#always the first person to question what he was told

[gingernut1314]

Okay! Here me out! Head canons for s/o that tries to hide from Luffy because of his affection. Not because that hate it, they love it a lot. But because they get overstimulated and embarrassed by his pda.

I just think it would be funny that the rest of the crew seeing reader hide while Luffy is on the hunt for them.

Content: gender-neutral reader, Straw Hat crew shenanigans, reader is overwhelmed, hiding from Luffy, Set on the Sunny

Word Count: 750+

A/N: tell me why this would be me in this scenario 😭? Snuggly, love bug luffy would be too great but there differently would be times when you might need a break! It's a normal thing! Also hiding while he's searching for you and the crew being the only ones to know where you are is lowkey too funny to me. I hope you enjoy!!

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You love Luffy

You love his affections too

But sometimes you need a break

Just small ones 

Moments when you didn’t have a human spider monkey clinging to you like a second-skin

And instead of just asking him for those breaks, you found the best solution with minimal feelings hurting would be to just hide

Hide the storage closets

In the library 

Under tables

Behind barrels of cola and beer

Anywhere you could think of that Luffy might never go or have to search just a little bit harder to find you at

This came with, of course, the other members of your crew finding you despite the…genius…of your hiding places

Sanji had been the first to ever find you when you had first started hiding

You had just given Luffy to Zoro

Had just set your mind on having a nice glass of wine when he had started calling for you

You hardly thought as you pushed your way into the kitchen and crawled under the table, making sure to drag chairs around to help block you from immediate view

…the kitchen was not the best hiding place of course, it being one of Luffy's number one places on the whole ship

Though, it was Sanji who peeked his head under to find you, not Luffy

“Whatever would possess you to scurry under there?” He’d ask with a smile 

You’d told him, to which he had given a simple nod before disappearing from view

He came back with that glass of wine you had been craving and a bowl of your favorite snack

“Stay as long as you need, love. I’ll give Luffy a nibble of lunch if he comes in.” 

Dear god never let Zoro find you

He’d out you in less than a second because he wouldn’t care to lower his voice while speaking with you

Or he wouldn’t hear your whispering words and “huh?” at you in question in, again, a none lowered voice

The best person to find you would be Robin

Typically she would find you in the library, crouched low by a bookshelf as to not be spotted through one of the windows

She would try to talk you through whatever you were experiencing and give you helpful tips

Then she would sit down next to you on the floor, pull a blanket over you and herself with a bloomed hand, and read silently

Nami would find you one too many times hiding under the vanity in the girl's room

 A “What on earth are you doing?” on her lips

As well as a “hiding again?” with a laugh at what she believed to be a poor hiding place

A hiding place you don’t think was so bad

And it would develop into a long debate on where exactly the best hiding place on the Sunny would be

Somehow you would lose a handful of berri and be left even more overwhelmed than you had started out 

Hiding behind a barrel of cola had been a good idea at first

But you would quickly find yourself in the employ of Franky who would make you carry said barrel wherever he needed it

And then make you hold a flashlight as he worked for at least an hour

Usopp might have been a runner-up to best person to find you 

If he wasn’t freaking himself out with whatever fictional monster he’s creating in his mind that you might be hiding from 

Almost always ends in him joining you in the one-person-sized hiding spot you’d chosen

Chopper would find you hiding under the examination table in the medical ward 

And scream so loud at your sudden appearance it would draw everyone's attention 

No matter how many times you hide under there, he’s never getting used to it

Brook finds you hiding amongst Nami’s tangerine trees and thinks all your nerves need is a smoothing tune

And there is no stopping him from singing for you 

And singing and singing till one crew mate or all of them are joining along

When Luffy finds you though, he thinks you are playing hide-and-seek

But he’s quick to see something isn’t 100% with you

And you end up telling him how you’re feeling--and being quick to remind him it has nothing to do with your love for him or his affections

And Luffy, the precious man he is, understands 

He gives you a bright, cheeky grin before bounding off 

To promptly latch himself to the nearest crew member he can find

[redwinelew]

SAVE YOUR TEARS | LEWIS HAMILTON

type written fic (one shot)

pairing lewis hamilton x driver!reader

summary you need a distraction and your teammate is the perfect person for that

word count 3.7k

warnings 18+. smut. nsfw. porn with oh so little plot and even little feelings. unprotected sex. rough sex. emotional sex. prone bone then missionary (idk i tried), praise kink. hints of depression, self doubts etc etc idk lmk what i missed. english is not my first language.

author's note self-indulgent if u couldn't tell from the warnings. that's it. sorry.

masterlist

lewis didn't expect you to turn up in front of his hotel room tonight night, face wet with tears staining your cheeks, lips trembling as you held back a sob.

nor was he expecting you to ever utter these words to him.

"i need you to fuck me."

lewis' lips parted, unable to get any words out, too shocked by your sudden request. he has a million different questions appearing in his brain all at once. what the hell is happening? why are you crying? who did this to you? and why on god's green earth did you just ask him to— he couldn't even repeat it to himself. it didn't feel real, didn't even sound like you were asking. pleading, more like it, in pure desperation.

he calls your name softly, like he's trying to wake you up from a dream. his thick eyebrows tie together in confusion. "what are you—"

"please...." you cut him off, the last syllable getting more inaudible as it trails away. tears beginning to fill up your eyes again before they drop, reaching your jaw and fall to the floor.

lewis has never seen you like this, and he's pretty sure nobody else on the grid or the public did either. his teammate whom in his eyes, the one who always got her shit together. he's almost jealous at how composed you always presented yourself to be, on and off track, never letting any unwanted criticisms by fans or media from getting to you, always quick to shut them down cleverly. the last person anybody could ever take down, mentally.

then he realized, that he held you to such a high standard to the point where he had forgotten that you were still just a human. it's only a matter of time before you break and if lewis personally had his moments where he was at his lowest, he couldn't imagine being in your shoes right now.

everything immediately clicked for lewis right there and then. he had never invited a girl inside so fast, never undressed her so quickly.

"what's your safe word?" he asks, needing to know before he proceeds.

"pancake."

lewis nods. he was about to crash his lips against yours when you put your hand on his clothed chest to stop him firmly, almost clenching your hand on his shirt, head turn away slightly.

"no," you refused.

kissing means this would get personal. complicated. and you do not want complications in the future. this is not going to be a love-making session. this is going to be lewis fucking you hard until your eyes roll back and your vision turns white. until the thickness of his cock makes your hollow soul lights up again. until you feel alive from his hand around your throat.

nothing else.

and that's exactly what he's doing right now. no kissing. he immediately understood it from the minute you refused his lips, getting what this is going to be.

lewis' tattooed hand fists on your shirt hard as he avoids your lips and kisses your neck instead, finding those spots that make your knees buckle and focuses particularly on there. you remove his hair tie, and tangle your fingers with his braids. he groans, his hair a particular sensitive part on his body. his thick lips travel lower to lay kisses along your collarbone. no marks either, he doesn't need to be told that.

though for some reason he does not understand, it is suddenly quite hard to resist himself from leaving purple bites on your skin. not when he had someone like you in his arms whom he had found beautiful since the first time his eyes laid in you.

no, lewis tells himself silently. this is not about you. this is about her. she's struggling. there's a demon that she needs to defeat and she needs your help. so help her.

you find yourself walking in reverse as he advances towards you, before your back hits the soft mattress of his hotel bed.

"yes." you say, already breathless, letting him know this is exactly how you want it. no tip-toeing, no hesitation or being overly careful, because you trust him enough to know that he knows what he should and shouldn't do, or you wouldn't have knocked in his door. you might be mentally fragile, but not your body. you need him to get to work quickly, to get you out of the mess that is currently your mind right now. he doesn't need to be gentle, because all you desire is the exact opposite.

lewis does not respond. instead he takes off your shirt and bra, throwing them somewhere on his floor without caring where they land. you do the same with his. lewis climbs over you, leaving neither of you time to admire one another's half naked bodies. nothing to gawk over. this is not what you came here for and lewis was quick to understand that.

his lips were fast to attack your bare chest next. his tongue swirls over your nipple, coating it with his spit before sucking hard, creating sounds as lewd as your moans right now. he also groans silently, the vibration sending more waves of pleasure inside you. he lets you gather his braids to press his face harder on your breast while one of his hands went to grope on the other, flicking your already sensitive nipple before giving it the same attention with his tongue. your back arches, and you find yourself pressing both your thighs together, desperate for relief on your lower half.

he senses it and leaves your chest. he pulls down your pants next, then your panties. you catch the way he visibly swallows at the sight of your dripping pussy, his own cock starting to throb in need.

"tell me what you need," he asks breathlessly, his voice huskier than usual, making your walls clench around nothing.

"your fingers." you answer without hesitation. the rational part of your brain manages to slip through, making you wonder for a split second just what made you so bold tonight, demanding all sort of things you never even had the courage to ask anybody.

maybe it's demons in your head, the one you are desperate to get rid off so you are forcing yourself to do the absolute craziest, just to feel like your old self again.

lewis nods. part of him is still in disbelief over what is currently happening but he tries to leave it at the back of his head. you let him spread your legs with ease and he doesn't waste any time to slide his digit smoothly over your fold to gather your arousal, earning a sharp gasp from you. he spits on your cunt, his saliva mixes with your wetness before he pushes.

still he was careful, only using one finger for now. he's well aware of the thickness of his digits and not sure how much you can take if he immediately adds more.

"m-more." you're whimpering already and the sound goes straight to lewis' dick, forcing him to take a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to calm his twitching cock.

but it's difficult. this is lewis hamilton, seven times formula 1 world champion. the greatest of all time. admire by billions. and yet when he has a pretty girl like you underneath him, at his mercy, your beautiful cunt clenching hard around his fingers, suddenly lewis is just a normal man. one who is not sure how much longer he can hold himself from claiming you all for himself.

lewis takes a deep breath. this is not about you, he tells himself again. you need to listen to her. give her what she needs. you can get any girl to come to your hotel room for fucking, and yet she only has you, the only man she clearly feels safe enough to ask of this.

"faster." you ask and lewis starts to deliver, pushing your legs apart even further before his hand picking up its pace, until the only sounds in the room are your ragged moans and the slickness of your cunt.

you are gorgeous. absolutely breathtaking, lewis thinks to himself. the way your face is flushed, sweat staining all over your face and neck. how your figure, hypnotizing as if it was blessed by aphrodite herself writhe underneath him, chasing that high. sinful moans and whimpers from your lips, enchanting his ears, making him curl his fingers until they find that one spot inside that makes you only whine louder, addicted into finding even more ways to earn those sounds from you. your legs part even wider as if not getting enough, silently begging for more than just his fingers.

"fuck...." lewis cannot help but groan. he sees the way your breath is getting shorter, more ragged. following his own impulses, lewis stops, withdrawing his hand from you.

you whine shamelessly at the sudden emptiness. you look up, watching lewis licking your arousal clean from his lips. the sight should be dirty, should make your pussy pulses in lust but instead your brain is protesting, head thrown back on the mattress in frustration. no, no, no, no, the brain says. you were far from reaching your peak since lewis had just started fingering you but you were at bliss at how preoccupied your mind was, having no room to think about anyting but his fingers inside you.

the insecurities starting to come back. the demon has gone back to work, playing in your ears and whispering doubts into you again.

maybe lewis is regretting this. he thinks you're sick in the head and he wants you to leave. he's going to tell the team—

"you're gonna come on my cock only."

oh—

oh.

you don't have time to be dumbfounded when lewis gets off the bed to remove his pants, eyes stay on yours. a hiss leaves his lips as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his rock hard cock that already leaks with pre-cum while keeping his lustful gaze on you the entire time before he gets back to the bed to you.

your mouth almost waters at the visual. yes, you came to his hotel room, crying, begging him to fuck you. and yet it's unbelievable to see lewis like this. the champion, feared by the rest of the grid, respected by the whole wide world, is currently hard and throbbing in front of you. for you.

your cunt is wet again, pulsing around air thinking about just how he'd fit himself inside you but before you could do anything, he flips you flat onto your stomach. you yelp, caught off-guard by his sudden action. the mattress dips as his knees sink into it on either side of your body. he grabs his pillow before shoving it under your belly.

condom is on and when you feel his tip pressing against your entrance, you gasp silently, already gripping the sheets.

"we can stop if you want." he says, lowering his voice down to a softer tone, giving you a way out. he's willing to ignore the way his dick twitches, begging to be taken care of, if you desire to stop. but instead....

"n-no." you shake your head fast, voice shaky but with a hint of firmness behind it. "no, i don't want to stop. please."

"what do you need then? tell me exactly."

"i don't want to think. please, just— use me. i don't care. don't be gentle. i want it hard. i need it rough."

part of lewis regrets that he asked because holy fucking shit. sweet baby jesus. he doesn't recognize the sound that he makes, deep from his chest, filled with lust after hearing your dirty, desperate request.

on one hand, he's more than happy to fulfill your desire, knowing this is just going to be sex and nothing more. it's easier for the both of you in the future, knowing that this is a one time thing and absolutely no feelings would be involved.

but on the other hand, though lewis presents himself to the public and media as the calm and collected person you'd see on TV, but like every other man, he has his own wants and needs as well. and you have absolutely fucking idea what the hell you had just woken up inside him.

"fuck. fuck, you can't just fucking say that. you're fucking killing me, baby girl."

you moan at the nickname, then the volume becomes louder when you feel him pushing himself inside you slowly, one palm on a side of your head while the other is gripping your hip so fucking hard no doubt it'll bruised tomorrow.

you want it to bruise. and you know what you just asked of him. it's nothing like you had ever asked of a man before. to take you like a ragdoll for him to be used, to be toyed with whenever his please. to use you like you exist only and solely for his pleasure. because the thoughts that you are having about yourself are way worse. you want it to bruise, to hurt. you want to still be able to feel him for days. to have difficulties to walk so you will always be reminded of tonight. because at least your mind will be distracted from wandering to places you have been working so hard to avoid again.

lewis slides in easily but the stretch burns. you whine, fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly as you try to breathe properly in order to relax yourself so you can accommodate to his size, which is bigger than anyone you had ever taken. what he lacks in height, he certainly makes up for it in his length.

when he's fully inside, lewis gathers your hair before yanking it hard, making your neck arches back and you cry out. the pain in your scalp is weirdly delicious, combines with how he's making you feel so full having his dick deep inside, unmoving.

"say thank you." lewis demands, his tone no longer kind amd gentle like before, goosebumps prickle all over your skin. you never heard him using that kind of tone during work, never even imagine that he'd be the type to sound like that in bed. "thank me for fucking you."

"t-thank you."

"louder." he bottoms out before slamming into you hard, pulling a loud gasp from you.

"thank you!" you choke out.

lewis starts out slow at first, looking for the right pace. he remembers how you want it but he's not going to give it right away, out of care and of course pettiness.

but as he continues, he couldn't help but craving to hear more of those sweet bits of noises that you keep making. to hear the way your breath hitches at how he's filling you up to the brim, at how good he's fucking you.

lewis lowers his body, caging your body from behind but still careful not to crush you completely with his weight as his pace increases, ramming his cock inside you, his restraint getting thinner.

