocean itself was draped in silk.

For the first time, I was seeing him as he was meant to be. Free. Powerful. Impossible. A gateway into a world unknown. He belonged to nobody, and no man. 

His sandy blond hair drifted around his face in feathery strands, framing the rugged lines of his features, softening the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones. His gills flexed slightly, expelling a faint trail of bubbles as he moved, blending into the swirling currents. And then there was his smile—devastating, knowing, teasing. It was the kind of smile that made the world tilt, that made my stomach tighten with something warm.

He belonged here, in the water, in the vastness. And yet, as his ocean-blue eyes met mine, glowing faintly beneath the surface, I couldn’t help but feel that, somehow, in this moment—he belonged with me, too.

Arthur reached for me, and without hesitation, I took his hand.

Webbed fingers curled around mine, warm even in the cold water, and with the smallest tug, he guided me deeper. The tank transformed before my eyes—the artificial world of rock formations and coral structures now seemed vast and infinite from this new perspective. Schools of fish darted past us in flashes of silver, weaving effortlessly through the currents.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Arthur twisted effortlessly, rolling onto his back so he could watch me, his tail propelling him smoothly as I floated just above him. Watching me with that same toothy, teasing grin. 

I kicked my feet, feeling the resistance of the water as my flippers sliced through it, but it was nothing compared to the sheer power he held in every movement. His tail moved in slow, deliberate strokes, adjusting his speed with fluent precision, allowing me to drift above.

I suddenly wished I had a tail like his—to feel the strength coiling in my muscles, to move through the water with that same primal ease. To command the currents as if they were an extension of myself. But I was clumsy in comparison, merely paddling while he swam with the mastery of something born from the deep. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked amused, watching me with a quiet adoration, like I was the marvel here—not him.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly weightless. Suspended in the water, drifting between reality and something almost dreamlike, I had never felt so free. Despite the vastness around us, Arthur was the only thing keeping me tethered.

Then my chest tightened. A sharp, familiar burn spread through my lungs. Shit. Has it been a minute already?

With my free hand, I pointed to the surface, signaling to Arthur that I needed air. But instead of guiding me upward, he pulled us deeper. My stomach dropped. A chill slithered down my spine as his grip on my hand remained firm. What is he doing?

I tugged, trying to free myself, but his hold only tightened. Panic began to set in, my heart hammering wildly in my chest. No… No, no, no! My limbs burned, my body screaming for oxygen. The water suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. It was crushing me, swallowing me whole. 

He shook his head.

A bolt of horror shot through me. No? What the fuck do you mean, NO?!

Was this some kind of sick game? Had I been a fool to trust him? My mind raced with a thousand possibilities, each one darker than the last. What if I had just made a terrible mistake? What if everything we shared had been a lie? What if Arthur wasn’t what I thought he was?

Was he going to kill me? Am I going to drown? 

Just as the last ounce of my strength gave way, just as I thought I was about to give in to the burning need to draw breath and fill my lungs with water, Arthur pulled me against his chest. I expected him to kick his tail sending us upward, to break the surface in a powerful burst. He had asked how long I could hold my breath, surely that wasn't to plan my demise in a timely fashion.  

But instead, he did something I never could have anticipated.

His hands came up to cradle my face, his touch gentle even as I writhed against him. His bioluminescent veins pulsed with soft light, a delicate glow between us. His eyes, deep and steady, locked onto mine, silently urging me to trust him. But my mind was blind with panic, lungs burning as they gave out. 

Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine.

A kiss? Now? My mind screamed at me to pull away, to fight, to swim for the surface before it was too late. I felt it crawling under my skin, a desperate need for air or I was going to die!

I gasped but instead of choking, instead of water rushing into my lungs—

I breathed.

A rush of oxygen filled my chest, sharp and startling, like drawing the first breath of life. Arthur's lips parted against mine, his tongue slipping past in a way that was less about hunger and more about necessity. He was giving me his breath, sharing something vital and instinctual, something so intimate it sent a shiver down my spine and ignited each of my nerves in white hot fire.

I inhaled, my fingers digging into his shoulders as I clung to him, taking in the air he offered me in desperate, greedy gulps. My lungs burned, but not from lack of oxygen—it was the lingering ache of panic, the rawness of fear ebbing away, replaced by something deeper. Something calming. 

Relief. Arthur never meant to let me drown. He was never going to harm me. I silently cursed myself for not trusting him. But this was something I never would have expected. 

The rhythm came naturally after a few moments. A slow, controlled exchange. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Arthur matched me, his chest expanding against mine, his gills flaring as he cycled the air between us. Drawing in enough breath for both our lungs. Somewhere in my frantic attempt to survive, my goggles had been pulled off, floating aimlessly somewhere behind me. 

Now, nothing separated us. No barrier, no confusion. Just the warmth of his lips and the steady strength of his body as he held me in place. His breath kissing every pore. 

My arms wound around his neck instinctively, fingers tangling in his billowing hair. I could feel the powerful ripple of his muscles as he kept us suspended in the water, his tail moving in slow, effortless sweeps. His veins pulsed softly beneath his skin, casting an ethereal glow between us. It was mesmerizing, hypnotic even. 

I consumed him like a fire that devours, drawing him in deeper. Seizing his lifeforce. Claiming it as my own. Taking. 

The air he breathed into me was unlike anything I had ever tasted. It was liberating, pure—like petrichor. When the earth is warm with rain-soaked soil after a summer storm. Rich and electric and unmistakably him. It filled every aching part of me, chased away the fear, replaced it with something that left me dizzy.

This wasn’t just survival. This was something else entirely.

Arthur wasn’t just giving me air—he was threading himself into the very fabric of my being.

With every inhale, he poured into me like the tide rushing into a hollowed-out cave, filling the spaces I didn’t even realize were empty. A piece of him—vast, ancient, and arcane—flooded through my heart, echoing through its chambers, coursing through my veins in a heady, intoxicating rush. It curled into the hollows of my lungs, wove through the sinew of my muscles, and settled deep into my skin. Clinging to me like the saltwater after it dries.

It wasn’t just breath. It was him.

He invaded me, not with force, but with something far more meaningful—an offering, a communion. A sacrifice. Reaching inside me his presence wrapped around my very cells, touching every inch of me in ways I had never imagined. It was like swallowing starlight, like sinking into the depths of the ocean and becoming part of it, losing myself to something endless and infinite.

I felt the ocean’s pulse, a steady rhythm thrumming through me. It was life, boundless and eternal. And gods above, it was mighty.

With each exhale, he didn’t pull away—he gave as much as I would take. As much as I needed to calm my thundering pulse. Traces of him held me, saturating my body with something more than air. He left himself in the marrow of my bones, in the pulse of my wrists, in the spaces between each heartbeat.

I was no longer just breathing. I was becoming. 

Somewhere in the tangled mess of our situation, I hadn’t noticed Arthur bringing me back to the surface. When we finally broke through, the rush of cool ocean air kissed my cheeks, sending a shudder through me. I felt like I had just stolen something forbidden, something ancient—like I had partaken in a divine secret that was never meant for human hands. As if I had slipped past the gods unnoticed, grasping at eternity, daring to hold onto something beyond biology, beyond comprehension.

And still, despite the overwhelming weight of what had just happened between us, my instincts took over. I gasped for breath, gulping down fresh air, grounding myself in reality—even as I mourned the loss of that impossible intimacy. I pushed myself back onto the platform, slumping onto my back with a heavy huff, my limbs trembling from the lingering adrenaline. I barely registered Arthur rising beside me, his own chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths.

Poor thing. I really did steal the breath from his lungs. Literally.

The thought sent a dizzy rush through me. Had I gotten too carried away? Had I taken too much? I wasn’t even sure what too much meant in this situation. My mind reeled as I tried to make sense of it, to unravel the impossibility of what we had just shared.

“Holy shit,” I exhaled, still trying to steady my racing heart. “Arthur, why didn’t you tell me you could do that? I thought you were trying to drown me!”

I pushed up onto my elbows, my gaze locking onto his face as he hovered in the water between my legs. He looked just as disoriented as I felt, the glow in his veins pulsing slow and steady, like the aftershocks of something neither of us could fully comprehend. He blinked up at me, his gills fluttering slightly as if he was still catching his breath, too.

“M’sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now, more careful. “I asked how long you could hold your breath… I—I thought you knew what I was doin’. I never meant to scare ya, sweetheart.”

His eyes held nothing but sincerity, and yet I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?” The words came out sharper than I intended, my emotions still tangled up in the lingering panic.

Arthur flinched—not physically, but I saw the way something in him pulled back, just slightly. The guilt in his expression sent a pang of regret through my chest. He truly hadn’t meant to frighten me.

“I thought humans did it all the time,” he admitted, scratching at the back of his head. “I’ve seen ‘em press their mouths together, sharin’ breath. Never really understood why, though… Since you’ve got plenty of it up here.” He waved a webbed hand through the air as if the concept itself was baffling to him.

This caught my attention. I stared at him, dumbfounded, my heart giving an odd little stutter. Oh, Arthur. I sat up fully now, moving closer to the edge as his words sank in. He’d seen humans do it before? It took a moment for it to click, for realization to dawn over me like the slow crest of a wave. Oh. He’d seen humans kiss.

“Oh, honey, that’s not—” I hesitated, rubbing my temples with a sigh. How the hell do I even explain this to him? “It’s not the same when humans do it,” I tried again, my voice softer now. “We’re not actually sharing breath. Not like that… not like what we just did.”

Arthur tilted his head, his brows knitting together in confusion. He was trying to understand, I could see that much, but I was probably upending his entire perception of human behavior in real-time.

“Then… why do you do it?”

I let out a slow breath, trying to piece it together in a way that made sense. “It’s called kissing. It’s a way humans express affection. Like a silent conversation… a way to say things without words—like ‘I care about you,’ or ‘I want to be close to you.’” My fingers curled against the damp fabric of my wetsuit. “When two people press their mouths together, they’re sharing a connection, and sometimes…” My voice faltered, realization creeping up on me as the words formed on my tongue. Gods above. It hit me that we had just done practically the same thing. “...sometimes even a little piece of their soul.”

Arthur was completely still. His eyes, dark and fathomless, locked onto mine like the pull of the tide, widening ever so slightly as his pupils expanded. A shiver ran through me, the weight of his gaze so intense it felt like he could see straight into my core.

Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, he moved closer.

The water rippled gently around his body, his movements slow, deliberate. He mirrored the way we had sat together earlier, but this time, he braced his hands on either side of me, his arms caging me in a way that sent a deep warmth curling in my stomach. The space between us was nonexistent, the air suddenly thick, charged with something I couldn’t quite name.

“Kissing…” Arthur repeated the word, barely more than a murmur, tasting it on his tongue.

I could almost see the gears turning in his mind, the way he was processing everything I’d just said. And I knew, with startling certainty, that he was thinking the same thing I was.

What we shared underwater… was far deeper, far more intimate than any human kiss could ever be.

“Yes, kissing.” My voice came out softer than I intended, and I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat. Fuck, why did I feel so nervous? He was so close I could taste the salt on his breath, feel the warmth radiating from his skin despite the cool water between us. Those deep, knowing eyes never left mine, watching me like he could read every thought flickering through my mind.

“Th-there’s many different ways to kiss,” I went on, my voice betraying my nerves. Why the hell am I even telling him this? “It’s not always on the lips. You can kiss pretty much anywhere on the body.”

His pupils dilated slightly, the dark pools nearly eclipsing the striking blue of his irises. “Anywhere?” His voice had dropped an octave, rougher, like sea water pulling back before a crashing wave.

I nodded, feeling heat creep up my neck. “And it’s not always between partners. Parents kiss their children, relatives kiss their loved ones, some people kiss their pets.” My fingers fidgeted, he was so close now I could feel the smoothness of his chest as he drew breath. “You can even blow a kiss.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, his expression shifting from something unreadable to pure confusion. “Why would someone do that?”

A soft giggle bubbled up my throat, his curiosity catching me off guard in the best way. “People do it when they’re beyond each other's reach. A way of sending your affection through the air.”

Feeling emboldened, I reached for his hand—broad, webbed, strong but gentle beneath my touch. His skin was cool and smooth, glistening in the fading light. Slowly, I lifted his arm and guided the back of his hand toward my lips.

“When you blow someone a kiss, you have to bring it to life before letting it go,” I explained, my voice barely above a whisper. Then, without breaking eye contact, I pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the wet space of his palm, exaggerating the smacking sound just enough to tease him.

Arthur went completely still.

I felt the tension coil in his muscles, the way his fingers twitched slightly against my own. When I pulled away, my eyes flickered to his face—and oh. His cheeks were tinted a deeper shade of pink, a faint but undeniable flush creeping along his cheekbones. Was he… blushing?

I bit my lip, suppressing a grin as warmth curled in my chest. I had just made him blush.

Arthur blinked, looking between his hand and my face like he was trying to make sense of what had just happened, like he was trying to feel something beyond the physical sensation lingering on his skin.

“There,” I said proudly, admiring my work as if I had just painted something delicate and unseen across his palm. “Now, you blow it away.”

I gently turned his hand toward the ocean, the sky now fading to a deepening indigo as the sun traded shifts with the moon. The first stars flickered to life above us, their distant glow reflecting in the water, shimmering against Arthur’s iridescent skin. Then, slowly, I blew on his palm, a soft breath carrying the invisible gift away.

Arthur inhaled sharply. His gills flared at the gesture, pulsing with some unspoken emotion.

I released his hand, but instead of pulling away, he brought it to my face. A breath hitched in my throat as the rough pad of his thumb traced over my bottom lip, dragging slowly, reverently. The touch was featherlight, but I felt it everywhere.

His fingers trembled slightly. His eyes burned with something deeper than curiosity now—an insatiable hunger, a deep, aching longing.

I heard him swallow before he spoke, his voice barely rising above the whisper of the roaring waves, rich and weighted, like he was holding himself back. “…and where does the kiss go?”

The words rolled over me, sweeping me into the depth of his need. Arthur’s gaze searched mine, pupils blown wide, his entire body coiled with restrained tension. We were already so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath, hear the tremble in his voice.

“To someone you love.”

It mattered little to me which one of us closed the distance—only that we did. The moment our lips met, the world fell away, as if time itself had paused to bear witness. The moon, ever watchful, seemed to still the tides, holding her breath in quiet admiration, offering her silent blessing.

Arthur kissed me with an aching slowness, as if savoring something precious, something fragile. His lips were warm, firm but yielding, and impossibly gentle. Nothing like before—when he was breathing life into me. No, this was different. This was the slow unraveling of restraint, the surrender to something we had long denied. The intertwining of unspoken desire, of aching need.

The ship was sinking. And I finally raised the white flag.

A shiver ran through me as I brushed my tongue against the fullness of his bottom lip, teasing, testing. He groaned—a deep, guttural sound that sent heat pooling low in my belly—and parted his lips for me.

The first stroke of his tongue against mine was devastating, deliberate, and utterly alien. Silken and warm, but textured—each ridge on the top of it dragged against my own, sending sharp, electric pulses straight down my spine. It was longer than I expected, sinuous and impossibly agile, exploring me with a slow, unrelenting hunger. I gasped into his mouth as he curled it against the roof of mine, the friction sending a deep, aching thrill through my body.

He tasted of salt, like the sea breeze just before a storm, rich and heady with something darker beneath—the faint scent of musk, the wild pull of him. My fingers reached up around his neck, one hand cradling his jaw. Desperate to keep myself tethered as I drowned in the sensation of him, the way he felt—all sharp edges and smooth restraint, barely contained.

Arthur kissed like he knew what his touch did to me, like he had been waiting to unravel me, to steal the breath from my lungs and make it his own. 

And I let him. I let him take me.

The soft bristle of his beard scraped against my skin, leaving a tingling warmth in its wake, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. His fingers skimmed my waist, pressing just enough to anchor me, as if afraid I might slip away. 

All I could taste was him. All I could breathe was him. Arthur, steady and unshakable, yet trembling with want. The only thing that mattered in this moment was us.

I didn’t need to open my eyes to see the glow of his bioluminescence. Its colorful shimmer lit up the space between us, painting the darkness behind my eyelids in swirls of deep indigo, flickering like a living halo. 

The heat of his body pressed against mine, damp and feverish, as he surged forward, rising from the water.

The platform was firm beneath me as he eased me down, his weight settling just enough to trap me beneath him. Then, suddenly, I felt it—before I even heard it. A low, resonant purr, vibrating deep in his chest and pouring into mine, rattling through my ribs like the hum of something ancient, something meant to lure and ensnare.

And like the vibration of his purr I could feel the need exuding off him in waves.

His lips crashed against mine, no longer gentle but desperate, fevered. His tongue, ribbed and serpentine, curled around mine, stroking, caressing, dragging across every sensitive nerve like he wanted to learn me by touch alone. The sensation sent a sharp pulse of need straight to my core. I moaned into his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, pressing closer, devouring me with each frantic kiss.

His bioluminescence pulsed in time with his heartbeat, casting a rhythm of shifting blues and purples against my skin. His fingers, slick with seawater, traced up my sides, leaving a cool trail that burned in contrast to the heat pooling between us. I wrapped my legs around him as strong hands curled against my waist, squeezing the tender soft flesh. 

Powerful hips rutted against mine, the hard press of something unmistakable beneath his scales sent a shudder through me. Mixed with the slick proof of his arousal, the sensation was maddening. And I had no doubt he could smell my own—if not taste it.

The kiss turned messy, wet, tongues tangling in a frantic battle for dominance neither of us cared to win. My nails scraped against his shoulders, feeling the shifting muscles beneath his damp skin, and his purr deepened—a growl mixed with something more animalistic. He nipped at my bottom lip, tugging just enough to make me whimper, then soothed the sting with another slow, dragging stroke of his tongue.

I was drowning in him, in the salt, the heat, the way he tasted like the storm rolling in over the horizon. His hunger was intoxicating, and I met it with my own, chasing every kiss, every desperate movement. 

Breath became an afterthought and the only thing that mattered to me was more.

We lay together like this for what felt like eternity, our breaths mingling in the humid air, bodies still pressed close, reluctant to part. My fingers traced lazy circles over the damp skin of his back, memorizing the ridges and dips of muscle beneath the glow that pulsed gently through his veins. Every flicker of light felt like a whisper, a secret between us.

And then he pulled away. I whimpered softly at the loss, my body instinctively arching toward him, unwilling to break the connection. A shimmering string of saliva still tethered us before he reached up, swiping his thumb over my swollen lips, his touch almost possessive.

His sapphire eyes—drowning in pools of endless black—studied me like I was something holy, something to be worshiped. His pupils had expanded so wide they reflected the moonlight itself, making him look less like a man and more like something wild that had crawled out of the deep to claim me.

He leaned in, breath warm against my ear, voice a low, husky murmur. "Did I do good?"

The words alone were enough to make me tremble, but then he nipped at the shell of my ear, his sharp teeth scraping before soothing the sting with the soft press of his lips.

I could hardly form a thought, let alone a coherent answer. His mouth was relentless, lips dragging over my throat, finding sensitive spots with an infuriating precision, nipping and sucking until I was gasping, grasping at his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. My wetsuit suddenly felt suffocating, unbearable. If he didn’t stop, I would shed it and take him right here, consequences be damned. It hardly mattered if our bodies could even fit—all that mattered was the heat, the need, the way he was unraveling me with every touch.

"Good—" I managed, the word rasping from deep in my throat, thick with want. "Doesn’t even begin to describe it. There are no words, Arthur. That was—"

He whispered something against my skin. A soft murmur, thick with devotion.

It made me pause. Whatever he said wasn’t English, and it certainly wasn’t human. The sound was rough, like the shifting of stones against the ocean floor, but it carried a melodic cadence, a fluidity that sent a shiver rolling through me.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my pulse hammering as I searched his face. "What do those words mean?"

Arthur slowly eased himself off me, sliding back into the water with a grace that reminded me he was not just a man. He belonged to the sea, to something vast and untamed, yet here he was, staring at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

I followed him to the edge, pausing as my fingers hovered above the water.

He said the words again, softer this time.

"It has a few meanings," Arthur admitted, his gaze sweeping over my face, studying me with the quiet intensity of a painter capturing his muse. His throat tightened around the words, as if it hurt to speak. "My Ma used to say it to me when I was a kid, before I was taken."

I swallowed thickly as he held my gaze, and then he spoke the translation, each word sinking into my chest like a vow, like a promise meant only for me.

"My hearts will follow you to the end. Into every horizon."

Giving me little time to react, Arthur wrapped his strong arms around my waist and pulled me back into the dark waters. The shock of it stole my breath, the sudden cool embrace of the salt water wrapping around me like silk. The only light was his pulsing glow, shifting hues of deep indigo and soft cerulean, casting shimmering patterns against my skin. Above us, the stars blinked in quiet witness, scattered across the sky like tiny echoes of his bioluminescence that flickered beneath the waves.

I looked down, my breath hitching. The water was so dark now I could barely see the tips of my toes. An endless unknown stretched beneath me, and for the first time, I felt the tendrils of fear creeping in. My pulse pounded against my ribs, instinct screaming at me to retreat, to find solid ground.

But then I remembered his words. What they meant. What they implied. There was no turning back. I was being carried on the wind, letting the current take me where I needed to go. All I had to do was trust him.

Tentatively, I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling the way his body moved against mine—fluid, effortless. It was like he could sense my hesitation, my uncertainty, because before I could voice it, he pulled me closer.

"Arthur…"

His warmth was a stark contrast to the cool water, his broad chest expanding with each measured breath. I could feel the steady exhale from his gills as they brushed against my thighs, sending a strange, almost soothing sensation through me. He held me tight, one strong arm wrapped securely around my waist, keeping me anchored to him, to this moment.

"There’s something I want to show you," he murmured, his voice low and steady, the promise of something unknown lingering in his tone.

"But… I—I can’t—" My throat tightened, the weight of the ocean pressing around us, reminding me of my limits. I wasn’t like him. I couldn’t breathe down there.

Arthur didn’t even let me finish the thought.