"take it. you want me to fuck you so bad? fucking take it. you asked for this." he grunts, and you whimper with no shame left in you. it's difficult to care, not when you could feel yourself getting dumber on his dick, which is exactly what you were asking for. and all this couldn't be more perfect.

lewis' movements grow harder, rougher by the minute. your moans mixed with his and the sound of his hips snapping against your ass echoes to the entire room. you wish you could be quiet, knowing that this whole hotel is rented by your entire team. but the way lewis is fucking you is making you do the exact opposite. you know he wouldn't want you to be quiet either, the mechanics be damned.

it's starting to be too much. nails digging into the bedsheet, you find your body inching forward. you are not sure if you are trying to run away or get closer to him but when lewis notices this, he grabs both your wrists, pinning them above your head. his teeth nibbles against a specific spot under your earlobe, pulling another whine out of you.

"you can take it. fuck— good girls take what they asked for. you can do it."

your cunt somehow gets even wetter with his filthy words, at how his accent thickens, voice gets deeper and more hoarse. your pussy shouldn't be squeezing around his dick at his praises, but it did. and the grunts he lets out making it all worth it.

when he hits that sweet spot inside you that no other man has ever quite managed to find, your eyes roll back in ecstasy. you gasp, tears starting to fall again at the sweet pleasure you're experiencing.

the sex is perfect, you know lewis wouldn't disappoint. but your demon is back, suddenly haunting you and making you feel terrible about yourself again.

"what the hell do you think you're doing? oh, that's right. you wasn't. you aren't. you're just a dumb bitch making herself even dumber on this pathetic cock. if only you could see yourself. absolutely shameless. what a whore. begging for this man to fuck you like you never seen a dick before. nothing will ever be the same ever again. he will never look you in the eyes, he'll think of you differently. why didn't you just—"

lewis suddenly stops.

the voices do too, and you are left in confusion. his grip on your wrist is gone now and you didn't even notice. you turn your head, only to see him pulling out.

no. oh, no. no, no, no. the voices were right. he's pulling away. he's regretting this. he's gonna ask you to leave, isn't he?

"can i turn you on your back?" he asks instead.

silence from you for a few seconds before you let out a quiet "what?" before lying on your back on your own. you remove the pillow from under your belly and set it aside.

"you were crying." he points out, brows furrowing as a shadow of concern illuminating his handsome face.

you swallow. you were hoping he wouldn't notice and even if he did, he'd thought that it was because you were enjoying yourself this. the fact that he knows it was the opposite tells you that he knows there are million different things running in your mind right now and you hate it.

"y-yeah but it wasn't— not because of you."

pause. "you want me to slow down?"

again, you shake your head fast.

"i'm okay. please." you hate how quickly you beg for him again.

it's lewis' turn to swallow, his eyes darken slightly at your pleading. he nods before crawling back to you, determined to pick up where he left off, trusting that you will know what to say if you truly desire for him to stop completely.

he grabs one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist before bringing the other to his shoulder. you bite your lip at the way his gaze never wavers from you, making you wonder if he fucks every other girls like this.

no. fuck. stop it. why do you even care?

lewis takes his dick before burying himself inside you once more slightly easier this time. you can't help but moan and thanking him again.

he is slow again at first but it isn't long before his cock slams back at the perfect pace, the sound of skin against skin once again filling up this suite. your whimper mixed with his hisses when you claw on his tattooed back, pulling him closer.

lewis leaves kisses all over your leg, wherever he could reach before his hand sneaks up to fiddle and squeeze your bouncing tits.

you didn't expect him to wipe your tears next.

your eyes locked with his. he continues fucking you but it feels as if time has stopped. he has that look behind the lust that screams sympathy. pity. you hate it but at the same you don't push his hand away, letting him cup your face momentarily. but even lewis doesn't let this gesture happens for too long, always remembering the point of having you underneath him.

it doesn't take long until you feel an invisible knot in your lower belly. you're panting now, almost reaching your peak. lewis realizes this and he fucks you harder, his hand travels down to rub your clit.

"i'm—"

"i know, sweetie," he says, breathless as well. he lowers his body, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and kissing it all over as he feels his own orgasm nearing. "come for me."

a few more thrusts, and you see white. your mouth is agape as you moan silently. his grunt and groans is music to your ears as he spills himself inside the condom.

silence.

lewis never realized how much he needed this as well. not just the sex, but the connection, which he knows is insane to find with someone like you in circumstances like this but what just happened felt different. to be so close with someone he actually knows and not just another girl he calls to his room, not even bother to learn her name.

before he could gather his breath, he feels your body underneath him slipping out. his eyes feels heavy but he tries to hold on, watching you collecting your clothes and dressing back up.

"what are you—"

"that was really great. thank you." was all you said before you left, in a hurry like you refuse to spend another minute in the same room with lewis.

while the man is still on the bed, naked. he hasn't even removed his condom yet. a sigh escapes his lips, lying flat on the bed before staring at the white ceiling.

he did what you asked for, and he could only hope that you would feel better tomorrow morning.

and yet why does his heart suddenly aches, not having you in his arms anymore?

[xobunni0]

𝒷𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➵ ℳ𝓔𝓝𝓤

- day 4 💌, wc- 2k

it didn’t happen all at once. falling for Shadow was like watching a candle burn, a slow realization that crept into your heart before you could do anything to stop it

at first it was enough just to be by his side. you were his friend one of the few he actually let in. and that had meant something. it still did. the long talks during quiet nights, the way he’d listen when no one else did, the rare smiles that softened his otherwise hardened expression

but at some point, just being friends stopped feeling like enough

maybe it was the way your heart quickened whenever he was near, or how his deep voice sent warmth in your chest. maybe it was the way his rare smiles lingered in your mind far longer than they should..

because how could you not fall for him?

Shadow wasn’t easy to understand, but you’d learned to understand him in your own way. he didn’t always say how he felt, but his actions spoke for him like the way he never let anyone else close the way he let you.

and that night, standing beside him beneath the stars it hit you all at once.

maybe it was only natural. maybe, deep down he also felt it too.

over time, the line of friendship became blurred.

it wasn’t a single moment that changed things, but a series of them the way his gaze softened when he thought you weren’t looking. the way he never quite pulled away when your shoulder brushed his.

at first, you told yourself you were imagining it. Shadow wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions. he was direct, rational. he saw the world for how it was or wasn’t and yet somehow you existed in the space in between.

you were certain

Shadow felt the same way about you.

it wasn’t just a hope or a foolish dream. it was in the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you, the way he stayed. Shadow wasn’t someone who entertained relationships. he kept his circle small, walls high, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. and he had let you.

you saw it in the way he noticed when something was wrong even when you hadn’t said a word. the way he said your name not just as a friend, but as something more.

but for all the certainty in your heart, Shadow hadn’t said the words. not yet

doubt creeping in when you least expected it.

it didn’t matter how many moments you’d shared with Shadow, how many times you caught him looking at you like you were something important. he had never said the words. never confirmed what you so desperately wanted to believe

and that was the problem wasn’t it?

Shadow had always been unreadable. his emotions were locked away, he wasn’t like other people he didn’t express things the way they did. and maybe… maybe you had been wrong. maybe you had been imagining all of it.

because at the end of the day, he had never said he felt anything for you

what if he only saw you as a friend?

the thought hit you harder than you wanted to admit, settling in your chest

you tried to push it away, to remind yourself of all the little moments that had convinced you otherwise but doubt had a way of twisting things, making you question everything.

maybe the way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone he trusted. maybe his rare moments of gentleness weren’t what you thought they were. maybe you had misread everything.

after all

Shadow wasn’t the easiest person to keep close he often disappeared without a word sometimes, and didn’t always explain himself. you were used to that. you had learned to understand him in ways most people couldn’t.

but this was different.

lately, he had been avoiding you.

not in an obvious dramatic way Shadow wasn’t like that. no, it was subtle. something so small that if you hadn’t known him so well, you might not have noticed.

but you did

you noticed the way he always seemed to find a reason to leave before you could talk. the way his eyes, when they met yours now flickered away like he was afraid of something

and that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

had you done something wrong? had you misread everything between you?

you had told yourself over and over that you would be strong, that you wouldn’t let this consume you. that if Shadow wanted to push you away you wouldn’t chase after him. you wouldn’t let it hurt.

but that was a lie.

because it did hurt. it hurt more than you could stand

and now, sitting alone in the quiet of your room, the weight of it all came crashing down.

you buried your face in your hands as the first sob escaped once it started, you couldn’t stop. tears hot against your skin your chest tightening

why?

why had he suddenly started avoiding you? what had you done?

everything had been fine hadn’t it? the way he stayed close, the way he looked at you like you mattered it had all felt so real.

but then without warning he had shut you out.

no explanations. no words. just distance.

and it was driving you crazy.

your mind kept replaying every interaction, every conversation, searching for something anything that might explain it. had you said something wrong? had you only imagined that he cared at all?

the thought sent another wave of tears down your cheeks.

you weren’t naive. you knew Shadow wasn’t easy to read that he carried things he never spoke about. but this? this was different. this felt personal.

and the worst part?

you missed him.

even now, even after everything, all you wanted was to hear his voice to have him look at you like he used to, to prove that you hadn’t just been fooling yourself.

but he wasn’t here.

and you didn’t know if he ever would be again.

a broken sob escaped your lips, and you curled in on yourself, arms wrapping around yourself

“…What did I do wrong?”

Shadow never did anything without thinking it through. but now, standing just outside your door his heart raced in a way he couldn’t quite understand.

he had never been good at this. never been good at letting someone close at showing them too much.

but now, with everything between you and him, with the distance he had made between you, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe just maybe you weren’t just a friend to him anymore.

and the thought terrified him.

he hadn’t meant to push you away. that had never been the plan. but what was the plan really? he had no idea how to be anything more than what he was. the thought of being vulnerable of letting someone in scared him more than anything else.

but as he stood there on the verge of knocking, something told him that maybe… maybe it was time to try. to take that risk no matter how much it made him nervous.

he knocked once. twice.

when you opened the door, tears stained the apples of your cheeks, you blinked in surprise. you had been expecting anyone but him. “Shadow?”

he stood there for a moment unsure of how to start. his eyes briefly flickered to the ground avoiding your gaze

“…We need to talk.” his voice was softer than usual

your brow furrowed and for a moment, you could see the worry flicker in his eyes something you rarely saw. “About what?”

he took a breath, trying to steady his nerves. “About us.”

your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know why.

you stepped back to let him in but he hesitated still standing in the doorway. something in him seemed torn, like he was battling himself over whatever he was about to say.

“I’ve been… thinking.” he paused, running a hand through his quills in frustration. “And I know I haven’t been clear with you. I haven’t been good at… this.”

his words made your chest tighten but you stayed silent waiting for him to continue.

Shadow shifted his weight from one foot to the other clearly uncomfortable. it was strange to see him like this

“I’ve never—” He cut himself off taking a breath, “I’ve never asked anyone this before. I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to… how to say it.”

a knot formed in your stomach, and you frowned slightly unsure of where this conversation was going.

“Shadow…” you started, but he shook his head his gaze finally meeting yours.

“I…” he started, his voice a little rougher now “…I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

you blinked, surprised Shadow rarely talked about his feelings, let alone let them spill out so easily. his gaze dropped briefly, like he was gathering his thoughts but then he met your eyes again.

“It’s like I can’t stop” he continued, voice quieter now almost uncertain. “I’m always thinking about what you’re doing how you’re doing… what it would be like to be near you. to just—” his words faltered for a moment like he was hesitant to put this into words. his hands gripping the edges of his gloves “I wonder what it would be like to hold you. to have you close, to…”

his breath caught, his words trailing off and he seemed to struggle with how to explain it.

“Shadow…” you whispered, unsure if you should speak or just let him continue.

he took a small step forward, closing the distance between you, “I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never been so… sure of someone. I don’t know what it would be like, to have you with me, to hold you and… just have you be mine. to be close in a way that no one else can be. I keep imagining it wondering what it would feel like.”

Shadow, who had always been so careful so guarded, was speaking to you like this? it was like everything he had kept hidden inside, every thought, every feeling was finally rushing out.

“I don’t know how to explain it” he admitted, his gaze never leaving yours. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

you didn’t know what to say at first, but you felt it too the desire to be close to him in a way you only allowed yourself to imagine until now.

you could see that he was no longer holding himself back. he was letting you in

“I never thought I’d let anyone this close” he murmured, his voice almost a breath. “But… you’re different.”

before you could say anything, he reached out carefully almost hesitantly, his hand took yours in his, his thumb brushing over your hand

“I never imagined how much I would want this. Want you.” he admitted

“Would you… would you be my girlfriend?”

the words were quiet

for a long moment, neither of you moved. you stared at him, unsure if you were dreaming or if this was real.

Shadow, the person who rarely let anyone in the one who always kept a wall up, was asking you to be his.

he looked so out of place, so vulnerable standing there waiting for your response as if your answer could make or break him.

and in that moment, you realized that he was just as afraid as you were

the reality of the moment hadn’t fully hit. then with a slow smile you nodded.

“I’d like that.”

relief washed over him, and for the first time in a long while, you saw him truly relax. his shoulders dropped his expression softened and he took a small step closer.

“Really?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

you smiled a little wider nodding again. “Really.”

day 5 💌 on tuesday !

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⏦ﾟᢉ𐭩 - 𓊆ྀི𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[halfmoonaria]

change of plans

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: tara was going to take care of it—end things for good—but nothing went the way she planned.

word count: 9.6k

warnings: dark themes, murder intent, violence, strong language, intrusive thoughts, implied stalking.

Tara didn't think she was a jealous person.

She was sure of it, actually.

Jealousy wasn't something she dealt with, at least not in the same way other people did. She told herself she wasn't the type to stew over what someone else had or waste time feeling resentful.

But looking back, there were moments—small, fleeting ones—that didn't quite fit the version of herself she liked to believe in.

When she was little, the first spark of that unfamiliar emotion would hit when someone snatched a toy out of her hands. It wasn't sadness or disappointment—it was sharper, hotter, and before she even realized what she was doing, she'd yank the toy back, sometimes with enough force to send the other kid stumbling.

She didn't mean to hurt them, not really, but the instinct to make things fair—or at least fair by her standards—was too strong to ignore.

Her teachers called it "trouble controlling her temper." Her mom called it a "phase." But it kept happening.

There was the time in first grade when another girl in her class got to play the fairy princess during dress-up. Tara had been stuck with the frog costume.

She'd sulked in the corner, watching the other girl twirl around in sparkly wings, until something inside her snapped. The girl didn't see it coming when Tara stomped up, grabbed the glittery wand, and broke it clean in two.

She didn't even regret it until she was sitting in the principal's office with her mom glaring at her from across the room.

By the time she was nine, Tara had lost count of how many times she'd been dragged to the teacher's office. Sometimes it was for yanking a classmate's hair after they showed off a new toy she didn't have. Other times, it was for shoving someone too hard during recess when she thought they were bragging about something they shouldn't have.

Her teachers always asked the same question: "Why did you do it, Tara?"

She never had a good answer.

Her mom tried everything—calming techniques, time-outs, grounding her from TV or playdates—but none of it worked.