"Hush, darlin’," he soothed, his lips grazing the shell of my ear before pressing against my temple. His voice was a whispered vow, a quiet command laced with reassurance. "Let me be your breath."

Before I could protest, he sealed his lips over mine, the kiss deep and consuming, and I felt it—his breath flowing into me, warm and intoxicating. A strange sensation, like the ocean itself had bent to his will, filling my lungs with something alive.

And just like that, the fear ebbed away.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

It took a few tries to get used to Arthur breathing into my lungs. At first, it felt unnatural, like my body was rejecting the very thing keeping me alive. My nervous heart devoured each breath like a greedy little sea snake, twisting around my chest, tightening, constricting. But Arthur was patient. He never seemed to mind.

I tried to hold it longer, to prove I could endure, but it was as if he could sense my discomfort before I even knew it myself. He never let it reach the point where panic crept in, never let my lungs burn from the inside out. The moment he sensed my struggle, his strong fingers would find my chin, tilting my face toward his. And then, with a quiet kind of reverence, he would seal his lips over mine and breathe life into me.

And, like before, he was never the first to pull away. Arthur let me take as much air as I needed, as many breaths as it took to steady the wild thunder of my pulse. There was no impatience, no frustration—only trust. A trust unlike anything I had ever known.

I was completely and utterly at his mercy.

The water was darker than I had ever seen it. A thick, endless abyss stretching in every direction, swallowing everything beyond the faint glow of the facility’s underwater lights. They cast eerie, shifting beams, just enough for monitoring water levels, but not enough to truly see what lurked in the depths.

And there was so much lurking.

Every creature we passed seemed to materialize from the void, slipping through the water like ghosts from a world I was only beginning to understand. I knew these animals, had studied them, cared for them. But here, under the shroud of darkness, they felt different. Unfamiliar. As if I were a trespasser in their domain.

A particularly curious stingray drifted above us, its broad body gliding effortlessly through the water. I looked up—and nearly choked on my own scream.

The pale, ghoulish underside of its body loomed above me, its strange, human-like mouth and vacant eyes staring down with an uncanny, haunting expression. My body acted before my mind could catch up—I jerked violently, nearly kicking Arthur square in the chest, my limbs flailing in pure, unfiltered panic.

Once again, he calmed me with his breath. His warmth spread through me, steadying the frantic rhythm of my heart, and I felt it—the quiet shake of his chest, the vibration of something light, and effortless. Laughter. It bubbled up his throat, muted by the water, but I felt it, a tingling hum against my lips before we pulled away.

His fingers found my wrist, strong yet careful, guiding my hand upward. With a slow, deliberate touch, he traced his thumb along my palm, unfurling my fingers one by one.

The stingray hovered just above us, its massive wings rippling like silk through the water. And then, with a slow, ghostly glide, it brushed its velvety skin over the tips of my fingers. Like a whisper, like a greeting.

I had touched stingrays before, plenty of times in the shallow touch-tank, where children giggled and splashed, reaching out to feel the slippery softness of their skin. But never like this. Never in their world, where the touch was theirs to give. It wasn’t me reaching out—it was them, exploring me.

He lifted his hand in front of me, and what he did next sent warmth blooming deep in my belly. With deliberate care, he hooked our index fingers together—a silent sign, one I recognized instantly. Friend.

My chest tightened at the realization. Not only had Arthur remembered that fleeting moment we shared when he was bleeding out on the beach, but he had learned the gesture. He had taken it as his own, stored it away like something precious, something worth keeping.

A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down, curling my finger a little tighter around his.

I made a quiet promise to teach him more later.

Arthur pulled me forward, guiding me through a submerged tunnel. The familiar structure clicked in my mind, recognition settling in my bones. We were entering the back section of the tank—the place away from prying eyes, from tourists pressing their faces against glass. This was his sanctuary. Where he spent his time when he wasn’t with me or the girls.

Curiosity sparked in my chest. What does he want to show me down here?

We swam deeper, the water thick with shadow, but I trusted his grip, the steady pull of his hands as he led me forward. And then, nestled within the rock and kelp, I saw it.

A small cave. A hidden space tucked away in the depths of the tank. I wasn’t sure how I knew—but I did. This was where he slept.

Something about it felt lived in, personal. The flattened kelp was arranged in a circular shape, almost like a nest. It wasn’t just a hiding place. It was his. I could picture him here, curled up in the quiet dark, unguarded, safe. For the first time since I had met him, I wondered what it felt like for him to rest. Unguarded, unshackled, away from cold prying eyes. To just be. 

Arthur pulled me inside, his arm wrapping instinctively around my waist as his bioluminescence flared to life. Light bloomed from his skin, illuminating the space in shifting blues and purples, and what I saw nearly stole the breath from my lungs.

The rock-like walls were etched with various drawings, their rough surfaces covered in markings that varied in detail and size. Some depicted the sea life he shared the tank with—familiar outlines of stingrays, sharks, seals and fish. Others were delicate sketches of underwater plants, their flowing tendrils stretching across the stone like living things.

Curiosity tugged at me, pulling me away from Arthur’s side. I swam closer, reaching out to trace my fingers over the carvings. The grooves were deep, uneven, reminding me of ancient cave drawings. He must have used his claws, carefully etching each image into the stone, leaving behind proof of his existence in this lonely place.

Behind me, Arthur was searching for something, his large hands sifting through layers of kelp. He reached beneath the safety of his makeshift bed, pulling out something dark and solid. But my attention was still on the walls, my heart hammering as I took in every detail of his underwater art.

Then, Arthur waved a hand, pulling me from my trance. I turned to him just as he pointed toward the farthest side of the cave.

And I released my breath.

There, among the sketches of fish and plants—was me.

It was a simple drawing, lacking the fine details of his other works, but it didn’t matter. With the rough material he had to work with, it was still a masterpiece. My heart ached at the sight of it, at the thought of him carving me into the walls of his world.

But it was what he did next that truly unraveled me.

Arthur lifted a webbed palm to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his skin. Then, with a small smile, he released a stream of bubbles toward the drawing—just like I had taught him. An expression of affection, a gesture so sweet it made my chest tighten.

I could have kissed him right then and there. Well, I tried to.

But this gentle giant, ever concerned for my well-being, misunderstood my intent. The moment our lips met, he must have thought I was seeking air. He held me there for a breath longer, and though I wished I could stay pressed against him forever, he was already wrapping a strong arm around my waist, propelling us forward with effortless strength.

I barely had time to process what had just happened before we were darting out of the cave, leaving the warmth of his sanctuary behind.

Arthur still held something tightly in his other palm, and as he guided me through the darkened waters, I realized we were heading somewhere new.

The temperature dropped, the light fading into near blackness.

The deep sea exhibit.

Once we reached a spot he found satisfactory, we floated in utter stillness. The silence of the deep pressed around us, thick and all-encompassing, making me acutely aware of my own heartbeat thrumming in my ears. The nerves crept up my spine again, cold and slithering.

It was pitch black.

I couldn’t see my own hands in front of me, couldn’t even make out Arthur’s features except for the faintest shimmer of his dimmed bioluminescence. He was holding back, keeping his glow subdued, and I had no idea why.

Why did he bring me here?

Then, all at once, his light flared to life.

The sudden brilliance stunned me, a galaxy of blues and purples bursting from his skin like a supernova in the dark. But it wasn’t just him, his radiance set off a chain reaction.

And the void around us moved.

At first, I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me, but then I saw them—hundreds of creatures emerging from the abyss, answering his call.

Arthur was a beacon, and the deep-sea life responded to him like moths to a flame. Lanternfish flickered in and out of sight, their tiny lights winking like stars in the midnight ocean. Jellies pulsed with ghostly luminescence, their delicate tendrils undulating as they drifted past. Squid, cuttlefish, sea angels—so many creatures I couldn’t begin to name—came to life before my eyes, weaving in and out of the glow like spirits caught between worlds.

They surrounded us in a slow, mesmerizing dance, silent sentinels bearing witness to whatever was about to unfold.

And at the center of it all was him.

Arthur’s radiance was breathtaking, his skin an ever-shifting nebula of color and light. But it wasn’t just his appearance that captivated me—it was the way the ocean responded to him, how it bent to his presence, how even the wildest, most elusive creatures drifted close as if he were something sacred.

He was neither fully man nor entirely mythical. He was something else entirely.

Something that felt indescribable. And in that moment, in the hush of the deep, I understood this pull toward him for what it truly was.

Love.

The solid object he had brought with him turned out to be a large oyster shell, its rough surface barely catching the faint, shifting glow of his bioluminescence. Holding it steady in one hand, he traced a pointed claw along its lip, prying it open with slow, practiced ease.

I watched him with quiet reverence as his fingers slipped inside, moving carefully, deliberately, as if retrieving something precious. When he finally pulled his hand free, his fingers curled tightly around whatever lay within—his fist closing around it with such purpose that my breath crawled up my throat.

A pearl. It had to be.

The empty shell drifted downward, spiraling slowly to the bottom of the tank, forgotten. Arthur didn’t watch it sink. His full attention was on me.

His hands found mine, and the moment our fingers met, my pulse thundered. Heat raced through my veins, my entire body suddenly hyper aware of the weight of the moment, of the way the water seemed charged around us. Before I could even find the words to ask what he was doing, his hand rose, his palm pressing gently against the curve of my neck.

Then, he breathed into me. Warmth spread through my lungs, steadying me, grounding me, but this time, it felt different. Because when he pulled away, his lips still so close I could feel the lingering press of his breath—his mouth moved.

Arthur was speaking. The realization sent a shiver rolling through me. And then I heard it.

His voice.

It was nothing like the deep, gravelly tone I knew from above water. Here, in his element, it was something else entirely.

A melody.

A song, resonant and fluid, shifting in pitch like the ebb and flow of the tide. It wasn’t just words—it was music, a chorus of sound that wrapped around me, kissed the deepest parts of me. It filled my chest, soaked into my bones, made my skin hum with the rhythm of it.

It was haunting. And heavenly.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I didn’t even understand the words, but I felt them. Like a current pulling me deeper, like a promise whispered between waves. And in that moment, I knew—he wasn’t just speaking.

He was singing to me.

Arthur opened his palm, revealing the pearl nestled against the warm glow of his skin. Its milky-white surface shimmered beneath the shifting blues and purples, catching the light like a tiny piece of the moon itself.

A gift. For me.

My heart thundered, a deep, resounding pulse that seemed to echo through every fiber of my being. My mind raced, recalling everything I had learned about his kind—about the significance of this. Gift-giving was a siren’s way of accepting courtship, of expressing mutual desire, a bond far deeper than mere affection.

Did sirens mate for life? Could they have more than one? Am I his first?

Why, of all creatures, did Arthur choose me?

The questions crashed over me like waves against the shore, relentless and unyielding. But then I looked at him. And every uncertainty melted away.

His gaze, luminous and breathtaking, held nothing but certainty. The sweetest smile tugged at his lips, his blue eyes alive with glowing radiance. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his expression. Only him—only us.

His lips moved again, shaping the words I now recognized, a melody that sent warmth cascading through me.

My hearts will follow you to the end.

Emotion swelled in my chest, thick and all-consuming. I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around his, closing the pearl between our palms—sheltering it, protecting it. Safe from the darkness of the tank, from the weight of the unknown, from all the uncertainties that once held me back. It was ours now, cradled between our touch, a silent vow sealed in the space where our hands met.

Arthur had brought light into my life, breath into my lungs, and adventure into my soul.

And as I pressed my lips to his, I knew—I would follow him too.

Into every horizon.

AN: Listen, lets just ignore the fact that aquarium tanks are absolutely NOT built like this. And we’re also gonna pretend that the reader can see underwater bc I forgot to add the goggles. OH WELL. We're getting creative. With the way everything is going, I'm hoping that the reader gets to fuck her fish man (husband) by chapter 9. YOU GO GIRL!

Also enjoy these inspo pics from that last scene. Utterly gorgeous creatures!! (CR to frida.yolotzin on instagram!)

[sinful-lanterns]

Since you appreciate my fuzzy tarantula Garofano headcanon, I'm going to spoil you with this little scene I had in mind for Researcher and Drider!Garofano. 😌 Basically, Researcher's being her usual inquisitive self about Garofano, and it starts getting a little sexy. There's a little NSFWish stuff toward the end, but there's nothing too explicit. Maybe I'll consider writing more eventually. Also, I haven't written dialogue in ages, so I apologize for how rusty I am... 😅 Hopefully, this isn't too bad though! ------

You realize this is a bit of an awkward position for Garofano.

You've seen enough dead spiders before--flopped on their backs with their limbs curled toward their torsos with the eternal and graceless rigor of death.

But with the size of Garofano's web, it wasn't too difficult to convince the drider to rest comfortably on her back. You had bribed her with freshly-cooked food--skewers of cubed deer meat from one of her earlier hunts that you had roasted over the open fire. You had also come with some skewers of the raw meat as well if she had preferred something more... fresh.

All the same, it's in her web that the drider reclines herself back on her web, content to eat from your offering while you sit on the length of her abdomen. Garofano seems entirely unbothered by your weight even as you run your hands through the thick fuzz beneath you. The texture reminds you somewhat of bumblebees with its softness. You press a little harder as you rub curiously along one section of her torso, eliciting a soft sound from Garofano.

You look up quickly to see if you might have caused her discomfort, but the drider's eyes are blissfully closed. Movement behind you then draws your gaze that way, and you're momentarily taken aback when you see one of Garofano's segmented legs kicking with seeming delight at your continued touch.

You can't help but giggle.

Rahu did that too sometimes whenever you gave the domesticated werewolf belly rubs.

"So are all driders furry like you?" you ask, one-handedly opening up your trusted notebook while awaiting a response. "No. It varies by region. The hair you see on my abdomen and legs serves a purpose for the driders found in mine though: it allows us to sense vibrations in the air," Garofano explains.

Your eyes widen as you distractedly write that all down. "Really?"

"Yes. Even when standing still, I can tell which direction my prey might be running in."

Wow.

No wonder Garofano's such an amazing hunter.

That little fact was almost as intriguing as the dual claws you found at the tip of each of Garofano's legs during your earlier exploration of her. The drider had said they were used for climbing up vertical or uneven surfaces, but they were otherwise kept retracted. At such a revelation, you had pulled one of the limbs in question closer to you while doing nearly everything in your power to get the claws in question to pop out for you. In your excitement, you had neglected the fact that the leg tip was also directly in front of your face while you were attempting this.

It had earned you a soft, fond sigh along with a chiding "Darling..." before Garofano turned your attention away from her limb by cupping your face within her hands and sweetly smooching you into submission. You could still remember how you hot your face burned when Garofano broke the kiss to give you a nip on your bottom lip before going back to her meal.

Speaking of...

"So... do you fangs do anything else?"

Your question has Garofano blinking curiously. "I can inject venom through them."

That has you bolting upright.

You're venomous?!

"I can control the amount of venom at will," she elaborates calmly upon seeing your expression. "I can inject enough to kill or just paralyze my prey, but often times I forego the need entirely."

"Oh?"

Garofano's shoulders shrug elegantly. "It's more satisfying when I get my prey to submit to me completely of their own volition."

Try as you might, you can't stop the reaction her words give you, especially as you let your imagination runs wild.

------

You can see yourself running through a shallow stream, trying to throw the predator hunting you off your trail. If you leave no tracks behind, then surely you couldn't be found, right?

Right?

You don't know how long you keep running, but you eventually hop onto a grassy bank as your energy begins to wane. With any luck though, the one pursuing you will keep following the path of the stream while you gain further distance between you both.

As the minutes pass, you begin to think your escape is all but assured. In fact, you can see the edge of the forest just some meters beyond you, and you can't help your immense relief as your arms and legs pump faster, urging you towards your well-earned victory.

But then your momentum is completely thrown off when something sticky and threadlike hits your flailing wrist, sending you crashing forwards to the ground. Perplexed, you struggle to get back to your feet, but your wrist remains stubbornly fixed to the forest floor by the webbing that encases it. Panicked, you use your free hand to try and rip it away, but in your distraction, you don't seem the looming figure behind you until it's too late.

In less than a second, your captor has your cheek pressed against the grass while she constructs another lattice-like shackle to bind your other wrist to the ground. You can feel furred limbs pulling at your hips, lifting them up, while another pair make quick work in shedding the clothing covering your lower half.

"You gave me a wonderful chase," a smooth voice croons down at you while firmly nudging at your legs, silently demanding them to spread wider--wide enough that you can feel the chill of the air as you're suddenly left exposed and vulnerable. "Shall I reward you for your efforts, dear?"

You can't find it in you to draw a response, especially when something blunt and wide presses against your wet folds...

------

"Something tells me it wouldn't take much to earn your surrender."

You come out of your thoughts with a jolt to see Garofano looking at you with knowing eyes, but you can see the way her already dark eyes have dilated with considerable interest. It only enhances the very faint smirk on her lips, and you can't help but duck your head with a blush.

"You can tell?" you squeak out, earning low laughter from the drider as she cups your burning cheek.

"While I can't say that my senses are quite as enhanced as our canid companions, I can always tell when you're excited around me. You smell so very good when you are," she admits, voice low with desire, as her hand slips from your cheek to gently wrap around the front of your throat. "Would you like to experience what being my prey is like? Happily cavorting about in the forest before unexpectedly finding yourself on the chase of your life as you're hunted down by a bigger, stronger beast?"

You can't stop yourself from nodding rapidly, heart fluttering when that earns you a fanged grin from Garofano.

"Very well. When I capture you, I'll give you a bite. Right here," she says, rubbing her thumb where your neck meets your shoulder. "That will be my initial prize before I take what else has been offered to me. For now..." She leans forward to give you a chaste kiss--a taste of what's to come. Her smile then as she parts from you is all pure sin. "I'll give you a ten-minute head start..."

-- 🌙 anon (maybe I'll make myself a side blog one of these days)

GOD I'VE BEEN HOARDING THIS ASK FOR SO LONG. I think it's about time I finally post it though, it's just so good I need to share it with everyone, it's practically a fic...

FLUFFY TARANTULA GAROFANO MY BELOVED. I'm so in love with the Researcher just casually sitting on the tummy of Drider! Garofano's spider half, completely comfortable as she examines each one of Garofano's spider feet. Fun fact, did you know tarantulas have little paws? When you push a little on the tips, they splay out similar to cat paws. IMAGINE THE RESEARCHER PRESSING AGAINST GAROFANO'S TIPS AND WATCHING THEM SPLAY OUT. HER LITTLE PAWS AGJHSKHD--

And ofc, there's playing predator and prey with Garofano. I like to think that running from Garofano is a form of "exercise" to her now that she lives with the Researcher. As she no longer has to hunt for food on her own, Garofano keeps her body active by hunting you down in the wilderness to keep that predator instinct alive. It gives her such a rush and usually by the end of the chase, she excitedly ties you up and brings you back to her web to "reward" you for your efforts.

You really cooked with this ask, anon. You always do. You should totally make that writing blog, I encourage it <3

[maeintree]

i just thought about this while working on a research paper lmao, this is so soft and dreamy i love it 😭 the way he just melts for you… completely devoted, basking in your touch like it’s the only thing that matters. the intimacy of it all, him resting in your lap while you braid his hair, his voice dipping into something tender when he calls you beautiful… ughhh. he’s so in love with you.

also the way he fully abandons his duties to be with you?? peak loki behavior. “spoiled prince” indeed. and you just let him because honestly, who could resist him when he looks at you like that?

the afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the fields outside the palace, a rare moment of peace away from the endless expectations of the court. a soft breeze carries the scent of wildflowers, rustling through the tall grass as you sit comfortably on a thick woven blanket, a basket of untouched delicacies beside you.

loki rests his head in your lap, long limbs draped lazily, his usual regal posture abandoned in favor of pure indulgence. his eyes, sharp and knowing, watch your every movement as you take a section of his dark hair between your fingers, slowly weaving it into an intricate braid.

“you should be in council right now,” you murmur, running your nails lightly against his scalp, earning a pleased sigh from your husband.

“i should,” he agrees, though he makes no effort to move. “but i’d much rather be here.”

you shake your head fondly, fingers continuing their work, the strands of his silky hair slipping easily through your touch. loki remains still, unnervingly quiet, until you feel his gaze fixed on you—intense, unreadable. the weight of it is enough to make warmth rise to your cheeks.

“stop looking at me like that, loki.” your voice is soft but tinged with exasperation.

he smirks, but there’s no teasing in his next words. just quiet reverence. “you are so beautiful.”

your fingers falter for a brief moment before resuming their delicate task. the heat blooming in your chest spreads to your face, and you press your lips together to suppress a smile. but loki sees it—of course he does.

“ah, there it is,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace a finger against your flushed cheek. “that pretty blush of yours.”

you roll your eyes but lean into his touch, unable to hide the way your heart swells. "you are impossible," you say, though there is no real scolding in your tone.

"and yet," loki drawls, a lazy grin tugging at his lips, "you married me."

you huff a laugh, finishing the braid and tying it off before threading your fingers gently through the rest of his hair. "yes, i did. and now i'm stuck with a husband who flees his responsibilities to let me dote on him like a spoiled prince."

"correction," loki hums, closing his eyes as if savoring the moment. "a very spoiled prince."

you shake your head, but as you glance down at him—his face peaceful, content—you can’t bring yourself to argue. instead, you press a soft kiss to his forehead, letting your fingers tangle in his hair once more, and loki sighs like he belongs nowhere else in the world but here, in your lap, utterly and entirely yours.

he’s still lying there when a small giggle breaks the quiet. you glance up, catching sight of a tiny figure peeking out from behind a tree, their little hands barely covering their mouth. a moment later, another small face joins them, eyes wide with mischief.

loki groans, not even looking. “they’re spying on us, aren’t they?”

“of course they are,” you say, laughing. “your children, after all.”

“our children,” loki corrects, but he doesn’t even sound annoyed—just resigned. with another sigh, he finally shifts, sitting up and stretching. “come out, little terrors. we see you.”

the two small figures squeal in delight, abandoning their hiding spot as they race toward you. one leaps into loki’s arms, the other tumbling into your lap where he was just resting, giggling wildly.