The truth was, Tara didn't know why it bothered her so much when someone else got what she wanted. All she knew was that the feeling burned in her chest, hot and heavy, until she had to do something to let it out.

She couldn't pinpoint what the feeling was, not even as she got older—when she was supposed to be able to handle her emotions better, to control the bursts of anger and the bubbling rage that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It wasn't jealousy though. She was sure of that.

Jealousy felt petty, childish, like something people dealt with in middle school when they saw someone else wearing the same pair of shoes but in a better color. Tara wasn't petty, and she definitely wasn't childish. At least, that's what she told herself every time the heat rose to her face, her fists clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms, and her vision blurred with that same fiery haze she'd felt since kindergarten.

It didn't make sense to call it jealousy. Jealousy implied weakness, didn't it? Like you couldn't be happy for someone else because you wanted what they had. Tara didn't think she wanted what anyone else had—she just hated the idea that they had it at all.

She didn't think it was anywhere close to jealousy—not until Chad broke up with her.

At first, all she felt was heartbreak, raw and overwhelming, the kind of sadness that made her chest feel hollow and heavy all at once. There was anger too, bubbling beneath the surface, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let him see that part of her. Tara told herself that staying calm was the only way to keep control of the situation, even as she listened to him try to explain himself.

He had said he didn't feel the same anymore, that something between them had changed. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he no longer felt the love they once had. His voice had been quiet, hesitant, as if he didn't want to hurt her more than he already was. He told her it wasn't her fault, that she'd been a great girlfriend and that he still cared about her.

The words sounded like they should've been comforting, but they weren't. They only made her feel worse. Love didn't just disappear, did it? And if it did, what did that say about her? She couldn't wrap her head around how everything could change so quickly, how something that had seemed so solid could slip through her fingers without warning.

For days after the breakup, she replayed his words in her mind, searching for some clue, some sign she might have missed. The sadness lingered, a constant ache she couldn't shake, and when the anger flared, she shoved it back down where it belonged. It wouldn't change anything, and it wouldn't bring him back.

At first, she thought heartbreak was all she'd have to contend with. But then, as the days stretched into weeks, another feeling began to creep in—something darker, sharper, and impossible to ignore.

That dark, sharper, and impossible-to-ignore feeling had only grown worse. In fact, it had become unbearable when she saw Chad a few weeks later.

With you.

She hadn't been prepared for it. In hindsight, maybe she should've been. They had gone to the same school—it had only been a matter of time before she ran into him again. But Tara hadn't expected him to look so... fine. Like nothing had happened. Like breaking up with her hadn't fazed him in the slightest. And she especially hadn't expected to see him with someone else.

You had been standing next to him near the lockers, your body slightly turned toward his as you spoke. She hadn't been able to hear what you were saying, but whatever it had been, it had made him laugh. That same, familiar laugh that had once been hers to hear.

Her chest had tightened, the weight of it pressing down on her like a physical force. It had been the first time she had seen him since the breakup, and heartbreak hadn't been what she had felt then. No, it had been something else entirely. It had been hot and all-consuming, curling its way through her like wildfire.

Her gaze had locked on the way you had reached out, your fingers briefly brushing his arm as you spoke. It had been such a casual, effortless gesture, but to Tara, it had felt deliberate. She had clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she had struggled to steady her breathing.

She hadn't wanted to look at you. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge the way your presence, your closeness to Chad, had made her feel. But she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away.

It hadn't been fair. Chad wasn't supposed to move on so quickly. He wasn't supposed to look this happy, not when she had still been trying to piece herself back together. And you—God, you hadn't been supposed to be so... perfect. So at ease, standing there with him like you had belonged.

Tara's stomach had churned, a bitter taste rising in her throat. The feeling bubbling inside her had been almost painfully familiar, a twisted echo of the jealousy she had felt as a child.

She could still remember the heat of it, the way it had burned through her tiny body when someone had gotten the last cookie in class or taken the swing she had wanted on the playground.

Back then, her jealousy had been wild and unrestrained, often spilling out as anger—pushing, hitting, shouting until someone had intervened.

But this hadn't been the same. She wasn't a kid anymore, and she had known better than to lash out. And yet, the anger had simmered beneath the surface, waiting for her to slip, to let it spill over.

Her jaw had tightened as she had forced herself to look away, her fists clenching at her sides. Chad hadn't been hers anymore, she had reminded herself, no matter how much she had wanted him to be.

She hadn't had the right to feel this way, to be so consumed by jealousy over someone who had clearly moved on.

But knowing that hadn't made it stop. The jealousy had still been there, sharp and unrelenting, twisting inside her like a knife.

It had dug in deeper with every passing day, lodging itself in a part of her she didn't know how to reach, let alone remove.

It didn't help that Tara knew exactly who you were. Of course she did—everyone in Woodsboro seemed to know everyone.

The town was too small for anyone to go unnoticed, their business too easily whispered about or pieced together.

She had known who you were since kindergarten, though, in moments like these, it felt like a cruel twist of fate that you hadn't been one of the kids she'd shoved in a fit of childish rage.

Maybe if you had been, she wouldn't feel so powerless now. She could have at least claimed to have gotten her frustration out once, a long time ago. But no. You had been one of the few to escape her younger wrath, and somehow that made this worse.

It wasn't just that, though. Tara couldn't think about you without hearing her mother's voice in the back of her mind, muttering something about how she wished Tara were "more like you."

Her mother said things like that about plenty of kids, especially when Tara landed herself in trouble at school. But the way she spoke about you had always felt different—like she meant it.

You were polite, diligent, the kind of kid parents liked to hold up as an example. Tara had hated it back then, hearing those comparisons tossed her way whenever she acted out. Now, remembering it made her blood boil.

You weren't a stranger to her. Not really. How could you be when Wes had spent all of middle school hopelessly infatuated with you? His crush had been embarrassingly obvious, even to people who weren't paying attention.

Tara remembered the way he'd stumble through his sentences whenever you so much as glanced in his direction. How he'd linger near your locker as though working up the courage to say something, only to turn red and scurry off when Amber caught him at it.

Amber had loved teasing him for it. She'd nudge his arm and whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, calling him love-struck and pitiful. And Tara? She'd roll her eyes and laugh right along with her.

She hadn't understood the appeal back then. Sure, you were nice. Polite, from what people said. But to Tara, you'd just been another person in the hallways, someone she could name but not care much about. Wes's hopeless pining had been little more than background noise to her.

But now... now that memory left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Not that she'd ever had a real problem with you. If anything, she'd been indifferent toward you all these years. You were nice, she supposed. Everyone said so, and it wasn't hard to believe.

You dressed well enough to stand out without trying too hard, cared enough about your grades to keep them respectable, and generally managed to avoid any kind of trouble. There wasn't much about you that people could complain about.

Tara hadn't spoken to you much. Maybe a couple of times, when group projects forced you together or when politeness demanded it. But it had never gone beyond that, never lingered in a way that mattered. You were a passing presence, just one of the many faces she'd seen over the years, easily forgotten once you were out of sight.

At least, that was how it used to be.

Now, it felt like you were everywhere. And worse, you weren't just a face in the crowd anymore. You were always laughing, always smiling, always looking so damn perfect. And you weren't alone. You were with Chad. His arm slung around your shoulders like you were his.

And that, Tara couldn't ignore.

You were with her Chad. Her boyfriend.

Or at least, that's what her mind insisted on calling him, despite the breakup. Despite everything. He was still hers. He had to be. There was no way he wasn't, not when she could still feel the ghost of his hand in hers, not when her chest tightened every time she thought about him laughing at something you said. It wasn't right. It didn't feel right.

You didn't belong under his arm like that. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

Tara's jaw clenched as the image burned itself deeper into her memory: the way his arm had draped over your shoulders so effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn't. It couldn't be. That spot was hers—had been hers for so long that seeing anyone else there made her stomach twist with something jagged and unbearable.

And it didn't help that you didn't even look good there. Not to her, anyway. You didn't fit the way she did. You didn't mold into his side like you belonged there, not like she had. Chad was tall, broad-shouldered, and Tara had always thought they looked balanced together. She'd fit neatly under his arm, a perfect complement to his size and presence. You? You just looked... wrong.

At least, that's what she told herself as her eyes lingered on you for too long, darting between the way you smiled at him and the way he smiled back at you.

Her chest tightened further, the edges of her jealousy sharpening with every second.

She tried to tell herself not to care. Really, she did. She told herself that it didn't matter anymore, that Chad wasn't hers, that this—whatever this was—wasn't her business. He had every right to move on. She even tried repeating it in her head, like some kind of mantra: It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

But it didn't work. It never worked.

It wasn't just the jealousy, though that was certainly the loudest emotion screaming in her chest. It was the helplessness that came with it. The same helplessness she'd felt back in kindergarten, when that dark, fiery feeling had bubbled up inside her and she hadn't known what to do with it. Back then, she'd pushed people, shoved them, let her rage and frustration spill out in any way it could.

Now? Now she was older. Supposedly more mature. She was supposed to be able to handle her emotions, wasn't she? But standing there, watching Chad lean into you, laugh at something you said like it was the funniest thing in the world, Tara felt that same fiery frustration rise in her chest.

She didn't shove people anymore—didn't let that dark feeling spill out like she used to—but that didn't mean it wasn't still there, simmering just below the surface. And now, as she stood frozen in the hallway, all of it—every last ounce of it—was directed at you.

Because you didn't belong there.

You didn't belong with Chad.

You didn't belong in the picture she still couldn't stop replaying in her head: you laughing at something he said, him pulling you closer, the two of you looking... happy.

Tara bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood. She told herself to turn away, to stop looking, to let it go. But it was impossible. Just like it had been when she was five years old, that feeling burned too brightly, clawed at her too viciously to ignore.

And now, as she stared at you from across the hallway, she realized she didn't know how to make it stop.

She couldn't stop seeing it—couldn't stop feeling it. You and him. It was burned into her mind, an image so vivid it felt like it had been seared there with a branding iron. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. You and Chad. Laughing together. Holding hands. Kissing.

Tara's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated it. She hated you.

She hated the way you were always smiling, like you didn't have a care in the world. She hated the way you stood so close to him every day, the way his arm so casually rested on your shoulders. She hated the way you looked at him, and the way he looked at you. Like you were the only person in the room. Like you were perfect.

You weren't even that cute. That's what she tried to tell herself, over and over again. You weren't anything special. There were plenty of other girls in Woodsboro prettier than you, smarter than you, more interesting than you.

But it was a lie.

Because you were beautiful.

You were effortlessly beautiful in a way that made Tara's stomach churn. She hated the fact that she couldn't use your looks as an excuse. She hated how good you looked with Chad, how perfect you seemed together, how easy it was to see why he'd chosen you.

And that made her hatred burn even brighter.

Most nights, she couldn't sleep. The second her head hit the pillow, her mind would start spinning, and the thoughts would creep in—dark, ugly thoughts that wrapped around her like a vice. She could see it so clearly, almost like it was happening right in front of her.

You touching him in places she was supposed to touch. You undressing him, his hands roaming over your body instead of hers. You kissing him, making him moan, sitting on top of him—doing all the things she was supposed to do.

It made her blood boil. It made her want to scream.

The images were relentless, vivid and visceral, and every one of them felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. Sometimes, the anger was so sharp it made her want to claw at her own skin, like she could rip the feeling out of herself if she just tried hard enough.

But no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push the thoughts away, they always came back. They stayed with her, haunting her like a ghost she couldn't escape.

And every time, the hatred burned hotter.

It wasn't fair. You weren't supposed to have him. You weren't supposed to be in his arms, weren't supposed to hear his laugh up close, weren't supposed to know what his lips felt like. You didn't deserve any of it. You didn't deserve him.

He was hers. He'd always been hers.

But now, he wasn't.

And it was all because of you.

And this wasn't like any other time. Not even close.

Tara had always known her temper was a problem. She'd been told that enough times growing up—by her teachers, by her mom, by anyone who'd had the misfortune of crossing her when she was angry. But this? This was different.

She'd never felt this way before.

She'd tried everything to stop it, to keep herself from unraveling. Everything her mom had suggested back when she'd first started noticing how intense Tara's outbursts could be. Taking deep breaths, counting to ten, picturing a happy place—none of it worked. It never had.

And when her mom's suggestions fell flat, Tara had turned to the internet, searching desperately for anything that might help. Techniques to control anger, ways to keep herself calm, tips to avoid losing her temper. She'd read every article she could find, watched every video, tried every trick. Not because she cared about managing her emotions—no, she just wanted to avoid her mom forcing her into some anger management program or therapy session she'd be stuck in for months.

But now? Now, she couldn't even pretend to have control. Nothing worked. Nothing.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her skin prickled with heat, and the jealousy burned so hot and sharp that she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. It wasn't just anger anymore. It was something else entirely, something darker and more consuming.

Tara felt insane.

Because no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to push it down or ignore it, the feeling wouldn't go away. It wrapped around her like a second skin, suffocating and unbearable, until there was only one thought left in her mind:

She had to get rid of you.

It wasn't even a question anymore. It was a fact, plain and simple. There was no other way to fix this, no other way to make the feelings stop. You had to go.

At first, Tara thought about spreading a rumor or two. Nothing big, just enough to make you and Chad fight. Enough to plant a seed of doubt, to tear apart whatever connection you had with him. It sounded perfect at first—until she realized how easily it could blow up in her face.

Chad would figure it out eventually. He'd find out Tara was behind it, and then she'd lose any chance of getting him back.

She thought about telling you to leave, to move away, to go anywhere but here. But that was ridiculous. You'd never listen.

She thought about kidnapping you.

The thought came and went so quickly it almost startled her. For a split second, her mind flickered to the idea of forcing you out of the picture entirely, taking control in a way that left no room for argument.

But no. That was insane.

...Wasn't it?

Tara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt. She was spiraling. She knew it. But she couldn't stop.

Nothing else would work. Nothing except you being gone.

She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but Tara knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You couldn't stay.

You didn't belong here. You didn't belong with Chad. You didn't belong anywhere near him, near her, near this town.

You didn't belong anywhere.

And Tara? Tara was going to make sure of it.

She toyed with possibilities. But none of them seemed right.

Kidnapping you crossed her mind more than once though. Briefly.

But it was stupid, insane.

Because what would she do when she had you?

Just keep you there?

It seemed suiting, but it wouldn't work out.

But she couldn't help thinking it—if only because she was running out of options.

And then, the thought hit her. It came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, like a knife to the gut.

She could kill you.

At first, the thought had hit her like a slap to the face, sharp and jarring in its absurdity. It had seemed insane. Because it was insane. What kind of person even thought something like that, let alone seriously considered it?

But as the days dragged on, the idea didn't fade. If anything, it took root. The more Tara thought about it, the less insane it seemed. Her anger, that relentless, boiling rage, started to simmer. It didn't disappear entirely—not even close—but it

lessened.

For the first time in weeks, she could breathe.

The idea itself was enough at first. She didn't need to act on it. Just thinking about it was enough to bring her some semblance of peace. She let the fantasy play out in her mind like a sick little movie: you, out of the picture, gone forever. It didn't matter how or when—just that it happened.