“father, we saw you getting your hair braided!” one of them exclaims. “you looked so pretty!”

loki glares at them, but there’s no real venom in it, especially when you start laughing. “you betray me, my own blood,” he mutters dramatically, though he’s already pulling them close, one arm around each child.

you smile, watching the way his features soften completely as he presses kisses to their foreheads. for all his dramatics, for all his schemes and mischief, this is who he truly is. a husband who adores you, a father who loves his children more than anything.

and when he catches you looking at him like that, he smirks. “ah, my love,” he teases, “stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?” you ask, arching a brow.

he grins, pulling you into his arms along with the little ones. “like i’m the most wonderful thing in the world.”

you roll your eyes but lean into him anyway,

the sounds of the breeze as the golden afternoon stretches on.

[mamajamasquamas]

A Painter’s Request

Warnings 18+

Smut, penis in vagina sex, rough kissing, squirting/female ejaculation, oral sex, rough oral sex, cumming, spanking, vaginal sex, clit play, nipple play, Rafayel is in heat and also a prince, cross posted on ao3, making out, body play.

Chapter 1

A painter’s request

“Prince Rafayel? Are you in here?” I ask, knocking on the door to Rafayel’s painting room. Something clatters from behind the door. Water seeps through the bottom, full of dark, red paint. I take a few steps back, trying to avoid getting my new heels wet.

“Prince Rafayel?” I say, louder this time. “Is everything alright in there?”

“Go away.” Rafayel’s gruff voice catches me off guard. Normally it’s soft, quiet.

“Rafayel? I’m here to check on you. The Queen is worried that-“

“Go away!”

I sigh, glancing down at the pool of water in front of me. I didn’t want to dirty my shoes but an order from the Queen was not something to take lightly.

Stepping into the puddle, I reach for the door knob, trying it. It’s unlocked. Opening the door, I step inside. A brown cup is laying on its side on the ground in front of me, red water dripping from the rim. Well that explains the noise I’d heard. I bend down, grabbing it from off the floor. Setting the cup down onto the wooden stool beside me, I look up. It’s not often that I’m allowed to visit Rafayel’s painting room. His mother had warned me and the other maids not to disrupt him while he was painting, lest we make him lose his train of thought. But the times I have been in here, everything has always been well-organized. The canvases that normally sit on top of the easels in his room are on the floor, scattered. Some of them are torn, while the others that are still in-tact are splattered with paint. Cups of dirty water full of paintbrushes are on the ground, the handles either broken or chipped. I take a step forward. Something snaps beneath my heel. I gasp, lifting up my foot. A pencil is split in half, the eraser on the back a mere, black stub from how many times it’s been used. I reach down to pick it up, placing it on top of the stool where the other cup is.

“Rafayel?” I say, looking around. “Are you alright? What’s happened to your room?”

I take another step forward, avoiding the large, black smock on the floor. Holes are in the bottom pockets, and the rest of it is covered in dried paint. I move toward the back wall, where a row of portraits are. They’re covered in so much paint I can barely even tell what they used to be of. I turn my head. More canvases are leaned up against the easels here, full of half-finished drawings.

“Rafayel? Where are you?”

I turn around. Behind the vast row of easels is a cubby, decorated with mermaid stickers. I’d forgotten Rafayel had been using this room since he was a child. The cubby is sectioned off by a white counter.

“Go away.” Rafayel says.

His voice is weaker than when I’d first heard it but now I know where he is. I move towards the cubby, looking around. Rafayel is sitting on the floor beside it, his body hidden by the counter. His knees are tucked to his chest and his head is down.

“Rafayel,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

Rafayel looks up at me. His hair falls over his forehead, just a shade lighter than his eyes. They’re half open, his thick lashes nearly covering his pupils. Sweat drips down his cheek, running over his throat. He wipes it away with his glove. Another bead of sweat follows.

“Go away,” he says, softer now.

“Are you sick? Why are you sweating so much?”

I reach my hand out to press it against his forehead. He grabs my wrist before I can, his fingers burning my skin. Even through his glove. Rubbing his nose against my palm, he moans softly.

“Rafayel, your burning up- should I tell the Queen?”

“No.” His lips press against the inside of my palm, soft and hot. He closes his eyes. I bite my lip. I don’t know what to do. I was one of the newer maids here. I’d learned everything about Prince Rafayel through the other maids. What he liked to eat, how he liked his sheets made, the kind of soap I should use for his bath. But I didn’t know what to do in a situation like this.

“Rafayel I should go-“

Rafayel pulls me towards him, untucking his knees from his chest. I place my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. He glances up at me, blowing a few strands of hair away from his face. I see his eyes clearer now. They’re glassy, covered in a slick film that almost makes them appear drowsy.

“Please don’t leave,” he says, grabbing my arms. Everywhere his fingers touch makes my skin burn.“ I can’t. I think your running a fever-“

“I don’t care,” he moves his hands lower, resting them on my wrists. “Please don’t leave.”

“I have to get the Queen.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“No you won’t, just let me-“ I turn around.

“Please don’t go.” He throws his arms around my waist, pressing his face against my stomach.

“Okay I won’t. What happened to your room?” I say, deciding to change the subject.

“I can’t focus. My head hurts.”

“Are you sick?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s not like that.” His grip on my waist tightens, only slightly. He lifts up his head. More sweat drips down his face. I wipe it away. He shivers when my fingers brush against his cheek, leaning into my touch.

“Then what’s it like?” I say, removing my hand from his cheek. He pulls it back towards him, sighing softly. I’d heard whispers about a manic prince back in the old kingdom I used to serve. A sea god. One who ruled over mermaids and merfolk… one who often went into heats… I thought it was only a myth back then. But could it be…

“Rafayel,” I say, carefully. “Are you in heat?”

He nods, nuzzling against my hand.

“How can I help?” I say.

“Stay with me,” he says, closing his eyes. “Just like this.”

I nod. I’d heard that when a sea god was in heat, the best thing to do was distract them from it.

“Prince Rafayel,” I say, placing my hand on his forehead. “Would you like to paint something together?”

He shakes his head.

“Please? I’d love to watch you paint and I think it might make you feel better.”

“I can’t think of any good ideas,” he says. “Every time I paint, it comes out so bad that all I want to do is throw my canvas at the wall.” “So that’s why your room is like that,” I say. “It’s been days since I last painted anything,” he says, opening his eyes. “My fingers itch to paint something. Anything. But I can’t seem to get out of the slump that I’m in and it’s all because of this heat.”

“How about I give you an idea then?” I ask.

“Like what?” He says, frowning. “I’ve tried everything.”

”Well how about we try again?” I say, smiling.

“Okay.”

He stands up. I get to my feet, following him. He grabs one of the torn, blank canvases from off the ground, a brush, paint, and an empty cup. Pulling up a stool, he sits down, patting his lap.

“Sit with me.” “

”I don’t think I should. What if your mother finds out?” He grumbles, opening up the jar of paint he’d grabbed. His fingers slip. The jar drops from his hand, falling to the floor.

“I knew this wouldn’t work,” he says, getting off his chair. He grabs the blank canvas. “This is all useless!”

“Hold on,” I say, taking the canvas from him. “That’s not true. It was just an accident, right?”

I bend over, grabbing the jar from off the floor. Handing it to him, I push him down onto his stool. He grabs my hand. Our fingers brush, scorching my skin. I pull away, taking his cup so I can fill it with water from the sink. I turn around, moving over to the small sink in the back of the room. Turning on the tap, I place the cup beneath the faucet, filling it. When it’s half-way full, I shut off the tap, grabbing a few napkins from the dispenser on the wall. I move back over to him. He grabs the cup from me, reaching down to grab a well palette from off the floor. Opening the paint jar, he squeezes blue paint into one of the empty circles before taking another paint jar and doing the same. This time, he fills another circle with bright, red paint.

“What’s your favorite animal?” I ask.

“A butterfly.”

“How about you try painting that then?” I hand him his brush.

“Okay. Sit on my lap, please?”

“I’m only going to distract you.”

“No you won’t. I promise,” he says, taking my hand. He raises it to his cheek. “Please?”

“Alright,” I say, moving over to him. I sit down on his lap, scooting down so I’m on the edge of his knees. Wrapping his arm around my hips, he pulls me closer pressing my back against his chest. “Rafayel-“

“Only like this,” he says. “I won’t make you come any closer.”

I resist the urge to tell him that we can’t get any closer than this, turning my attention towards the canvas. Rafayel dips the brush I’d handed to him into his cup of water, tapping the excess on the side of the cup. Dipping it into the well of blue paint, he presses his brush against the canvas. I fold my hands in my lap, watching as he moves his brush a quarter of the way down in a slow, graceful sweep. Rafayel places his hand on my hip, creating the slight curves of the first wing. The way Rafayel moves his hand is captivating, his deft fingers moving in purposeful, precise strokes. I wish I knew how to paint.

“That’s really good,” I say. Rafayel rubs my hip, the gesture strangely intimate.

“Thank you,” he says, pressing his lips against my ear.

I shiver, remembering the Queen. She’d sent me here to help her son, not sit on top of his lap. Now that he was alright, I should report back to her and tell her he’s in heat. Rafayel grabs my thigh, almost as if he’d read my mind.

“Planning to run, already?” He says, his voice slightly raspy. “You asked me to paint and I’m painting aren’t I? Just like you wanted me to.”

His lips drag against the shell of my ear, soft and hot. “Rafayel-“

“Don’t try to make up some silly excuse. I know you were going to run away and tell the Queen. But I can’t let you.” He pushes his nose against my throat, breathing me in.

“Your mom deserves to know that you’re alright,” I say.

“Tell her later.” He presses his lips against my throat, whimpering softly.

“But won’t she be upset that I’m not- mhm!” Rafayel licks the side of my throat, squeezing my thigh harder.

“Who cares?” He asks, lifting his head. “Anyway, I’m bored now. I don’t want to paint a butterfly anymore. Instead I want to paint you.”

Rafayel removes his paintbrush from off the canvas, sliding it underneath my chin. Cold paint smears the skin underneath my chin as he tilts my head back, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes are still lidded, but now they’re full of intensity. I take a shaky breath as Rafayel moves the paintbrush lower, painting me like he was just painting his canvas. His movements slow and deliberate. I bite down on my lip, stifling a whimper.

“Rafayel, I want to help you,” I gasp.

He presses his lips against my ear.

“Silly girl,” he says, moving the paintbrush towards my chest. “Can’t you see? This is helping me.”

“But what if the Queen sees us?”

“She knows about my heat. That’s why she sent you here.”

I gasp. Now that I think about it, the Queen couldn’t even look me in the eyes when she’d been asking me to check on her son. So I’d been set up from the start. Rafayel stops the paintbrush right at my chest.

“She may have sent you here but whether or not you want to do this is up to you,” he says, softly. “May I touch you?” I should be upset. I should leave the room and confront the Queen but my anger is drowned out by the softness of Rafayel’s touch.

“Yes.”

He unbuttons my shirt, fumbling with the buttons. I reach up to help him with one, our fingers rubbing against each other’s. When all the buttons are undone, he pushes the sides of my blouse apart so he can have easy access to my breasts. Pulling the cups of my bra down enough just to free my breasts, he glides the tip of his paintbrush over my nipple. The paint is half-wet, half-dry, the mix of hot and cold strange against my skin. Moving the brush back into the well of paints, he dips it into the blue paint, before reaching for the red. I swallow, my nipples aching. Cupping my breast, he blows onto my nipple. I let out a soft whimper, arching my breasts. His lips rub against my nipple, smudging the paint on top of it. Raising his head, he presses the tip of his paintbrush against my nipple, pushing it in. I clench my thighs, placing my hand on Rafayel’s wrist. This time, the paint is cold and wet. Sliding his paintbrush back and forth, he thins out the coat of paint my nipple, every pass of his brush making me clench my legs harder. My wet panties press against my folds, clinging to them.

“Do you like this?” He asks, pressing his lips against my jaw.

“Mhm,” I whimper.

He dips his brush back into his palette, placing a generous amount of blue and red into the center where there are no circles. Mixing it together, he hums into my ear, his voice soft, pleasant. The blue and red eventually turn into a dark purple. Looking down at my skin, he tuts, dipping his brush back into the red and blue accordingly until the purple becomes a few shades lighter, taking on a mellow, lavender hue.

“This will look good on your skin,” he whispers against my ear.

Placing the brush onto my other nipple, he applies the paint in clean, even strokes, just as he’d done with the other. I gasp, not used to how cold the paint is when he first places it onto my skin. He drags it against the rim of my nipple, moving outwards to paint along my breast. He’s right. The purple compliments my tan skin. He runs the brush in between my abs, the coarse tip of the brush making my skin tingle.

“That tickles,” I gasp.

“Does it?” He asks, placing his brush back into his cup. Moving his hand from my hip, he slides it into my skirt pressing his palm against my panties.

“Rafayel!” I moan, tilting my head back.

“What is it?” He asks, rubbing the brush along the hem of my skirt. I arch my back, pushing my ass against his cock. He groans, his fingers faltering for a moment. “Do that again,” he groans against my ear. “And I won’t hesitate to fuck you.”

A soft plea escapes my lips. I want him to fuck me. I want him to- Rafayel places his glove in between his teeth, pulling it off in one smooth motion. Spitting it out, he moves his hand back to my panties. Sliding them to the side, he pushes his fingers inside of me. I moan, bucking my hips pushing his fingers deeper inside of me. They’re long and thin, but they touch where they need to. Rafayel moves the paintbrush back up to my nipples, rubbing the rest of the paint against them, smearing the paint that’s already on my nipples. It’s like I am as his own art piece, to paint, to color, to ruin. His fingers push deeper, pressing against my g-spot.

“Oh!” I gasp, tilting my head back. Rafayel sets down his brush, grabbing my throat. Holding me still. He rubs his thumb against my clit, matching the pace of his finger to the ones inside of me. I buck my hips clumsily, placing both of my hands on his thighs. The wet squelch of his fingers filling me drown out my moans. I dig my fingers into his thighs, moving my hips faster riding his fingers as I grow closer.“I’m gonna c-cum!”

“Cum,” he says, grabbing my hip.

He pushes me down onto his fingers, filling me, stretching me, fucking me. My hips shudder and I let out a weak cry as I release, grinding against his hand. Thick, white liquid drips down his fingers, running over the back of his hand. Pulling his fingers out, he pushes them into his mouth groaning softly. I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself. Pulling his fingers out of his mouth, Rafayel pushes my thighs apart sliding his gloved fingers inside me. Leather rubs against the inside of my pussy. I moan at the friction, resting my head against Rafayel’s shoulder. Removing his hand, he lifts it to my lips. Thin lines of cum are in between his fingers. Grabbing his wrist, I lick in between them whimpering when I taste myself. I suck one of his fingers into my mouth and Rafayel groans from behind me, his fat cock pressing against the back of my skirt. Pulling his finger out, he grabs the canvas from off the easel in front of us, patting my hip.

“Stand up.”

I get to my feet, my thighs shaking. Grabbing my hand, Rafayel leads us past his cubby towards the back of the room. A small wooden table is there. Behind it is a white leather couch.

“Let’s make a painting of our own, shall we?” He says. Placing the canvas down onto the table in front of me, he grabs my hand walking me over to the couch. He sits down, pulling off his other glove. “Turn.”

I turn so my back is facing him. Sliding his hand in between my legs, he cups my pussy pulling me down onto his lap. I whimper as he bunches my skirt around my hips, grabs my thighs and lifts them up on either side of me. He reaches in between my legs, fisting my panties with one hand. Pulling them to the side, he wraps his arm around my hips raising me off of his lap so he can unzip his pants and pull out his cock. Sliding the tip against my wet folds, he pushes in. I gasp at the stretch, looking down. Only half of his tip is inside of me. He reaches for the canvas on the table, his chest pressing against my back. More of his cock slides in, wet from my juices. I cry out as my pussy sinks past his engorged tip.

“You’re too big,” I pant, blowing a few strands of hair from my face.

“You can take it, can’t you?” He asks softly. Setting the canvas underneath me, he grabs my hips pushing me down onto his cock. I groan, grabbing his wrists. “See? That’s it,” He says, his voice slightly strained.

“Mhm,” I groan.

He guides my hips, moving them back and forth. Up and down. He grabs the sides of my waist, his grip firm as he begins thrusting. His hips slap against my ass, my skin flushing. Quickening the pace, he digs his fingers into my sides, resting his head against the couch. The canvas shakes beneath me, resting on top of Rafayel’s thighs. He pushes me down so I’m sitting on it, pressing my cunt onto the spot with no paint on it. My folds rub against the hard fabric, the friction bringing me closer to my orgasm. My wetness smears against the canvas, staining it. Rafayel thrusts harder, our skin slapping. Probably everyone in the castle can hear it. My face flushes at the thought. When I’d come to check on him, I never would have thought I’d be sitting on top of him riding his cock like my life depended on it. Rafayel cups my breasts, squeezing them gently.

“Raf I’m gonna c-cum!” I gasp.

“Me too,” he groans against my ear.

He thrusts faster, every sharp thrust leaving me gasping. I dig my nails into his wrists. Releasing one of my breasts, he slides his hand down to my clit, rubbing it. I buck my hips, crying out.

“I’m cumming- ugh!”

Liquid sprays from my cunt, splashing the canvas beneath me. The paint on top of it becomes damp, running towards my thighs. Rafayel pulls out of me, lifting my legs up higher. He releases on the canvas, both of our arousals mixing. Grabbing my arm, he stands up forcing me to get to my feet. My ass is hot, and the back of my legs ache from how hard he’s been thrusting into me. Pulling off my shirt, Rafayel pushes me down onto the table. My ass facing him. I place my arms down on the table, holding myself up. He pushes thighs legs apart, sliding his cock back into me. Placing the canvas in the space between my arms, he thrusts, grabbing my hips. I moan, lowering my head. My hair falls into my face, covering my eyes. I press my hands against the canvas, my cheeks reddening as I remember both of our releases are on it. Paint smears my hands, wet and thick. Rafayel falls into rhythm, groaning from behind me. His hips slam against mine, my ass flushing darker. Grabbing my hips, he pushes me up against him making me meet every thrust. I whimper. More paint slides against my arms, my elbows chafing as they rub against the canvas. Reaching down, he unclasps my bra, freeing my breasts. The straps fall to my elbows, my breasts bouncing. He grabs the back of my neck pushing my face down onto the coffee table.

The table squeaks beneath us, unable to withstand the intensity of his thrusts. My nipples drag through the paint and our combined arousal, which is dry now. My knees buckle in. Rafayel fists the back of my skirt, pushing into me faster. “I’m gonna c-cum!” I cry out, my hips shuddering. Rafayel smacks my ass. Pulling his cock out to the tip, he slams back in. I let out another cry, this one louder. Reaching around, he pushes my thighs apart positioning my cunt directly over the canvas. He rubs my clit.

“Oh!” I gasp. “Gonna-“

More fluid splashes the canvas beneath me. He pushes me down against it. Paint smears my breast and thighs. I groan, my legs shuddering. He pulls out of me, fisting my hair. Turning me towards him, he pushes his cock into my mouth. I moan, lowering my head taking half of his cock into my mouth. He tightens his grip on my hair, pushing me down lower. I gag when my nose presses against his pelvis, placing my hands on the ground beneath me. He thrusts, guiding my head back and forth. Spit runs down my throat, over my paint-covered breasts.

“Almost there,” he says, moving faster.

I moan around his cock, my voice muffled. His cock thickens inside of me. A moment later, warmth hits the back of my throat. I swallow, pulling my mouth up off of him. He grabs my hand, pushing me back down onto the table. This time, I’m laying on my back. The canvas beneath me. Raising my leg up onto his neck, he slides his wet cock back inside of me. I moan, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hips roll against mine, his cock pressing into me so deep. I dig my fingers into his neck, closing my eyes. His lips brush against mine, cooler now. I open my mouth, letting him slip his tongue inside of me. He grabs my throat, licking my tongue roughly. I buck my hips, pushing myself down onto his cock. Our hips sync. I cry out against his mouth. He swallows the sound, kissing me harder as he grabs my other leg, lifting it up onto his neck. Laying flat against me, he ups the pace of his thrusts, his chest rubbing against my nipples. Sweat gathers around my hairline, running down my cheek. Rafayel deepens the kiss, making it rougher, harder. My thighs begin shading. Separating our lips, Rafayel groans, tipping his head back. He pulls his cock out of me, wrapping his hand around his cock. A moment later, thin ropes of cum hits my jaw. He closes his eyes, bucking against his hand. More cum splashes out, hitting my throat. Opening his eyes, he pats my cunt, which still aches for an orgasm. He moves over to one of the easels, grabbing a canvas and a pencil. I sit up. My hair falls around my face, the ends frizzy. My thighs are covered in my juices, and my cunt is slightly swollen from Rafayel’s cock. He moves towards me, sitting down on the couch. His cock is still out, though it isn’t as hard as before.

“What are you doing?” I say, slightly out of breath.

“I just got an idea for a sketch,” he says. “Don’t move. I’m going to paint you.”

[nikoniclove]

Hey so today’s my birthday, and birthdays kinda always suck for me (I’ve never known why and I’m fairly sure I’m not alone on this). But anyway, I was wondering if you could write something about Ace’s first concrete birthday with Jemily and maybe it kinda feels weird for her too?

Happy birthday! Sending you virtual love 💜

The First True Birthday

(Available on Ao3 here)

Even though you promised you’d tell her about your birthday, you don’t. Mostly it’s because you’ve spent decades ignoring your birthday, so it’s just another day on the calendar like any other. Also the makeshift celebration JJ planned last year when your work anniversary rolled around and she realized she never celebrated your first birthday with the team… well that was so over-the-top. Fun, sure, and very overwhelming and unnecessary. You don’t really want a repeat of that, and you don’t have anything you do want, so you keep your mouth shut. You don’t mention it, figuring it’s better for her to be mad at you for a bit than suffer through the discomfort of celebrating your birthday.