And for a few days, she was happy with just that. She let herself exist in that space, in the calm that came with imagining a world where you didn't exist. A weekend of relative peace, of daydreams that made her anger feel manageable.

But then Monday came.

And Tara saw you again.

You were standing in the hallway, smiling up at Chad like he was the only person in the world. His arm was slung casually around your shoulders, his head tilted toward yours in that stupid, familiar way that made Tara's stomach twist.

It was like being set on fire all over again.

Her chest burned, her vision blurred, and that fleeting peace she'd found over the weekend vanished in an instant. The rage came roaring back, hotter and more vicious than ever, tearing through her like a wildfire.

Because the thought of you being gone wasn't enough anymore. Not when you were right there, so close, so perfect, so fucking smug without even trying.

Tara's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms until they left crescent-shaped indents. Her jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as she stared at you, as she watched you.

You didn't belong there. You didn't belong under his arm. You didn't belong anywhere near him.

And now? Now, Tara knew what she had to do.

It wasn't a matter of if anymore. It was a matter of when.

Because just thinking about it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

She was going to kill you.

And she was going to feel better for it.

___

Tara had everything prepared.

The thought of it had consumed her, growing like a rock inside her chest, feeding off her every waking moment until it was impossible to ignore.

And now, it was time.

She had spent days balancing on the edge of dread and longing, torn between the weight of what she was about to do and the twisted satisfaction she knew it would bring. It wasn't something she wanted—not really. But it was something she had to do. The only way to end the torment that had been eating away at her since the moment she saw you with him.

So Tara had done her research, gathering every scrap of information she could. She watched you closely—closer than ever. She had listened, observed, bided her time until the perfect opportunity revealed itself.

And it had.

It had been math class on Monday afternoon, and Tara had been lucky enough to snag a seat directly behind you and your friends. Normally, she would've tuned out your conversation entirely, drowning it in her thoughts. But this time, she had leaned in, careful to catch every word.

You'd been talking about the upcoming math test, about how you'd be studying for it Wednesday afternoon. Alone.

Your parents were going to be at some lame work conference, and they'd decided to take your younger brother along to make a trip out of it. You'd rolled your eyes as you explained how stupid it all sounded, but Tara hadn't cared about your opinion.

All she cared about was the opening.

You'd be home. Alone.

It was perfect.

Tara's pencil had hovered over her notebook as she pretended to take notes, but her mind wasn't on algebra. It was spinning with possibilities, with plans, with the kind of clarity that had eluded her for weeks.

When the bell rang and you left the room with your friends, Tara sat frozen in her seat for a moment, her fists clenched around the edge of her desk. The pounding in her chest felt louder than the shuffle of students leaving the classroom, louder than the voices in the hallway.

Because now, it wasn't just an idea.

It was a plan.

Wednesday. After school. It would be done.

And finally, finally, she would feel better.

Wednesday came, and Tara felt something she hadn't in weeks. Happiness.

It wasn't the fleeting, muted kind that came and went without leaving a trace. No, this was sharp, visceral, alive. She could feel it buzzing beneath her skin, coiling around her chest like a warm, electric current.

She didn't remember the last time she'd woken up this excited. It was like every nerve in her body had been lit aflame, pushing her through the motions of her morning routine with a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in so long.

Because today was the day.

Every second that ticked by brought her closer to it. To you. To the end of the endless cycle of rage and jealousy that had consumed her. She could picture it already—vivid, perfect, satisfying.

You'd be scared, of course. How could you not be? She imagined the way your eyes would widen, the way you'd stammer out a pathetic plea. You'd try to push her off, scramble for an escape, but it wouldn't work.

It wouldn't work because you were weak. You weren't like her. You didn't know what it meant to fight, to claw your way through something until you got what you wanted. You'd crumble like paper.

And then you'd be gone.

She could see the aftermath so clearly it almost felt real. Chad, walking through the school corridors alone, his shoulders slumped with the weight of grief. His face twisted in pain as he thought about you.

And then—then he'd come back to her. He had to. It was inevitable, wasn't it? He'd remember how good things were with her, how much better they could be now that you were out of the picture. He'd pull himself to her, broken but needing her to put him back together.

It was all Tara could think about.

The entire day felt like a blur, her mind too preoccupied to focus on anything else. Teachers droned on and on about tests and essays, classmates chatted about meaningless things, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except what was waiting for her after school.

And yet, the anger was still there.

It simmered beneath the surface, coiled tight in her chest, a constant reminder that nothing was done yet. You were still there, still laughing and smiling and making her blood boil with every second that passed.

In English class, she caught sight of you leaning over Chad's desk, your voice low as you explained something to him. Grammar, maybe. Whatever it was, Tara didn't care.

What she cared about was the way he was looking at you. That stupid, soft smile, the same one he used to give her.

It made her stomach turn.

You didn’t even know what you were doing, she thought bitterly, her fists clenching beneath her desk. You didn't know him. You didn't know how to help him, not like she did. You weren't supposed to be there, leaning over his shoulder, pointing at his textbook like you had any idea what you were doing.

Tara's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding together as she stared at the two of you.

But it was fine. It wouldn't matter soon enough.

By the time the final bell rang, she was practically buzzing with anticipation, her hands trembling as she shoved her books into her bag.

Because today was the day.

And by the time it was over, you'd be gone. Forever.

By the time last period rolled around, Tara could barely contain herself. She was bouncing her leg under the desk, the rapid up-and-down movement making the surface wobble slightly. It wasn't stress, though. Not even close.

It was excitement.

Because in just a few hours, everything would be different. You'd be gone.

She'd spent the entire day anticipating this moment, and now that it was so close, she could hardly breathe. Her chest felt tight, but not in the way it used to when the anger consumed her. This was something else—something electric, like a firework waiting to explode.

When the bell finally rang for the last time that day, Tara practically shot out of her seat. Her heart was pounding, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she sprinted to her locker, dodging through the crowded hallway like her life depended on it.

She grabbed her things in a flurry, barely paying attention to what she was stuffing into her bag. The details didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting out of there as quickly as possible.

The walk home was a blur. She couldn't even remember the route she took, but she knew it was fast because she'd gotten there in record time. She practically burst through the door of the apartment, slamming it shut behind her with a force that rattled the frame.

The space was empty, just as she'd hoped. Sam wasn't home, probably still at the café down the street where she worked long shifts most afternoons.

Tara didn't waste any time. She stormed into her room, yanking her bag off her shoulder and dumping its contents onto the bed. Books, hair ties, pens, and random scraps of paper spilled out in a messy heap. She didn't bother organizing any of it, her focus locked on what came next.

She started packing what she'd need instead.

First came the basics: a pair of gloves she'd swiped from the closet, a small hand towel, and a few cleaning supplies she'd found under the sink. Just in case.

Then there was the book. She'd borrowed it from the library earlier that day, an afterthought at the time, but now it served a purpose. If anyone asked what she'd been doing when you turned up dead, she'd have an alibi.

And then there was the knife.

Tara headed to the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly as she opened the drawer where Sam kept the cutlery. She stared at the knives for a moment, her breathing shallow as she considered her options.

Finally, she picked one.

It wasn't the largest or the sharpest, but it felt solid in her grip. Familiar, almost.

She held it for a moment, staring down at the blade as it caught the light. Her reflection stared back at her, warped and fragmented in the metal, but she didn't flinch.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before tucking the knife into her bag.

This was it.

She was ready.

Tara zipped her bag shut and slung it over her shoulder, not even sparing a second thought for the knife or the other incriminating items inside. Evidence of what was about to happen was tucked away in plain sight, but the thought didn't concern her. Why would it? She wasn't going to get caught.

She paused in the doorway of the apartment, pulling out her phone to double-check the address one last time. It was burned into her memory by now, but a quick glance wouldn't hurt. She'd found it easily enough a week ago, scouring the school directory that had been left out in the counselor's office during one of her "mandatory check-ins." Your address had been listed next to your emergency contacts, all neatly typed out.

Perfect.

Satisfied, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and stepped out into the hallway. The stairwell echoed with her footsteps as she made her way down, each step slow and deliberate. She wasn't in a rush. Not yet.

The walk to your house wasn't short, but it wasn't unbearably long either. Just far enough to give her plenty of time to think, to imagine, to savor the anticipation building in her chest like a drug.

Tara was thrilled.

Not just because of what she was about to do, but because of how clever she'd been about it. The idea had struck her like lightning, and the more she thought about it, the more genius it seemed. She wasn't just solving a problem—she was removing it, erasing it entirely.

As she walked, her thoughts grew darker, more vivid. She pictured you in front of her, on your knees, crying and begging her to stop. But she wouldn't stop. She'd pin you down with a strength you couldn't fight against, her hands steady, her resolve unshakable.

Her gaze flicked down to her white Converse, and she pictured them splattered with red. Blood staining the canvas, dripping onto the pavement, marking every step she took.

She imagined your blood on her hands, warm and slick, streaked across her fingers like war paint. She pictured your face as she hovered over you, the way your eyes would widen with fear, the way your mouth would open to scream—only to be silenced.

The image sent a thrill through her, a jolt of satisfaction that made her grin.

To anyone else, these thoughts would be horrifying. Disturbing. Insane.

But to Tara, they were... liberating.

She couldn't wait.

Tara had dreamt about this moment. Every detail had been mapped out in her mind, as vivid and meticulous as if it had already happened. She hadn't missed a single thing while planning it.

She knew exactly how it would go.

You'd answer the door, your steps light as they always seemed to be. When the door swung open, you'd greet her with that confused little smile, the one that would tug at the corner of your lips as you tried to figure out what she was doing there.

She could already imagine the polite mask you'd pull on, hiding the confusion behind your soft smile as you asked—probably in that gentle, saccharine voice Chad loved so much—what she was doing at your house.

And Tara would match your politeness, feigning a warm, almost apologetic smile as she began to speak. She'd tell you that you'd left the classroom before the teacher had a chance to hand you a paper—a makeup assignment for the math test you were apparently struggling with. She'd tell you how she'd volunteered to bring it to you, mentioning offhandedly that your house was "on the way" to hers.

It wasn't.

But you were probably stupid enough to believe it.

Tara could almost see the way you'd nod, your suspicion melting away as you stepped aside to let her in. And that's when she'd set her plan into motion.

She'd unzip her bag slowly, her movements deliberate, casual, as if she really were pulling out a sheet of paper. She'd even keep talking, her voice calm, explaining how the assignment wasn't that difficult, just a review of material you should already know.

But when her hand came out of the bag, it wouldn't be holding any paper.

It would be holding the knife.

The image was so clear in her mind, so vivid that it felt real. She could see the shock on your face, the way your smile would drop, the way your eyes would widen. She'd let you stand there, frozen and clueless, for just a moment before she lunged.

The first stab would be quick, precise. She'd aim for your stomach, the blade plunging in before you had a chance to react. And as you stumbled back, clutching at the wound, she'd step inside, closing the door behind her with her free hand.

It wouldn't stop there. It couldn't.

She'd keep going, stabbing again and again, her movements frenzied but deliberate, each strike fueled by the rage that had been festering inside her for weeks.

By the time you hit the floor, Tara would already be kneeling over you, her knife rising and falling with a terrifying rhythm.

She'd finish it. Completely.

Tara found herself smirking at the thought, her steps quickening as she neared your street. The plan played out in her head like a movie she'd already watched a hundred times, each scene perfectly clear, perfectly executed.

The thought of it all—the fear in your eyes, the blood on her hands, the peace that would finally follow—was almost enough to make her laugh.

By the time she reached your street, her smirk had settled into something more fixed, more certain. The weight of the knife in her bag wasn't something she second-guessed. There was no hesitation in her steps, no flicker of doubt in her mind. She had played this moment over so many times that it felt inevitable, like she was simply walking through a prewritten script.

And then she saw your house.

That perfect, suburban home—one of those places that looked like it had been plucked from a family sitcom. The kind of house where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen. The driveway was empty, just like it was supposed to be. No parents home. No witnesses. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that you had all of this.

Tara felt her stomach twist in something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite jealousy, but a poisonous mix of both. The house itself was nice—not a mansion, but big enough that she knew you had space that was yours. No sharing. No constantly moving from one place to another. You had stability. The porch light was already on despite the sun still clinging to the sky, because you had parents who actually cared if you got home in the dark.

Parents who were probably normal.

Not like hers.

And it wasn't just the house. It was everything. The car parked on the curb—the one that she knew was yours and not some shared family vehicle. The way your front yard was neatly kept, the way there was a welcome mat in front of the door, the way it all screamed a life she never had.

It made her hate you even more.

But that hate only made her more certain. Because soon, none of it would matter. Your perfect house, your caring parents, your stupid little car—they would all be meaningless.

Soon, the only thing you'd have was a gravestone with your name carved into it.

And that made her happy.

Tara forced herself to relax as she walked up the front steps, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She let out a slow breath, schooling her expression into something neutral. She wasn't just about to commit murder—no, she was just a classmate doing a favor, dropping off an assignment.

The thought almost made her laugh.

She reached the front door, lifting a fist and knocking twice against the wood.

The house was quiet. Peaceful.

But soon, Tara imagined, it would be fuller.

Fuller with screams.

And then—she heard it.

A soft, thoughtless hum from the other side of the door. Light, airy, clueless.

Her hands twitched at her sides, damp with sweat before she even realized it. A sick, twisted heat pooled in her stomach, curling around her ribs like a vice, because for the first time all day, something foreign crawled up her spine.

Nerves.

Real, undeniable, nerves.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

No. No. That wasn't right. She had waited for this.

She had planned, dreamed, prepared for this exact moment. She was supposed to feel good. Excited.

Not like this.

Not like her body had turned against her.

Tara's jaw tightened, anger sparking white-hot beneath her skin, because that was your fault, too.

Of course, it was.

You were the one who made her feel this way. You were the reason her mind had been tangled in knots for weeks, the reason she couldn't breathe without choking on the thought of you, the reason everything felt so wrong.

And that was why she was here.

She sucked in a sharp breath, planting her feet firmly on the doorstep, pushing the shaking from her hands, the sweat from her palms.

Because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter that her heart was hammering against her ribs. It didn't matter that her mind was racing.

All that mattered was that you were coming.

And then—

A quiet shuffle of footsteps.

Closer.

Tara's stomach twisted.

Another step.

And another.

The shadow of movement from behind the glass.

And then—

The door clicked as the lock turned.

The handle shifted.

And Tara stopped breathing.

The door swung open.

And there you were.

Tara didn't know what she had expected. She had run through this moment in her head too many times to count, had pictured every detail—the way you'd react, the way she'd feel, the way it would finally happen. But none of those versions had prepared her for the real thing.

Because the real thing was you—standing there, so normal, so alive in a way that made something tighten in her chest.

You hadn't even looked to see who it was before your lips curled into a soft, polite smile, like answering the door and finding someone waiting for you was just another part of your evening. Like she was just another part of your evening.

And Tara—

Tara froze.

Her grip tightened around the strap of her bag, fingers stiff, nails pressing into her palm. The weight of it suddenly felt too heavy, dragging her down, pinning her in place.

You weren't looking at her yet, not fully, but she could see the moment it registered. The way your eyes flickered, widening just a little before settling, before you adjusted.

Tara swallowed hard, throat dry.

She hadn't planned for this—for the way time seemed to slow, for the way her pulse slammed against her ribs, not in anger but in something else, something unreadable. She had prepared for every possible scenario, had thought through every single step. She knew exactly what she had to do.

So why the fuck wasn't she doing it?

Why was she standing there, frozen, when this was exactly what she had been waiting for?

Her stomach twisted, a sick, sudden nausea creeping in.

She had to say something.

She had to move.

But she just stood there, staring.

It was like her body had short-circuited, her mind blanking out in a way it never did. She had pictured this moment a hundred times, had mapped it out in her head with a precision so sharp it felt real—but now? Now, standing in front of you, with your stupid soft smile and your wide, expectant eyes, everything felt wrong.

She was supposed to have control.

She was supposed to speak first.

But before she could force a single word out of her mouth—

"Oh my God, Tara!"

Your voice hit her like a slap to the face.

Not just because of the voice—bright, warm, too friendly for what this moment was meant to be—but because of how you said her name.

Wrong.

You stretched out the A like it belonged there, like you had never even considered the right way to say it.

Tara's stomach twisted, her nose scrunching slightly before she could stop it.

She hated when people did that.

It wasn't even complicated. It wasn't hard.

Tara. Short. Sharp. Simple.

Why the fuck would it be anything else?

But then—before she could even say anything, before she could snap at you the way she wanted to—you noticed.

Not in the way most people did.

You didn't fumble over yourself, didn't look nervous, didn't react like someone who had just made a mistake in front of the wrong person.

No.

You just... realized.

"Oh—sorry. It's Tara, right?"

And this time, you said it right.

Tara felt something hot crawl up her spine.

You didn't wait for her to correct you.

You didn’t need her to tell you you were wrong.

You figured it out on your own.

And yet, you still smiled.

"I'm sorry, I totally suck at names," you added, your voice easy, a small, amused sigh slipping through a quiet giggle.

A giggle.

Like this was nothing.

Like you weren't standing in your doorway, staring at someone who had come here to kill you.

Tara's grip on her bag tightened.

You weren't nervous.

Not even a little.

Why weren't you nervous?

You were supposed to be. Yet she was the one that was.

Tara didn't know what the fuck was happening to her.

This wasn't right.

She was supposed to be in control. She was supposed to be sharp, precise, already halfway inside your house by now, setting her plan into motion.

But instead, she stood there.

Frozen.

Silent.

She couldn't speak.

Her body acted before her mind caught up, lips pressing together in something barely resembling a smile. Thin. Tense. Fake.

"It's fine," she mumbled, her voice lower than she intended.

It wasn't fine.

Nothing about this was fine.

And yet, you still didn't ask her what she was doing here.

You didn't look suspicious. You didn't hesitate. You didn't ask.

Tara could feel something bubbling in her chest, frustration twisting in with something else, something hotter, sharper.

Why weren't you asking?

Why weren't you wary?

Why weren't you treating her like a stranger who had no reason to be on your doorstep?

But before she could dwell on it for too long, your face lit up even more—

And you started talking.

"I've actually been wanting to speak to you for a while."

Your voice was too warm. Too light.

Tara's jaw clenched.

"This whole thing with Chad..."

You trailed off, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear, tilting your head ever so slightly as your eyes flicked to her face—

Waiting.

Waiting to see if she reacted to his name.

And fuck, she did.

She hated that she did.

But you didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe you did, but you didn't care.

You just continued, words spilling out like you had been holding them in for too long.

"I wanted to ask if you guys were fine before... yeah, you know."

Tara didn't need you to finish that sentence.

She knew exactly what you meant.

Before you.

Before Chad moved on.

Before you ruined everything.

Her nails dug into the strap of her bag.

And still, you didn't stop talking.

"I know we're not friends and barely know each other," you admitted, still looking at her with that same softness. That genuine fucking softness that made her stomach twist in ways it shouldn't.

"But you're really nice," you went on.

Tara almost laughed at that.

Nice.

You thought she was nice.

And then—

"I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable or, you know... secretly hate me."

The way you said it was almost casual, like it was just a thought, something light, something small—

But Tara felt her heartbeat slam against her ribs.

You didn't know.

You had no idea.

And for the first time since she got here, she felt a flicker of something close to panic.

You didn't hate her.

You weren't afraid of her.

You thought she was nice.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?

Tara tried to reason with herself.

If she just did it now, everything would be fine.

If she just said what she planned to say, if she reached for her bag, if she pulled out the knife instead—

It would be over.

It would be done.

You would be nothing but a mess on the floor, and Chad would be devastated, and he would come crawling back, and everything would go back to how it was supposed to be.

So why wasn't she moving?

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag, but her body stayed rooted to the spot.

She wanted to.

Oh, how she wanted to.

She had dreamed about this moment.

Had imagined the way you'd look at her—terrified, confused, realizing too late what was about to happen.

She had longed for it.

And yet—

She couldn't.

For some stupid, inexplicable reason, she couldn't.

Something in her wouldn't let her.

What the fuck was she even thinking earlier?

Why did she think this would be easy?

Why did she think she could just walk up here and do it like it was nothing?

Her head felt too full, a war raging behind her eyes, pushing, pulling, twisting.

She wasn't supposed to hesitate.

She wasn't supposed to second-guess herself.

She was supposed to kill you.

So why was it suddenly feeling impossible?

You studied her face as she stood there, silent.

To you, it probably looked like she was still hurt over Chad.

Like she was standing here, struggling to find the right words, caught up in old feelings she hadn't moved past yet.

And when she didn't answer, you didn't take it the way you should have.

You didn't question why she was just standing there.

You didn't wonder why she was looking at you like that, like something wasn't clicking in her head.

Instead—you invited her in.

You stepped back, opening the door a little wider, glancing at her with the same warm expression you had greeted her with.

"Do you want to come inside?"

Tara blinked.

For a second, she thought she misheard you.

But you weren't kidding.

You were actually letting her in.

You, the person she had been planning to kill, were offering to welcome her into your home.

You didn't even know her.

And when she didn't immediately respond, you just smiled a little and added, "Only if you want to."

That was it.

No hesitation. No suspicion. No fear.

Why weren't you scared of her?

Why weren't you acting like someone who was about to die?

Her fingers clenched tighter around the strap of her bag.

She should leave.

She should end this.

She should do what she came here to do.

And yet—

Almost without thinking, she found herself nodding.

Slowly, stiffly.

And then she was stepping inside.

Her body was acting on its own, ignoring the part of her mind still screaming at her to just fucking do it already.

She heard you close the door behind her.

She stood there, fists tightening at her sides, eyes flickering around your house—your nice, warm, safe house that made her sick.

And then you were talking again, so casually, so easily.

"I'm trying to study for the math test, but it's not going really well."

You let out a small, light laugh, like this was nothing.

Like she was just a friend stopping by instead of a fucking killer in your home.

Tara didn't know why she followed you.

Why her feet carried her further inside instead of turning around and doing what she was supposed to do.

She barely processed the way you walked ahead of her, leading her through the house like she belonged there.

Like she wasn't holding a knife in her bag.

Like she wasn't planning to use it.

Her fingers curled tighter around the strap, knuckles aching from the pressure, but she still didn't stop.

She stepped past the entryway, eyes flickering over everything she could see—the framed artwork on the walls, the coat rack near the door, the way the house smelled warm, lived in. There was something painfully normal about all of it. Too normal. It made her stomach turn.

And then her gaze landed on it.

The photo sitting neatly on the shelf above the couch.

She didn't mean to stop. Didn't mean to let her focus linger. But she did.

It was you.

Your family.

Your mom, your dad, your little brother.

All of you smiling, arms wrapped around each other like you had never known anything but happiness.

Her throat burned.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped their hands around her ribs and squeezed.

She didn't know why.

She didn't fucking know why.

All she knew was that she hated that picture.

Hated the way you had that.

Hated the way she couldn't even imagine a photo like that of her own family.

Most definitely not framed in the living room.

Her mouth pressed into a hard line, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag.

The weight of the knife sat heavy inside, like it was taunting her.

She should reach for it.

She should pull it out and remind herself why she was here.

But her body still wouldn't move.

And that made her furious.

Why the fuck was she just standing here?

Why wasn't she doing anything?

It would be so easy.

A few steps. A flick of her wrist.

Blood against the perfect little life you had.

A stain.

A reminder that nothing was ever really safe.

So why couldn't she do it?

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else—until your voice cut through the haze.

"Tara?"

She blinked.

Snapped back to the moment.

You were looking at her now, head slightly tilted, waiting for her to follow you further inside.

She forced her jaw to unclench, tearing her eyes away from the photo and moving again.

She followed you into the living room.

And that was when she saw the mess of notes and open notebooks spread out across the coffee table.

Pens scattered. Pages half-filled with numbers and formulas. Homework left abandoned mid-thought.

She stared.

She didn't even know why.

Maybe it was because it was so normal.

Like you had no idea what was standing right in front of you.

Like she wasn't supposed to be anything other than some classmate stopping by with an assignment.

Her fingers twitched against the strap of her bag.

Maybe if she just—

Your voice cut through the silence again, still light, still unbothered.

"You can sit down if you want."

You motioned toward the couch, as if this was just normal.

As if she wasn't standing in your house, her heart hammering, her mind completely unraveling.

Tara swallowed hard, forcing her feet forward.

One step.

Then another.

She made it halfway across the room before stopping again, her breath catching somewhere in her throat.

She shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She should just grab the knife, should just do what she fucking came here to do.

But she couldn't.

And she didn’t know why.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"You are." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

To Daryl, you are different, you are special, you are everything. But when his jealousy over a "prank" from your friend leads to a misunderstanding you can't resolve, and an incident the next day that nearly costs you your life, it causes Daryl to have a huge revelation about his feelings for you.

@artsynana: heyy dear!! i was wondering if you could ever write something with some soft jealous daryl x reader at the prison era, btw i love the way you write daryl🥰

A/N: Hi love. First, sorry! I didn't know you had left a request :( but thank you so much for doing it. This is a little short and different :( and a little more dramatic, but I really hope you like it♥ And for your words, thank u again! I think I write Daryl a little bit off the character, but I guess it's because I picture him like that hehe

Daryl Dixon is not a possessive person, never, but he is not made of steel either, that’s way he’s unable to stop jealousy from creeping up on him.

The night is ending inside the prison, the heat of the day floating in the air, but the still warm weather seems to hang over Daryl almost in a suffocating way. As he continues to wait for his dinner, he has a panoramic view of you across the dining room, sitting in the long steel chair, elbows on the table, always accompanied by that pretty boy Sean, with his stupid green eyes and that stupid smile, following you ever since Daryl rescued his group from the governor.

And Daryl hates not being able to hate you for the senseless jealousy that you make him feel now, as he thought he did in the past.

Daryl hated ​​you for being a badass, like the afternoon you showed up to save his ass back in Atlanta, like a force of nature, like a fucking storm–sweeping away the little peace he managed to find at the end of the world, shaking his own with your magnetic presence. But he also hated how your strong gaze could rest, turning you into an angel when he could see the tenderness in your soft smile, and your dreamy eyes when things got a little bit better in that grey world.

The secret of his hate was because of your selfishness, your wild and free heart, and that fucking dimple that formed on your left cheek, so yeah, he fell hard for that, he fell hard for you. But no one knew about your relationship, everyone blind to those little displays of affection: the casual brush of your hands, the secret smiles, the way his hand rested on the side of your neck before he kissed you.

“You are like… staring much. Don't you think?" Carol chuckles beside him, making Daryl look away from you as he takes his plate. "Damn, pookie, you are not subtle at all."

She continues with the bland jokes; the same ones she’s been making since Carol caught the way Daryl looked at you.

"Shut up." He hisses, turning his attention back to the food.

But Carol is not ready to give up.

"I once read that when a feeling is silenced, bottled up or imprisoned, the eyes, the lover’s gazes scream everything."

Daryl frowns, confused.

"What the hell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?"

She chuckles, crossing her arms.

"Oh, nothing. I'm just saying that maybe you should start making it clear to everyone that (Y/N) is with you."

He clears his throat, but the heat on his cheeks burns more than the sun on that season.

"Ya knew?"

"No. You just told me." Carol turns around towards the pot to serve herself a plate, Daryl narrowing his eyes at her, even if she isn’t looking at him.

"But, uh... like what?" He asks after a few seconds, hoping that Carol will understand the question without him having to spell it out for her.

She shrugs.

“I don’t know. Maybe approach her not only when you two are alone.”

Carol smiles at Daryl, walking away to leave him with the weight of his thoughts.

Daryl Dixon is a strong man, to survive, to protect, but as a boy who grew tall but is still a boy on the inside, he feels lost with the feelings he keeps inside him, not knowing what to do with them. He had had casual encounters in bars, but was too drunk to even remember, to even care about them. But you are different, you are special, you are everything. That’s why, even with his heart hammering in his chest, Daryl walks over to the last table, eyes fixed on your profile, his sometimes noisy mind disappearing the rest as he sets his plate down on the table before sitting down next to you, ignoring the confused look from Sean, who was silent for a second in shock before resuming his story of a past life on his farm with the rest.

“The lake water is cold during that season…” He keeps talking, oblivious to the way you hold your breath when you feel Daryl's fingers on your lower back.

But out of nowhere, his hand begins to seek out the skin beneath, a light touch over the edge of your black t–shirt until he finds the warmth of your flesh. Your back arches slightly beneath his calloused fingers on your skin, but you try to control your body as your dirty thoughts begin to overflow.

The small group is so wrapped up in the funny anecdote that no one notices the way Daryl leans in close.

"Breathe, peach, ‘fore ya pass out."

His words are the jolt back to reality, and you let out a breath as you squint, your hand darting from your lap to his leg, only to pinch his skin over his pants with your fingers. As a reflex, his leg jumps slightly, but Daryl takes the attack with a smirk that is almost imperceptible to the rest of them, but not to you.

"Isn't that right, (Y/N)?" Sean glances in your direction, catching your gaze and a confused expression that silently prompts him to repeat his question. "You told me you dated a guy who looked like me."

Confused, you clear your throat.

“Yeah. Uh, but we separated long before all this...”

Mary nods, a young woman who came with Sean’s group.

“Wow. He must have been really handsome. But did you love him, (Y/N)?”

Your skin feels cold again when Daryl's hand leaves your body, even if your skin feels boiling hot when the attention falls on you like the midday sun in that stifling season. As if someone had put their hand on your throat until it was blocked from air, your uncomfortable laughter comes out muffled, but you don’t answer before changing topics. But it's sad that after a short while, Daryl stands up to go to his own cell, his thoughts run wild about the jealousy he feels about that guy, thinking that there was someone who made you feel something when, for him, you were his first everything.

When dinner time is over and everyone returns to their cells, you find yourself timidly entering Daryl's cell only because his door was still open, but staying close to it. He’s lying on his back, eyes fixed on the arrow in his hands just to keep himself busy.

“Hey. Uh, can we talk?”

“’bout what?”

His voice is flat, not a single emotion in it.

“About what happened in the dining room with Sean.”

 “What ‘bout it?”