When the day rolls around, you wake up to JJ singing merrily. You groan and bury your head under the pillow. If even part of your brain thought you’d get away without a birthday celebration, you should have known better. “Happy birthday, baby,” JJ congratulates, ducking her head under your pillow too to give you a sweet kiss. “I know we have work, which is less than ideal from a celebration standpoint, but don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“I’m worried because you have a plan,” you counter. “We don’t need to do this. If you insist on it, maybe just something lowkey that doesn’t make me crawl out of my skin please.”

“It’s your birthday. You deserve to be celebrated. I know you. It’s nothing crazy,” she swears.

“You do realize that even knowing my birthday and singing to me is more than I’ve done any other year, so that in and of itself is fine. We don’t need more than that. How did you even know anyway? I didn’t say anything.”

The pillow’s weight lightens as Emily removes your hiding place. “How many times have you been hospitalized, even briefly, in the last six months? I can recite your medical file verbatim.” You forgot about that factor. “Birth date is right up there, my love. Now we know, and you won’t be forgotten again.” Your forehead creases into an expressive frown. Emily kisses the furrowed spot. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” you groan.

You briefly consider calling in sick to avoid whatever plans JJ might have concocted throughout the day. The idea of decomposing in the bed under a mountain of blankets and ignoring everything birthday related sounds more and more appealing. Emily grabs your ankle and drags you to the edge of the bed. “You’ll be okay. You can stomach us loving on you a bit.”

“Can I? Are you sure about that?” She lifts your pajama shirt off, tossing at the headboard to be dealt with later. “I do so well with surprises and things that are different from the norm,” you snark self deprecatingly. “And I just love to be the center of attention.”

“Trust us,” Emily implores. “If you need a break, give me a sign and I’ll get you to a quiet spot where you can take the time you need. You matter, my love, and it’s important that we get to show you that today of all days.” She helps you into clean underwear and jeans, though it’s mostly manipulating your uncooperative self because you hate the thought of this day more and more. “Up you go.” Your hands trapped in hers, Emily levers you up and nudges you toward the bathroom. You grab a black, long sleeve T shirt and deem it good enough. Deodorant. Face sunscreen. Eyeliner. Chapstick. Your morning routine takes all of six minutes. JJ stops you at your braid, taking the brush out of your hand. She takes the time to do a French braid, adding to the plait sections little by little as she moves down the back of your head.

You’re in the backseat with your work bag before you even realize you’re thirty minutes earlier than normal. The additional time makes sense when Emily parks outside of a little Parisian bakery that makes delicious croissants and lattes. When she pops in, JJ turns around in the passenger seat to look at you. “Let me celebrate you, baby, please. It’s important to me.” You clench your jaw and give her the smallest nod. You don’t really have a choice. When Jennifer Jareau sets her sights on something, nothing short of an apocalypse could stop her, and even then, you’d still bet on JJ.

When you walk through the bullpen’s double glass doors, you freeze, absolutely rooted to the spot. Your desk is a mess of color. “I did not do this,” JJ insists quickly. “I know you would hate something like this. I didn’t do this.” You hum some monosyllabic sound and force your feet forward. There are balloons and literal confetti that you already despise. There are cupcakes and little plastic characters everywhere.

The characters tell you all you need to know about who set this up, and it’s confirmed when Garcia squeals through the bullpen, shouting about your birthday with an exuberance that rivals a small child hopped up on cocaine-laced skittles. Your eyes widen at the volume. Your body instinctively braces for the inevitable hug. “Happy birthday, peaches! Oh you look stunning. A year older looks so good on you.” She bustles past you to your desk. “Okay, we have all of my favorite chachkies to keep you company throughout the day. Obviously balloons and cupcakes because it’s your birthday. I didn’t know your favorite flavor combination, so I got a bunch! I have candles and matches at my desk when you’re ready to make a wish! Oh! I love you so much,” she shrieks, pinching your cheeks dramatically.

You don’t know how to make this stop. You’re desperate to make it stop, for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. But it keeps going. You can’t tell Penelope how insane it all is because she’d be gutted that she made you uncomfortable. You manage a thank you and return the second hug she gives you. Emily squeezes your hand, a silent encouragement to keep it together.

When Garcia thankfully skedaddles back to her lair, you look at your desk in horror. It feels like everyone is looking at you, and your skin crawls with the weight of the presumed attention. You miss the silent conversation Emily and JJ share behind your back. You’re overwhelmed and uncomfortable in a very visible way in an environment that those adjectives are not… “Come with me, baby,” JJ whispers in your ear. “C’mon,” she soothes, her calm words interrupting your train of thought. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you manage. You know Garcia meant well, and this is too much. It’s too much attention.

JJ takes matters into her own hands, dragging you up the short staircase to her old liaison office. The door thuds behind you, the deadbolt clicking into place. “Breathe, baby.” Clinging to her, you bury your face in her neck, letting her long blonde hair act as a curtain to hide you away from the attention on the other side of the door. Her own breathing follows the four count you know from decades in therapy. In two three four. Hold two three four. Out two three four. Hold two three four. JJ continues the pattern until your body mimics hers. “That’s my girl. I know that was a lot. Emily will take care of it, okay? I’ve got you. Emily’s got all of that,” she repeats. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t like my birthday,” you mumble. “I can’t… I can’t call attention to myself like that. I can’t stand out like that. I need to just… blend in. I need to survive.” You don’t have to see JJ’s face to know her blue eyes shine with unshed tears. You can feel her sadness for you.

“Stop making yourself small. You deserve to take up space,” JJ states, holding you tightly. “I understand why. I do, but, baby, you’re not that kid anymore. You have made a life for yourself out of all that hurt. You found people who love you, who want to celebrate you. You did that. Let us love you loudly, baby. There’s no scenario that you end up alone. Not anymore.”

“I don’t like my birthday,” you repeat, feeling pitiful in the face of her kind words that make you feel seen while also making you want to burrow away.

The knock on the office door startles you until Emily’s voice filters through. “Just me,” she announces. JJ reaches around you to flip the lock open. Emily locks it behind herself. “Just like old times, huh, Jen?” It’s meant to give you a second to settle again. “Everything’s shifted away from your desk. Just your coffee and pastry is there.”

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings. It’s sweet. It’s just a lot.”

“I know. I’ll explain it to her,” Emily promises. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Emily kisses the side of your head tenderly in response.

You’re relieved to see your desk mostly back to normal when you escape the reassuring confines of JJ’s arms (and her old office). There’s a large stack of case files for you to lose yourself in, and murdering serial killers distract you from the birthday nonsense from the morning.

Around noon, JJ appears at your desk. “C’mon.” You can’t help the grimace that stretches your lips. “Letting me love you loudly, remember? Trust that I know you.” You gather up your stuff and follow your partners out of the federal building.

The second you’re clear of the doors, Emily takes your hand, fingers interlacing together. They let you follow along in quiet companionship. They have a clear direction in mind, and you’ll go along with, trying to trust that JJ’s intention isn’t to make you uncomfortable.

JJ pops into a cafe, coming back out quickly with a stapled take out bag. She winks at you as Emily takes off walking again. It’s another few blocks before you’re in a small, grassy community park nestled between buildings. It’s adorable in its isolation. A pop of green serenity amongst the concrete. Emily leads you to a picnic table where JJ sets out different containers. “See? Nothing outrageous. Just lunch with your favorite people.”

“Who said you’re my favorite,” you retort playfully, the fresh air doing you worlds of good. JJ smacks you lightly. “I mean Emily’s definitely on my list of favorites.”

“You bitch,” JJ teases. “Eat your lunch.”

There’s something about being outside that helps you reset. The banter, the easy conversation, the company - it all feels almost celebratory. A happiness you never expected to feel on your birthday of all days. “You’re smiling,” JJ accuses, bumping your hip as you walk back to the office. You don’t bother denying it, laughing as she slings her arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head.

When you blindly reach for the next file in the stack around 4 PM after you’ve refilled your coffee and snacked on one of Penelope’s cupcakes, your to-do pile is empty, your fingers grazing the metal wire of the intake basket. You stare at it, unsure if you’ve ever actually caught up on all the cases and the paperwork. Your phone buzzes with a text from Emily, wishing you a happy birthday. You know there’s no way she took all of your remaining case files, so you’re betting she divvied them up amongst the team. It’s sweet and loving in a quiet way.

You’re even more surprised when JJ and Emily pack up at an appropriate time, nearly shoving you toward the elevator at 5:30 PM on the dot.

“This… umm… it was nice. Thank you,” you mumble self-consciously on the drive home.

“There’s a little bit more.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“Okay?”

“Trying to let you love me loudly. I trust you.”

At home, there’s a wrapped package in shiny purple paper on the coffee table. You trace its precise edges carefully. For a moment, tears burn in your eyes. You can’t remember the last time you got a real birthday present, so this feels monumental. “You can open it, you know,” Emily encourages, tugging your hips back onto the couch. JJ puts the box in your lap. “Hey, you okay, my love?” You nod, not trusting your voice. “You sure?”

“I’m okay. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“It’s your birthday, baby. Of course, we’d give you a present.” You’re gentle peeling the tape, almost like a diffusing a bomb. You don’t want to rip the paper. “Hold on for a second. Talk to us. What’s going on?”

“I… just… I… uhh… I don’t remember getting a present on my birthday before,” you mumble, somehow hoping they heard you so you don’t have to repeat yourself and hoping they didn’t hear you at all. The hitch in JJ’s breath says she heard you loud and clear; she pulls you into a tight hug, professing her hatred for the world that made that a reality for you. “It’s okay. Really. It’s just new to me, so it feels intense. Good, but intense.”

To avoid driving the conversation further into volatile territory, Emily nudges you with her knee. “Go ahead, love. Open it.” The box shakes and rattles as you unfurl the tape pieces and gingerly peel apart the shimmery wrapping paper. Inside is a Lego set of the Milky Way from the art collection. Over three thousand colorful pieces to give depth and texture to the finished product, which can hang on the wall when it’s done.

“Will you build it with me?”

“Of course, baby. Do you like it?” You nod exuberantly, your fingers once again reverently tracing over the details on the box. “Good. Happy birthday, baby. We love you so very much.”

“Thank you… I… thank you for all of it.”

[ratsoh-writes]

Have y’all ever been curious about what a skeleton monsters skeleton looks like? How it’s different from a human skeleton? Then you’ve come to the right place! Under the cut will be two drawings as well as some fun facts about skeleton anatomy!

WARNING- NAKED SKELETON PIC AHEAD! CLICK AT YOUR OWN PERIL!!!!!-

The model today will be the lovely pop!

Skeleton monsters have wayyyy less bones than a human skeleton does. In fact they only have 50 compared to a humans 206!

Skeleton monsters don’t have cartilage joints. Instead the bones are connected through a think layer of ecto between each bone.

The fingers, toes, and spine may appear to be separate pieces, but they’re actually one solid bone (each separate finger and toe). These bones have cuts in certain sections allowing for movement.

A skeleton monsters palms and soles of the feet are one solid piece as well instead of many bones put together.