You shrug, even if he isn’t looking at you.

“Don’t know exactly, but I think I made you feel uncomfortable.”

Daryl scoffs.

“Ya didn't make me feel anythin’.”

His words form a lump in your throat, completely silencing the truth you were going to tell, just because your own anxious mind tells you that you don't make him feel anything, at all, like never, and that is painful.

“Okay, uh, I don’t want to force you to talk so… I guess I’m gonna go. Oh, we'll leave early tomorrow for the run, by the way.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

You sigh, walking away.

But jealousy is an irrational force, but a force of nature that resembles a hurricane, or any destructive phenomenon inside a timid and fearful mind: that’s why when the early morning arrives and the first ray of sun shines on the horizon, Daryl decides to switch places with Glenn, just so he wouldn't be stuck with his thoughts of you in a car for hours.

However, the day grows tedious for him, even in the small details like the wind blowing dust into his face, or the way the walkers keep piling up against the fence, taking the place of the lifeless body when Daryl stabs his knife into their skulls. But before his ocean–blue eyes can see the car returning at a worrying speed, his ears can hear the horn, like a desperate call that makes his heart wake up frantically.

“Someone is hurt.” Carol tells him, a second before they start running towards the main fence.

Maggie and Rick are closer and they open the gates, the car raising tornadoes of dust until it stopped inside the prison. Michonne steps out of the passenger seat as Daryl and Carol arrive to meet her, Bob and Glenn following as she begins to narrate the horror story.

“… and one of those men was behind me, (Y/N) shot him but another stabbed her in the abdomen.”

The back door of the car is open, but like a roller coaster of emotions, Daryl’s heart is so up that it threatens to stop because of the fear, as if it stopped pumping blood to replace it with an infinite void. But he refuses to listen to the death whispering in his ear that you won’t make it as he carries you, arms under your shoulders and knees.

“Call Hershel!” He says, to whoever is faster as Daryl starts waking fast, because, even though he wants to run to catch the seconds that seem to slip away, your body feels as fragile as porcelain.

And it’s crazy, it’s wild the way Herself has to perform a surgery to control the bleeding on the same table where the night before your and his playful fingers had teased each other, minutes before ruining it all with your silence and his jealousy. But when it's all over and the madness has cleared like a thick fog, he finds himself sitting on the edge of your bed, taking in the way your closed eyelids make you look like you're just asleep and not unconscious.

“She will make up, Daryl.” Carol says softly, standing close to him. “It’s late, you should rest.”

He shakes his head.

“Nah. I’m stayin’ here with her. Don’ want her to be alone when she does.”

Carol nods, knowing perfectly nothing will change his mind.

“Okay, Pookie, I will come to check on you both in the morning.”

She kisses his forehead, but Daryl is too absent to notice as she leaves the room. The entire prison falls into a deep sleep, and Daryl can hear the almost imperceptible sound of your breathing fighting against the almost deafening silence of his world, telling him without words that you are there, and that you are not going anywhere. But after a while, Daryl lies down on his right side, still close to the edge of the bed to give you all the space you needed, but able to leave only that small space between his body and yours.

“Fuck… now I know I love ya, peach.” He whispers, shy and scared you can hear him even like that. “That seems to be the only answer to why I almost lost ma shit when I saw ya there… bleedin’ out. Jesus, ya would probably laugh if ya saw me here now scared to death like a damn child.” Daryl tries to laugh, a nervous little laugh that falls to a heavy sigh. “Please, wake up, okay? I promise I’ll be better.”

But since there is no answer from the other end, his words hang in the air for the rest of the night, even after Daryl falls asleep. However, as the sun begins to peek through one of the prison's tall windows one more time, your eyelids open slightly, the world in front of you blurring for an instant, until your scattered senses become one and focus on the pain pounding your abdomen.

But still, you turn your head slightly to the side when your peripheral vision catches a body beside yours, smiling weakly at the image before you. Daryl's hair covers part of his closed eyes, but his slight frown reflects his concern, even if you don't know that.

You raise your arm until your hand touches the skin of his face, soft flesh under your fingers.

“Daryl?” Your voice brings him back easily, walking him up from that terrifying dream as he sits up, his hand cupping the side of your face just to feel that you're actually awake.

"Ya okay, peach, ya okay."

“Am I? Since when I’m here?”

Daryl sighs, but he decides to mask his fear with humor, just because he feels like he can spill all his feelings for you in a single second.

“Jus' a day, but ya took yer sweet time to wake up, woman.”

“Sorry.”

You chuckle shyly, but his gaze turns soft.

“Nah. Don’t be, I’m jus’ so glad ya came back.” Concern allows him to smile slightly, before telling you that he's going to go find Hershel.

The examination lasts a few minutes, until you two are left alone, again.

“Daryl…” One more time, your voice pulls his eyes towards yours the moment he sits back down. “Sean was messing with you. You know? I was going to tell you about it that night before all this, but you didn’t want to listen and I didn’t want to push you to.”

Embarrassed, Daryl lowers his head a little bit, watching you through his long hair.

“M’ sorry, peach. I was jealous of ‘em and I ended up sayin’ the wrong shit again.”

Them.

“Daryl, that’s exactly what I was going to tell you that night. There was never another guy, Sean made up that story to get a reaction out of you because even he can see how much you want to kick his ass every time you see him coming." You chuckle. "Besides, he’s gay.”

Daryl blinks, confused like never in his life.

“He is?”

You nod.

“Yep, really gay, but don’t worry, Sean has a crush on Glenn because you look too intimidating for his like.” You want to laugh, but you can see his own shame sinking his heart heavily, feeling the pain and guilt for letting you go alone, because Daryl is a protector: that is in his nature.

And when things went wrong, that weight fell on his shoulders.

"Sorry, I think I screwed this thing between us."

And in a second and with an overwhelming strength, you can see his eyes becoming teary with all the feelings he has inside him.

"No. You didn't, Daryl, unless you want this to end."

But he shakes his head.

"No. I don' want it to ever end."

You nod softly.

"Good." When your hand catches his, Daryl clings to it, but you don't force him to talk because you know better than anyone that it was difficult for him to express himself. "Now come, lie down and try to sleep. Okay?”

He nods, laying down next to you, too overwhelmed to speak his mind at that very moment, his hand still holding yours even after he falls asleep when his mind can no longer carry the full weight of his thoughts. But while he does, you can't help but smile slightly, because now, awake, you are convinced that his voice saying I love you was not just part of the dream you were having, sweet words you hope you can tell him soon.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍʏ ᴇᴀʀ

…𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭

angst, smut (mostly descriptive), friends to lovers, unresolved, no happy ending, suggestive, making out, heartbreak, emotional manipulation, self-destructive behavior, toxic dynamics, fluff if u squint, romance, intimacy, friends with benefits, betrayal, unrequited love?, slow burn, self-sabotage

listen to the song that inspired this fic while reading!

word count - 3k

Matt has a scar on his temple. She’s always liked to run her hand over it. The first time she tried, he flinched, batted her hand away, mumbled something about personal space.

She stopped after that. Until one day, he caught her staring.

"You wanna hear a story?" he asked, grinning like he had a secret. "Got mauled by a bear once. Barely made it out."

She almost called his bluff. Almost.

Instead, she smiled, seeing it for what it was... permission. To touch him. To know him in ways he wouldn’t always say.

Maybe she loves that he never tells the truth straight. Maybe she loves that she doesn't really understand him.

Maybe she just loves him.

It was not always a thing. Her… curiousity. Affection. Desire.

When they were very little, she used to follow him and his brothers around. It was easy to. Not to mention that people liked them, because they were charming, and funny, and genuine. She stuck by Matt's side through school, feeling safe and protected under his wing like a small bird. He teased her, sure, even back then. Always sitting beside him, walking directly behind him, looking out for his reaction when she told a joke or shared a story.

Eventually, they reached that age where it was only natural for her to distance herself slightly. Things became less ritual, less assumed, and she found herself asking for permission, looking for his affirmation, seeking out his validation.

Sometime after 10th grade, she started spending the night again. Mostly in Matt’s room. He let her in. And she took what she could get. They didn’t ever cuddle or anything. Mostly Matt would talk, and she would listen. She absorbed everything, every word, every silence. The care she had for him ran so deep she felt it inside sometimes, to the rhythm of her heartbeat, spreading through her like oxygen. He asks her questions sometimes, questions that a part of her finds silly and stupid, his boyish brain not quite at her contemplative level. She forced herself not to mind. To appreciate it.

When she does talk, in those late hours, staring up at the ceiling, she can tell he’s not really listening. He’s too… wrapped up in himself. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He’s probably just stressed. 

She hopes Matt cares. Maybe he does, just not as much as her. He likes the safety of the distance between them. But just enough, sure, maybe he cares.

That night, they end up in his room. He always lets her stay when the world gets too loud. Everything feels too quiet, too intimate here. It’s a comfortable space, familiar in a way that makes her want to curl up and stay forever. She rests her head against his pillow, the soft fabric of his sleeve brushing against her forehead as she stares at the ceiling.

When she wakes, they’re the closest they’ve ever been. The sunlight manages to shine directly into the corner of her eye, so she squints. And then she sees him. Feels him. He’s holding her, his arm draped over her waist, hand grazing her stomach as her back leans against him. She sees him so clearly. Pulling her toward him in the most innocent of ways.

She feels the goodness radiating off her bones and she becomes fearful. That he’s probably known all along, even when she hasn’t. That she likes him. Really, really likes him. 

The heat doesn’t overcome the fear then, it doesn’t pool in her stomach until much, much later. It’s not till they’re eating cereal, all of them together, and someone is telling a story, and all she can do is watch as Matt suppresses his laughter. She can’t help but see the little boy in him, always. Nothing about him is malevolent to her. Even when he smirks, teasing or mocking her, she feels nothing but warmth.

She goes to parties, tries to find another guy, another boy to kiss to avoid even thinking of Matt like that. It doesn’t work of course.

She gives away her virginity to the boy in her math class. The one who didn’t mean any harm and therefore, doesn’t cause her any. He doesn’t make her feel good, but she holds him close to hide his face so that she can tug on the brown hair and pretend all is well.

And then one night, when she finally admits to herself that none of it is working, she allows her mind to wander. To truly contemplate, what it might be like. To be loved like that. By him. 

She doesn’t drift for more than mere seconds before she finally feels the warmth return. In her mind, her thoughts recall how Matt's lips hover above her ear at parties just before he leaves her alone in the corner. She could come already, it’s pathetic.

The fantasy is shattered when she remembers him kissing another girl right after.

She’s not jealous. She doesn’t need to, doesn’t want to feel special. He lets her in and that’s enough.

She touches herself to kill the emotion, replaying the scene from an outsider’s perspective. His lips on her ear. His lips on her ear. His lips on her ear. It rewinds and distorts but it’s no matter. She’s already sticky and shameful, childlike. 

She doesn’t dare to do it again, she already regrets it and can’t look him in the eye anymore. It’s almost like he knows about the sick fantasy, and he's constantly trying to catch her with his eyes like a hunter. 

It’s only because of this that she pictures him beneath her. His eyes so wide and disconcerted, like a deer in headlights. Just like a baby animal, and her fear dissipates to the rhythm of her touch, pretending, praying that the emotion will die once more if she gives the fantasy just enough room to breathe.

And then one night they’re talking about love, true love. Their beliefs, hopes and truths, and she lies, she lies like she loves him and wants to protect him. Treats herself like the one in the wrong. She knows that this conversation is only happening because nothing will ever happen between them. She hopes that that's true because she can’t handle the end of her love, not in the way he can.

Sometime between their complete and utter closeness, they both find comfort in others. She still searches for Matt though, always, always, always.

Sometime between the external comfort, they find their way back to his room, his bed. And he holds her again, more and more these days and she wonders why.

And it’s sick and twisted because it happens. In his bed. His lips hovering on her ear, expressing his shallow gratitude. She can’t help it, she gasps lightly. It’s the best she can manage without taking advantage of his closeness.

Unfortunately, Matt notices it, and he whispers again. 

“Do you like it baby?”, she feels his warmth breath coat her like the sun, “My mouth on your ear?”

Something shrivels up and dies inside her then, the reluctance, the pre-emptive disappointment, and she nods, squirming in his grip. “Mhm,” she whines. They fall asleep like that, cuddling like lovers as Matt whispers in her ear, sending her into a beautiful trance.

In the morning, they don’t speak of it. He’s there, a vessel of her comfort as always. Days pass, and she touches herself again, thoughts of Matt creeping in as always. 

They remain who they’ve always been to the outside world. Friends. Good friends. But back in his room, as she leans against the wall his bed touches, she doesn’t feel anything like that. 

He’s sitting at his desk, back to her.

“Matt,” she says, her voice quiet, but he turns around as the silence hangs in the air between them, sharp and fragile. “Do you ever think about... us?”

He looks at her, his brow furrowing slightly, and for the first time, she sees something flicker in his eyes. Uncertainty. He chuckles, but it’s not his usual carefree laugh. It’s tight, almost defensive.

“What do you mean, ‘us’?” he asks, trying to mask the tension in his voice with the ease he’s perfected over the years.

She takes a breath, the weight of her own words heavier than she expected. She knows this is risky, but it’s impossible to hold it in any longer. “I mean… us, as more than just…” She gestures between them, frustrated, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding foolish. “More than just… how we are. What we are.”

He shifts, his posture stiffening. His hand tightens against the armrest, his jaw set. “We’ve always been like this,” he says, and there’s that familiar nonchalance, the wall he’s always built between them. “Don’t need anything else. It’s enough.”

Her chest tightens, the words falling flat even as she tries to smile. “Maybe,” she whispers, but her voice shakes. “But what about me?”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat that lingers too long in the air between them. And for the briefest moment, she swears she sees something flicker in his eyes. Something softer, something afraid.

But then it’s gone, hidden behind that same smile that’s never quite reached his eyes.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” he says, more to himself than to her, his voice a little too calm. “You know that.”

She nods, the weight of his words sinking in. She’s heard this before… just never to her. She should know better, shouldn’t she? But it feels different this time. It feels like a denial, not just of her feelings, but of something they could have shared. Maybe she’s been fooling herself all along.

“I know,” she says, her voice small, barely audible over the noise. “I know.”

It's still not over after that conversation. She’s still completely at his mercy and she can’t bring herself to walk away, to shatter. It’s like she wants him to hurt her. For it to be his fault, and not hers. She tells herself she can move on, that she can bury the feelings that have only been growing with each passing moment. She’s had enough of the games. Enough of the waiting. Even edging herself and relieving herself does little good.

It’s just not that simple.

The next few days pass in a blur. She tries to keep her distance, but something keeps drawing her back to him…like a magnetic pull she can’t escape, the years, the way he’s always been there. And then there’s a moment, late one night, when everything just cracks. They’re in his room again, the same room that’s always felt like home and a cage at the same time. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed, talking about nothing and everything, and then he’s there, too close again.

And before she even knows what’s happening, his lips are on hers.

It’s not like the kisses she’s had before, quick and careless, stolen moments that never meant anything. This one is different. This one makes her feel like she’s floating, like she’s finally found a place she’s meant to be. She’s shocked, clawing at the air for a second. Then his hand cups the side of her face, and she presses closer, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt, pulling him in.

It’s a moment that feels like everything. Like it’s all been leading to this. And for a little while, she forgets about the rules he’s laid down. She forgets about the distance he’s kept between them. She just lets herself feel it, the heat, the intensity, the way his lips move against hers like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

He groans into her mouth, and pulls away abruptly. But she’s desperate, kissing him again as they fall down onto the bed, their chests pressed against each other. 

Somehow the moment is passionate, the way he undresses her, caresses her, tells her she’s beautiful. He whispers in her ear as he moves within her and she whimpers, closer and closer to the high she’s been yearning for. 

His mouth trails over her chest as she arches her back away from him. He cups her breast with his warm hand, kneading it and massaging it. “I love how you respond to me, to my touch.”

He enters her slower, deeper, “I want you to feel it baby. I want you to feel good. Feel loved.” She moans at his words and looks back staring into his eyes, the innocent gaze of a friend she’s known for as long as she’s known her own name. They both come with a final rough movment from him and collapse onto each other.

It feels loving, like devotion, and when he eventually pulls out, she feels full of bliss. 

He gets on his knees pulling on his shirt before glancing back at her. She pours all of her love into her post-orgasm stare. He smiles, shy, before looking back down and kneeling down to kiss her core. Slowly but surely, he overstimulates her, making out with the most private part of her, cleaning her, loving her.

She smiles, content. Empty, but newly joined. Hopeful. 

But the next morning, everything is different.

He’s distant again, almost like nothing happened. His eyes avoid hers, and the silence stretches between them like an ocean, too wide to cross. He doesn’t mention the kiss. Doesn’t acknowledge what happened after.

This time, it’s different though. She knows it, and he knows it. The unspoken tension hangs in the air between them, undeniable. They don’t say the words, but there’s a shift. A silent agreement in the way he watches her when he thinks she's not looking, the way she can’t stop looking at him, even as she tries to pretend like it doesn’t matter.

Eventually, after days of this unspoken tension, Matt says something. Casual, almost teasing, like they’re joking, like nothing matters.

“You think we could do this... and whatever? A compromise?” he says, voice low but eyes still holding hers.

She knows what he means. And she knows that this isn’t the kind of thing that can be taken back. It’s an offer, a dangerous one, and she’s so close to refusing, but instead, she finds herself nodding. She’s done pretending. She’s done with the half-truths.

“I’m fine with it,” she murmurs. “Don’t need much more.”

Matt looks at her, eyes sharp. “We can make this work,” he promises, but the words are hollow. She knows that. The question hangs there between them, a fragile thread strung across a chasm of things unsaid. He knows it too. But he won't say it.

They’re tangled together in the silence that follows, a pact neither of them can take back. It’s something they’ve both tried to avoid for so long. But now, in the wake of everything they’ve built up and torn down, it feels like the only thing left to do.

The bed feels too small for both of them, a tight coil that she can't escape. She lies back, her head sinking into the pillow, the weight of the room pressing down on her. Matt’s silhouette stands over her, a shadow she can’t shake off. The space between them is thick, suffocating. She breathes in, and the air feels heavier, as though every inch she takes toward him is another step toward the inevitable.

She tells herself it’s fine, that it’s just for now, just something to fill the space between them, to fill the gaps in the way they’ve always existed. No expectations. No pressure.

But as they fall into each other again, the boundaries blur, and everything shifts. The kisses feel deeper, the touches linger longer. He holds her. He holds her. His mouth over her ear.

She’s still scared, still bracing herself for the inevitable crash, the heartbreak she knows will come when it’s over. But right now, she can’t bring herself to care.

She should feel anger, or sadness… maybe both. But instead, she feels something worse: a sick, hollow longing. It's the kind of want that gnaws at her, the kind of want that tells her that even knowing this will hurt her, she would still do it. She would still step forward. Because for the first time in too long, something feels real, even if it’s doomed..

She’s already made her bed. She might as well lie down with him.

She’s always known this would happen. She’s always known Matt would leave her wanting, never giving enough to truly stay, yet always giving just enough to keep her hooked. But now, with the decisive touches, the silence, the empty space between them, it’s different. The fear she used to feel…fear that he might hurt her, might break her heart, is gone. There’s no surprise in it anymore. There’s only a cold certainty, a sharp knowledge of how deep the hurt will run.

And somehow, she feels it before it even happens… the ache of knowing this will end badly. But there's a strange warmth in the hurt. The promise of it. A twisted comfort, like preparing for a storm you can't stop, but somehow want. The thought of it burns, and she lets it. 

She knows how it will feel when it all unravels, but she can’t help the thrill that shivers up her spine. She can’t help the way her chest tightens with anticipation, knowing just how bad it will get.

She’s looking forward to the kill.

She’ll lie in this bed she made, her heart tangled in him, and she’ll let it consume her, because it’s the only thing that’s ever felt true.

creds to rose @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers!!!

+ thank u @cowboylikenat for ur feedback <3

a/n: i swore i'd never write smut yet here we are.

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart comment to be added to my main (non-au) taglist!!

till next time!!!!

[folkwhoreberry]

Amongst Demigods

Flirting With Fate

f1 x reader

or... the one where there are five ways to steal a heart

word count : 999

warning : suggestive jokes, english is not my first language!!!

check masterlist for more parts of this series!!

🏛️🏎️

weeks had passed since you’ve first stepped foot in camp half-blood, and you were starting to feel more settled.

you weren’t sure when it happened, but the chaos of the hermes cabin, the intensity of training, and the never-ending questions about your godly parent had become… normal. what you didn’t expect was the new kind of chaos - one involving a certain group of demigods who seemed to always be around.

——————

lando was the first. you weren’t sure how it happened, but the two of you had started spending a lot of time together. it started innocently enough: races by the lake, where he always insisted he was faster because of his sea legs, which you told him wasn’t a thing.

“come on, admit it,” he’d say, grinning as he caught up to you after another race, “you just like the view.”

you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat every time he flashed that smile. “sure, the view of you eating my dust.”

“oh, dust is it now? I was more thinking of you checking out-“

“shut up, lando.”

he’d laugh, but it was never mean-spirited. you’d end up sitting by the water afterward, legs dangling into the cool lake, talking about everything from your messed-up childhoods to how he still couldn’t swim properly, despite being the son of poseidon. you weren’t really sure what you were, but lando had a way of pulling you in, making you forget everything else.

——————

then, there was charles. sweet, golden, frustratingly perfect charles. he was a natural charmer, but not in the way you’d expect from a son of apollo. he’d always find you after archery practice, usually while you were nursing another terrible shot.

“need help?” he’d ask, leaning against the target, his bow slung lazily over his shoulder.

“if I say yes, will you stop being so smug about it?” you quipped, though you always accepted his help.

he’d stand close behind you, his hands gently guiding yours, his breath warm against your ear as he gave tips.

“just relax, focus on the target, and let go when you feel it’s right.”

you’d let go, but the arrow almost never hit the target.

“I think you’re distracting me,” you muttered one day after yet another failed shot.

“maybe I am,” he replied, a playful smirk on his lips.

you laughed it off, but it was hard to ignore the way your pulse quickened whenever charles was around. he had a way of looking at you, like you were the only person in camp, even when you were surrounded by people.

——————

oscar was different. quiet, thoughtful, but somehow always knowing exactly what to say when you were feeling overwhelmed. you’d started to catch him watching you during lessons, his eyes following you with a sort of quiet curiosity.

“what?” you’d ask, after catching him staring one too many times.

“nothing, just… you’re interesting.”

“interesting how?”

he’d just smile, shrugging as if he wasn’t going to answer, but there was always something behind that smile that made you wonder what he was thinking. the two of you had started to spend more time together, mostly during strategy lessons or sparring sessions, where he was always more tactical than aggressive. it was different with oscar. where lando was playful and charles charming, oscar made you feel like he saw you, like there was something more between the lines.

——————

daniel, though - daniel was chaos. pure, unfiltered, ares-born chaos. he had a way of turning every situation into a joke, a flirtation, a game.

“you know,” he said one day, tossing you a sword during practice, “there’s something about watching you swing a sword that’s…”

“don’t even finish that sentence,” you warned, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“what? it’s impressive! who knew you could be so… deadly?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you almost dropped the sword from laughing too hard.

but then, daniel would catch you off guard. in between the jokes and teasing, there were moments where he’d be serious, like after a particularly hard fight when you were frustrated and ready to quit. he’d walk up, offering you a hand, his usual grin softened.

“you’ve got this,” he’d say, no jokes, no teasing. just simple, genuine support.

it was those moments that made you wonder if there was more to daniel than the laughter and flirting.

——————

and then… franco. he was the wildcard, the son of eros who always seemed to know just what to say to get under your skin - in the best way. he’d drop by during meals, sliding into the seat next to you with that infuriatingly charming smile.

“hey,” he’d say, his voice soft but with a teasing edge, “have you always been this gorgeous, or is it just today?”

“franco,” you’d groan, rolling your eyes, but he’d just laugh, leaning in a little closer.

“what? I’m just saying, the gods clearly have a favorite.”

he had a way of making you feel special, even when you didn’t want to admit it. there was something about him, something that made your heart race when he got too close, his hand brushing yours in the most casual, accidental way possible.

“you’re impossible,” you’d tell him one day, after he’d successfully distracted you from an entire lesson just by sitting too close.

“impossible to resist, maybe,” he shot back, his grin wide as ever.

“ugh, franco.”

he’d laugh, but there was a tenderness behind his playful words, a softness that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t all games after all.

——————

and so, here you were - caught in the middle of this strange, confusing, and slightly chaotic situation with lando, charles, oscar, daniel, and franco, each of them pulling you in different directions, each with their own way of making you feel something more than just a friend.

you weren’t sure how it happened, but something was definitely happening.

————————————————————————————

@briefkittenearthquake @colpenter

a/n : wrote this during three five minute drives and lunch where I didn’t eat nothing bc fuck tummy ache🫶🏻

[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!)

[softtdaisy]

injury prompt 16 and 22 for reid perhaps... :D Love your writing btw <3

make my heart beat again / spencer reid

summary. spencer was sad. spencer was miserable. he thought he could handle it until he couldn't anymore. he thought he could deal with it alone until he couldn't.

words count. 2 249

prompt. “Why won’t you let me help you?” “…because I don’t deserve it.” / “You deserve to be helped, I—who told you this?” from here

what to expect. very angsty, spencer is so sad i want to hug him, i chose the mentally injured more than physically, mention of murder very quickly

a/n. ok first thank you so much for requesting it sweetie!! and i'm sorry, i wish i posted it sooner but i started it again to make it shorter and...it's not shorter, but it's here and i hope you will love it (and now i can work on your other request) 🫶

F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

You weren’t quite sure how everything started again with Spencer.

One day he was a memory of the past, one of your biggest regrets. The next time he was back in your place, like he always belonged there.

You went on a couple of dates a few years ago, and it would be a lie to say your heart didn’t fall for that boy. Sweet, gentle, the nicest man you’ve ever met. And so beautiful with his always so messy hair, his gorgeous brown eyes that always seemed to look at you like you were one of the seven wonders of the world, and that perfectly shaped mouth that you loved to kiss.

You were sure things could have worked out with Spencer if a) his work didn’t take him that much time—and more. b) You didn’t have other issues in your life you had to deal with before thinking about love.

So you ended your relationship, or whatever it was at that time, before it could be more serious. And you spent way too many nights missing Spencer Reid. 

The way he would start every date with a fact that could either last a minute or ten and how you could notice the change in his eyes when he noticed you were truly interested in what he was saying. How he was blushing at any physical contact you were initiating, even in bed after he made love to you. Or even how you never said you loved each other, yet the way his lips would stay longer on your shoulder when you were falling asleep was speaking for your feelings.

You never thought Spencer would miss you just as much.

But he spent months contemplating the idea of seeing you again and trying to convince you this could be good. That he could be good for you. But months turned into a year. And when he celebrated his whole single year on the other side of the country, Spencer read into it that maybe he had glorified love. In all its aspects.

And this conclusion haunted him for years.

To the point Spencer stopped meeting new people and was barely trying to stay in touch with those in his life. He wasn’t seeing his mom much; his colleagues noticed the distance he was building between them, and Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he saw his “friends.”

Because at some point, the fear of losing people turned into a feeling of not being good enough to people’s lives and made him a loner. A sad loner.

That was something you immediately noticed the first time you saw Spencer in years.

Your life has barely changed from your last date. Still the same job, but at a higher place. Still the same apartment, but with a different setting. Still the same person, but more mature.

It wasn’t hard for Spencer to find you. And if he spent a whole year contemplating going back to your place before putting that thought away, the day he truly needed it, it took him a minute to decide it was time.

You didn’t question his presence here when you opened the door. Maybe he should have. But when Spencer grabbed your face after you simply said his name with confusion, nothing seemed to matter. 

Not his hair longer than before, not him looking more shaped yet more fragile, not the circle under his eyes being way darker than the last time you saw him. Not that he was eagerly kissing you, something he never did.

You remember Spencer being gentle, taking his time to appreciate every second with you.

No, he was hungry, like each second could be the last with you. For him.

“What are you doing here, Spence?” you finally asked him. You were both lying on the rug in your living room. His eyes were locked on the roof, like he was disconnecting from reality. His arm around your back, holding you against him, was brushing your skin slowly, but he seemed to do that mindlessly. 

And Spencer didn’t turn his head to look at you when you, you couldn’t stop looking at him. “I needed that.” Not you. You put away the pain hearing that and tried to see the good in this, that you were the one he went to. 

But still, something was different with Spencer.

It would take you a few nights to realize he wasn’t blushing anymore when you touched him. Or that he didn’t seem to have a lot to talk about.

Actually, Spencer wasn’t talking much anymore. 

For weeks, Spencer would come to your place at night. Either after a day at the office or when he came back from a case. Usually, when it was the latter, he would even stay the following day to fully decompress from what happened.

You tried to question him once or twice. But Spencer always had the same answer: going down on you to keep you quiet with your question.

It was a win-win situation. 

He was giving you pleasure and making you think about something else.

He was concentrating on something else, and your moans were filling his head with other thoughts.

Until one night, the sex wasn’t enough to put his problem away.

You didn’t expect Spencer to come. Two days ago, he told you he had to leave for a case and it would probably last a week. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it gave you the time to think about him and where this was going.

Yet, your bell rang at 10 p.m. Let’s say that dating an FBI agent taught you to not open your door to anybody. You almost played dead and ignored it. But your gut told you to look at who it might be. 

You didn’t expect to see Spencer through your spyhole.

You certainly didn’t expect to see him cry on the other side of your door.

“Spencer, what’s going on?” you said, opening your door and immediately bringing him inside. The saddest part was that he let you do it. He didn’t stop you when you took him in your arms. Neither when you brought him to the sofa and sat him on it while you kneeled in front of him.

He was shaking; his face looked red from the tears and the scratching he did with his fingers, trying to take the pain away. But it didn’t work. And hurt him even more.

You grabbed one of his hands to take it away from his face. You tried to ease his joints with a soft caress. You even tried to make eye contact, but it was a lost cause with the way he was closing his eyes hardly, probably hurting himself like that. “Talk to me, Spence,” you whispered, putting your chin on his knee. “Open to me.”