Skeleton monsters come with three sets of fully curled ribs, and one set of half ribs. The inner edge of a skeleton monsters ribs will always glow a faint color matching their eyes. This is the part of the monster absorbing air as they breathe. Because of this, skeleton monsters favor loose, thin or open clothing for their torsos

At the elbow and knee bones, a skeleton monster can remove their lower legs and arms! The limbs can last around 20 minutes away from the body before they start dusting. They can be reattached easily

The softest bones on a skeleton monster is the face of the skull, the palms and fingertips, the inside edge of the ribs and the soles of the feet. While they don’t have as much give as skin does, there’s still a bit of squish to these parts of their body. The rest of the bones in the body are much firmer, but still bendier and softer than a human skeletons bones would be.

The softest areas of the skeleton monster also heal the slowest, making scarring on the face ribs and hands/feet much easier to achieve than the rest of the body.

Skeleton bones are designed as softer to better handle impacts without fracturing. However this makes them vulnerable to splintering if they carry too much weight. A skeleton monster has to summon their ecto to help carry any load more than two thirds its weight

And now with ecto!

When a skeleton has their ecto summoned, it will cover everything except the hands, feet, ribs and skull. The torso of the ecto will sink under the ribs instead.

Ecto is semi transparent. You can still see the faint outline of the bones underneath when a skeleton has it summoned.

Besides carrying weight, skeleton monsters also tend to summon their ecto to fit in clothes easier, or to just have some cushioning when they sit or lay down. Sitting on your bare pelvis gets uncomfortable after a while lol. Many sleep with their ecto summoned for this reason.

If a skeleton monster took off their lower arm or leg, they wouldn’t be able to summon their ecto as it would try to find the missing area. This is only fixed if the limb is reattached or it dies.

And that’s everything I can think of for now! Please don’t bully me for this lol

[stoicheincat]

PART 1

Not gonna go over everything discussed in the original post but I want to go over some of it. Also nothing said here is meant to be a attack against any specific creator and is only my experience in the spaces. Want to make sure I specify cuz I'm want to be frank.

On the Normie divide

There isn't more of a marketing issue. Indies don't do a great job of using simple language and pitches to get people interested in games. A consistent issue I see is the use of ttrpg specific acronyms that are hard for those outside the space to understand. Then throw in the algorithms that section people off and new players are mostly pushed away. I think this can be somewhat eased by better marketing with clearer pitches with more visual elements. Tom Bloom's lancer is a good example. It's cool mechs and the art shows it. [Tho the gameplay is less streamlined then a new player would prefer cool art can push people through the bullshit. It get's people excited to play and GMs hyped to run it.] This leads to some common shit that fucks interest from a casual player.

WALLS OF TEXT:

This one is gonna sound hurtful but writers, the novel is not poppin'. This issue can be somewhat smoothish with art but is expensive. When I as a casual player see you bragging about your 200 pg+ Magazine sized book with minimum art it doesn't make me want to read it. Not saying there aren't those who would but if we're going for a general audience then let's make onboarding easier. This can be somewhat eased with a good layout but no guaranteed. We need to think of shorter books with better macro world-building. [Save the micro for extra books focused on it.] Assume that your world's concepts should be the only thing being kept by the GM.

Basically walls of text are a scare for new people. Players latch on to the broad strokes of your world not the specific. [Tho there is a type and it generally becomes the GM. Different books for different players are helpful because it separates info based on need to know.

MECHANICS AS A SELLING POINT

Again targeted more at the writing. Sorry guys. If a more normie audience is the goal. Mechanics probally aren't gonna sell your game and might even harm them. I haven't heard of people that aren't playing ttrpgs ever say how the mechanics was why they wanted to play DND or any other ttrpg. It's usually focused on the setting and then the stories they want to play out. You can do mechanics as a selling point but understand at that point you are going for existing players that have games they like.

LACK OF SETTING VIBE AND OR NOVEL WANNABE

I see this more with artists. The world build is all over the place or incoheret. Basically cool drawings over anything put together. Artist tend to focus on art and often leave out info to make things make sense and even skip writing stuff. I don't know how to express my thoughts on the issue I'm trying to point out but I'll finish it another time if that's all right. Basically artist make unfun mechanics or worlds because they skip writing mechanics. I don't know I need to think this over more when it's not late.

ON INTERNAL CREATOR DIVIDE

Basically people tend to stay away from pushing each others or collabing due mostlish to the reasons bellow.

EGO: Common and we all have atleast a little bit of it.

LACK OF COLLAB EXPERIENCE: Or how it'd work aka contracts, work division, trusted fellow creators, or pay division.

ANTISOCIAL ARTISTIC TENDICIES: I have this one. Basically for some of us most of our creative life has been alone and it's generally just easier.

COMMUNITY VIBES: Basically some spaces can be either to corporate or bad vibes. [Bluesky indie TTRPG creator space gives off corpo networking vibes. I do enjoy people there but it is defo more corpo.]

LIFE RESPONSIBILITIES: Some of us can't really go out of our way to focus on networking due to this being a side thing. [I would like it to be more tho but I'm married with a kid so I got to be smart about how I make that happen.]

Welp I'll make a part 2 when I can but I got shit to do and it's late. Also thanks for tagging me mate.

Let’s Grow the RPG Hobby

Inspired by this post and the conversation surrounding it.

So the RPG world is facing a multitude of interconnected problems. Let’s talk about them, shall we?

---

1: The Problem(s)

Writing this, I find it hard to pinpoint a way to frame the subject of this post as a single thing. But it’s also impossible to treat it as it it’s a collection of separate problems. In reality, the issues facing the indie RPG world are A Hydra; a many-headed conglomeration of related issues, which each require organized, dedicated work to solve. A few examples:

The Normie-Indie Divide

A problem close to my heart, The Normie-Indie Divide describes the gradient between the mainstream of an artistic hobby and the really independent stuff. I compare this to movies a lot, but the more apt analogy is video games. The N-I-D in the videogame industry is so small as to be virtually nonexistent.

We can see this via a number of factors – one example being that the same outlets which cover massive blockbusters & sequels like Assassin’s Creed and God of War, also cover popular indie titles like Celeste and Hollow Knight. Then, freelance journalists who write for those publications (Jacob Geller is an example) go on to cover much smaller games on their own time, and so on. There’s a smooth gradient between the media coverage of the huge stuff, all the way down to a thriving (if still underserved) super-independant industry.

The N-I-D in RPGs feels uncrossable. The most well known RPG is so big it’s currenly riding the high of its second major hollywood adaptation in 20 years, and the second most popular – Vampire the Masquerade – is an unknown even to some indie RPG fans.* This hobby is shockingly impenetrable, even to those of us who spend our days swimming in the deepest end of the pool.

The Supply & Demand Problem

This one’s simple: People are pumping out RPGs by the truckload, and there are just too many! Not only does this make it hard to sift through everything to find the thing you want to read, play, or review, it also makes it nearly impossible to get anyone’s eyeballs on the cool thing you just released!

As others have pointed out, this problem is exacerbated by the fact that relative to some other art media, it’s pretty quick and painless to whip up your own zine or one-pager and publish it on itch. This disincentivises even the most invested of us from looking at a ton of new games, and means that sharing your work can feel like you’re being ignored by a huge crowd.

A Road To Solutions

If all of that is making you feel pretty bad for the future of this medium, you’re not alone. It can feel pretty hopeless facing all of these problems as an indie designer when all the tools you have at your disposal are a tumblr account and a few indie friends to complain to.

But the truth is, I think that this Hydra is eminently slayable. I just don’t think we can do it alone. That in mind, I’ve spent a large portion of my day putting together…

The Call to Action

I think there needs to be organized, persistent effort put into the future of this hobby and this industry, and I think it needs to start the way all good movements do: with a lot of petty, semantic argumentation over definitions and implementation. And to kick things off, here’s my step zero: If you’re reading this post because I’ve tagged you in it (or because I’ve sent you a link to it), my Dms are open. I want to put together a discord group chat† of my peers within RPG tumblr who are invested in tackling The Hydra, such that we can start brainstorming plans of attack to disseminate into the wider community.

The issues I wish to address are these:

The Normie-Indie Divide: How do we go about cultivating a casual audience of indie RPG fans who can bring sustainability and longevity to the industry?

The Supply & Demand Problem: How do we minimize the cognitive load of sorting through the huge volume of work extant in this medium, and more generally encourage peer-to-peer interaction within the community, like news coverage, reviews, and marketing?

The Cognitive Frontload Problem: How do we make it easier to actually engage with a given RPG, considering the amount of cognitive & temporal investment needed? Further, how do we make RPGs, both general and specific, more accessible to readers with a wide variety of abilities, preferences, and available time?

The Insular Community Problem: How do we better connect this hobby with itself, such that it feels a little less like several dozen cliques across 4-6 platforms, and more like the growing, evolving single hobbyist community that it is? Further, how do we make this hobby more accessible to newbies outside the influence of The Hegemons of the Coast?

And more. I’m positive I haven’t thought of everything, and that’s exactly why this needs to be a group effort.

As a last note: Please tag other people! The folks I’ve mentioned here are just those who I personally feel I know well enough to tag; let’s get the rest of the community involved! If you know someone who would be interested who isn’t on tumblr, they can email me: sabrinahawthornegames@proton.me.

*I’m not kidding. Multiple times within the last four months, I’ve introduced VtM to people who I would consider pretty in the sauce of RPGs. I’m talking folks who’ve played Heart: The City Beneath or Wanderhome. It’s bizarre.

†I need to stress that this is only a start. I’m not looking to start a big public discord unless that’s what a group of folks decide is the right call. By “group chat,” I mean “a chat which exists for long enough to hold 1-3 group voice calls to discuss and hash things out, before it’s dissolved in favor of the execution of whatever plans we devise.”

@theresattrpgforthat; @omophagic-beast; @ladytabletop; @rowansender; @monsterfactoryfanfic; @arsene-inc; @toyourstations

[heatherfield]

Good news: I've been on a roll with gif-making.

Bad news: Not so much with writing. :(

Good news: I wrote over 1000 words today so hopefully I can do that every day this week (and beyond), and hopefully I can post the next chapter tomorrow. *crossing all my fingies*

[rockethorse]

The basegame wedding dress has a pregnancy morph??

[spywhitney]

How I sleep knowing I'll never trust anyone that hates Sydney but worships Richie:

[claitea]

would they ever let lear or any of the rest of the pokemas originals appear in other games. the chances are so low but they're too fun to just leave in the mobile gacha game :(

[boasamishipper]

i can tolerate a lot of things from writers and showrunners but outright condescension and disdain for their fans is not one of them

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Applying to an apartment with little income and terrible credit score, in hopes that they'll be desperate enough to take me

[tariah23]

It’s always crazy to see black celebs spew this same rhetoric because it’s such a privileged take… like, they’ve been famous for so long and have gotten their money up, moved out of the projects or whatever tf, that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be genuinely feel. It’s impossible for them to connect anymore. As far as the qrt, oh wow ☠️.

[technicolorxsn]

love how there are pretentious video essays that just repeat the book and meander and ramble about house of leaves. it's what zampanó would have wanted. it is not, however, what I want