You hated how he pinched his lips together before talking, like he was trying so hard to not break down. “I can’t,” he sobbed. He repeated that multiple times, sounding more angry with himself each time.

But the fact he wasn’t letting go of your hand made you believe that maybe a part of him, maybe just a very little one, wanted to have you. He still came to you tonight, right?

“Why won’t you let me help you?” 

This was a genuine question. One that grew over the last weeks. Sometimes, you would wake up in the middle of the night wondering which signs you might have missed when he was here. What did he try to hide from you with kisses and attention that you weren’t asking for? And if maybe you weren’t an accomplice of his troubles by accepting all his treats, knowing it was an excuse to keep everything from himself.

And during these moments, you imagined what Spencer might have answered. That he didn’t want his burden to impact your relationship, that he didn’t want to talk to you specifically. 

But you never considered what was coming as an answer.

“…because I don’t deserve it.” 

The world went silent. 

Except for your heart that just fell on the floor and broke into a million pieces.

Except for Spencer’s sorrow being louder than ever in your small living room.

It was obvious that Spencer wasn’t doing ok. But you couldn’t imagine how broken he really was.

You couldn’t force him to look at you and make him see he wasn’t alone at all. So you put your forehead against his, his sweaty hair sticking against your skin. Your arms wrapped against Spencer so you could hold him against him. You couldn’t believe that this grown-up man, in his thirty, could be a broken kid inside. You tried to hold back the tears.

You stayed like that for minutes; you don’t even know how long. This could last an hour or two if he needed to. You probably could have stayed all night if it meant calming Spencer down.

Little by little, you felt his shaking stop and even one of his hands land on your arm. The pressure of his fingers on your skin wasn’t harder, almost like he didn’t have any strength anymore. It was more like a delicate touch. One that reminded you of the old days, when Spencer was too shy to touch you.

Once you felt he was ready to hear this, maybe not listen yet but at least be able to understand what you were saying, you stopped hugging him so you could grab his face in your hands. “You deserve to be helped. I—who told you this?”

You met the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen at this moment. Couple with his sad smile. Oh, how you wished you could just kiss the pain away for once.

“I just…” he started, with a grazed, hoarse voice. “Every person in my life ends up sad or hurt or dead. I’m a problem. I’m a burden. I don’t deserve someone to take the time to help me, be there for me. I can’t risk someone, you, taking the time to make me feel better if it means losing you at some point. I can’t, I can’t do that again.” You heard the sob in his voice at the end. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but Spencer gave you the look, one he strangely never gave to you but that you understood immediately, meaning that he still had a lot to say. And deep down, you were happy to shut it if it meant he was finally opening up.

“I was taking care of a kid these days. We knew he might be in danger, so I was supposed to make sure he would be fine while working the case.” Spencer took a moment to continue, but you could only focus on the tear running down his cheek. “He got killed. Because I couldn’t protect him. Everyone around me has something bad happening to them. Even in my job. How can I be such a bad person?” 

You started brushing away the tears with your thumb, but Spencer cuddled against your hand. There was something even sadder with this man feeling like he didn’t deserve to have someone yet still craving every attention he could get.

“You’re not a burden, Spencer,” you whispered, and he closed his eyes again. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to go through all these moments by yourself. I can’t imagine how hurt you must be from living such difficult times over and over again. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have someone by your side.”

He didn’t answer. You weren’t sure this was the best decision, but you sat on his knees, trying to be closer to him so you could make him feel less alone. 

You thought that if he didn’t want that, he would push you away. But the way Spencer's hands ended up on your back so quickly made you think that maybe he needed that too.

“I can’t and won’t force myself into your life, Spencer, never,” you said, brushing his hair away from his face. “But if you’re ready to try, I can be by your side and help you consider that you deserve to be a supporter. Not only by me but by all the people that love you.”

Again, your words working on him, Spencer opened his eyes slowly. This time, even if the sorrow was still present, there was the smallest and almost slightest light in them. “Because people love you, Spencer Reid.”

As an answer, the only one he could give you, Spencer brought you against him and hugged you as hard as he could. It wasn’t the tightest hug he ever gave, but it was the best he could do. And it was enough. Enough to know that you opened a door in his mind. 

You offered your bed to Spencer that night, but he insisted on you staying by your side. He refused to let you know it was due to the fear of the nightmares he had for months now. Nightmares that always had different stories but ended the same way: with him losing someone and being alone.

All he needed was you, and you were willing to give yourself entirely to help him get better.

You didn’t know if you imagined it, but you were sure that when he was falling asleep, holding you against him like an antistress comforter, Spencer thanked you.

[faiszt]

. 𝆬 ⠀ ི᭨ᩧྀ⠀.⠀⠀ faiszt’s ε( ε ´O`)э。゜ BOT! dump⠀⠀❜❜

꒰ ︎ ♡ ︎ ´ ꒳ ` ꒱ ︎ ᐟ⠀⠀⎯⎯ ⠀⠀NOTES.⠀⠀💬⠀⠀hi, sweets! i'm so so happy to be ( finally ) back, i had writer's block during last month and missed writing so much :( so, consider this bot dump as an apology. also, i'd like to thank you all for the 5K followers and more than a million chats on c.ai, this is very important to me and i'm incredibly grateful for all of this. 𖹭

▸⠀ARCANE⠀*⠀˖⠀⚔️

𝅭⠀piltover's sweetheart⠀.⠀vi⠀૮⠀don't get her wrong, she was incredibly happy that you were successful in your modeling career, that's for sure. but, gosh, couldn't you spend a little more time at home with your girlfriend? or she'll probably be very grumpy, needy and kinda angry.

▸⠀CHALLENGERS⠀*⠀˖⠀🎾

𝅭⠀the god of love⠀.⠀art donaldson⠀૮⠀living among the humans was normal for most gods, even with some limitations. eros, for example, ventured into the skin of a young stanford student and for the first time in his existence, he wanted to change the course of his arrow.

𝅭⠀yellowstone⠀.⠀art donaldson⠀૮⠀save a horse, ride a... oh, your older sister's advice. the new cowboy from ohio could even try to hit on you, but not without losing his eyes the second your father, the infamous john dutton, noticed it.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀yellowstone!au

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𝅭⠀renegade⠀.⠀jason todd⠀૮⠀obsessed with getting revenge for her death, jason was blind, living every day with the blinds closed and his thoughts clouded. it really be insensitive if you told him to get his shit together?

𝅭⠀acrobatics ’n ballet⠀.⠀richard grayson⠀૮⠀he didn't hate you, but he didn't know how to like you either. your past was similar, as traumatic as two children deserved, he had become a bitter former acrobat and you still loved being a ballerina, both irritating and fascinating.

▸⠀DUNE⠀*⠀˖⠀⏳

𝅭⠀good for you⠀.⠀paul atreides⠀૮⠀what could you expect from someone who has genuinely never been interested in anyone else before? an arranged marriage wouldn't make him like you, but maybe, it'd make him realize what desire means when you're proud to be his.

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𝅭⠀mrs. wife officer⠀.⠀vanessa shelly⠀૮⠀the days go by and each day, vanessa takes longer to get home. night shifts, traffic, suspicious behavior or, maybe, you just haven't understood yet that she's not the faithful wife she seems, even with her stupid lying words of love.

▸⠀GEN V / THE BOYS⠀*⠀˖⠀✨

𝅭⠀annie’s body⠀.⠀annie january⠀૮⠀when did america's sweetheart become a bloodthirsty monster? your best friend, killing boys... purely for fun and if you questioned her, well, boys are just placeholders, they come and go.

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▸⠀GLADIATOR II⠀*⠀˖⠀🗡️

𝅭⠀disease⠀.⠀emperor geta⠀૮⠀how pathetic did an emperor have to be to lie at the feet of someone like you? begging for the relief that only you could give him, the cure for his disease, he needed you more than you needed him and honestly, you didn't need him at all.

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▸⠀HOUSE OF THE DRAGON⠀*⠀˖⠀🩸

𝅭⠀childhood times⠀.⠀aemond targaryen⠀૮⠀in times of war, there was no safe place aemond trusted, not even his own home. but, there was you, the closest thing to a safe haven he had in his life, and he'd always look for you, sooner or later, the only one who matters to him.

𝅭⠀dragon’s blood⠀.⠀daemon targaryen⠀૮⠀the rumors only grew louder, those whispers noting that your eldest son was more like daemon than he should be, what was the secret you were hiding and why didn't even the king know? silver hair and violet eyes couldn't hide the truth forever.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀TW: targ!cest

▸⠀ONE TREE HILL⠀*⠀˖⠀🏀

𝅭⠀sports car⠀.⠀nathan scott⠀૮⠀a player, in basketball and in life. he may have had a son and his things to take care of, but that didn't stop him from meeting you. same time, same place, it'd all end up in his sports car anyway.

▸⠀OUTER BANKS⠀*⠀˖⠀🏴‍☠️

𝅭⠀meaningless kisses⠀.⠀jj maybank⠀૮⠀you could've done anything to him, maybe even hit him in the face, but you crossed the line the second you kissed rafe cameron right in front of him. he doesn't need your shitty explanations, he just wants to feel hate in peace.

𝅭⠀guilty mind⠀.⠀rafe cameron⠀૮⠀a young but renowned detective, involved in several successfully solved cases. the question was: in a small town where you were indirectly and directly involved with all the missings and murders, how would you prove your innocence to him?

𝅭⠀twin babies⠀.⠀rafe cameron⠀૮⠀not that rafe ever imagined he'd be a father, but six months ago, he began to understand a little about it. well, he was prepared for just one child, until two babies appear on the ultrasound.

▸⠀SUPERNATURAL⠀*⠀˖⠀🏁

𝅭⠀tapping the bomb⠀.⠀dean winchester⠀૮⠀there was no competition he couldn't win, even if he had to pass over every other driver, he would. so, don't try to calm him down after a dnf, he's a two-time world champion, he doesn't need your pity now.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀formula1!au

▸⠀WIZARDING WORLD⠀*⠀˖⠀🪄

𝅭⠀losing his glasses⠀.⠀james potter⠀૮⠀first class of the day, what a beautiful sight. james crawling on the floor of the transfiguration classroom as if this were normal. oh, right, his glasses, where are his glasses?

𝅭⠀beauty and the beast⠀.⠀remus lupin⠀૮⠀knowing he was a werewolf was one thing, clearly caring about his well-being the next day was another, and for the first time, you were there for him—even though he was shit.

▸⠀X-MEN⠀*⠀˖⠀🧬

𝅭⠀too sweet⠀.⠀erik lehnsherr⠀૮⠀condemned to live with his own mind, erik didn't trust himself and thought it was a joke that people trusted him now. but, you did and that was the problem, you became way too sweet for him.

꒰⠀ small note: ⠀꒱⠀if the bot isn't available as soon as you click the link, it may just be a c.ai bug that only makes bots publicly available after a few hours, don't worry⠀!!⠀♡

⠀⠀

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

True Vampire

Astarion x Y/N - Drabble - 642 WC

Masterlist

Warnings: fluff, cute little fic

--------------------------------

“If I just had a little blood…” you heard Astarion mumbling to himself.

You stuck your arm out to him as you walked up to his tent. He raised an eyebrow, looking at you with confusion. 

“Drink” you said, looking at your wrist once more. 

Astarion kept his eyes on you as he sank his fangs in, noting how you didn’t even wince. He drank for a while before finally pulling back.

“Are you alright?” he asked, expecting you to be woozy.

“I’m fine.” you smiled.

“Why does your blood taste like that?” he asked as you turned to walk away.

“Like what?” you asked.

“Honey.” he said. This wasn’t his typical flirting, you could see he was being genuine.

You smiled brightly at him exposing the fangs you had kept from everyone at camp. You had all gotten this far, what's one more vampire?

“You’re a vampire spawn?” he said, sounding completely baffled. 

“Please, spawn wish they were as cool as me.” you smiled with a slight bow.

“Not a spawn? How old are you?” his face was rather amusing, covered with confusion and disbelief. It was the first time you had seen him look so shocked.

“Older than you.” you said, enjoying watching his brain stutter at the new information. 

“Right… how long have you been a full vampire?” he asked.

“A while.” you said.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are breathtakingly vague?” he quipped at you.

“Breathtaking? Yes. Vague? Only when it suits me.” you smiled.

“I hate you.” he sighed grumpily. 

“You hate that I can best you,” you corrected. “But I’ll be merciful just because you’re so cute all confused. I’m 327 years old. I’m not a spawn. I became a full vampire immediately after I was turned.” you answered all his questions. Planting your hands on your hips you waited for more to flow out of him.

“Immediately? How?” he asked, his eyes full of shock.

“Unlike most I know how shitty most vampires are. I pledged allegiance to him before he turned me, then ripped his throat out as soon as he did. I’m no ones to command but my own.” you said. You watched his face fall a little at the end, reminding him of his own enslavement. “And soon,” you interjected, “you will be just as free, and just as full a vampire.” you cautiously reached out to hold his face in your hands. You saw his features relax for the first time in ages, possibly since you started traveling together. He was always thinking about something. 

“If… I become a full vampire.” he mumbled.

“When.” you said sternly, “There is no other way. I will ensure it, I promise.” 

“You’ve never met a vampire like Cazador, he is ruthless…”

“You’re saying this to the person who ripped out the throat of their maker. We are twice as ruthless as Cazador could ever hope to be.” you smiled at him reassuringly as you thumbed over his cheek bones. His red eyes were big and soft and for a moment, he put his hope in you and your promise. “Plus, you’ll need me afterwards.” you said.

“Excuse me?” he said with disdain but also amusement.

“Who else is going to teach you how to become a bat or how to spider walk?” you asked genuinely, thinking back to how long it took you to learn how to do all that a vampire can do. “That's the thing about being a vampire, Astarion, it takes a really long time to learn how to do all the cool shit.” 

“I’m sure I can adapt quite well, thank you.” he said in his typical posh voice, the vulnerable moment dissipating behind his wall that you broke down momentarily. 

“Of course darling.” you said with a chuckle, licking up the dribble of blood on your hand.

--------------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Still alive!! Life really beat the shit out of me for a hot minute but I'm trying to get back to it, thanks for sticking with me ya'll. XOXOXOXOX

[quandledlngle69]

"FINE, KEEP MAKING CONVERSATION...I GUESS."

☆ CONTENT: Your a troubled student, kicked out of your prestigious private school for beating one of your bully's. Your settled into your horrible local high school where your fighting almost everyday, yet when your reputation pokes at a certain persons bubble, he takes interest in you. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Trouble maker reader, reader gets bullied in the first half, mentions of snapping, fighting, beating, hair pulling, reader being nonchalant, Shidou being interested in reader, reader having a sick mother, reader is female, reader is implied to have braids, mentions of past discrimiation and racism, classism, implying that Shidou and the reader are both black, Shidou also being a problem student and fighting. ☆ PAIRING: Trouble!Maker!Reader x Trouble!MakerShidou ☆ W.C. 1.8K

It starts with insults, and it ends with fists.

That's the way of thinking you subconsciously drilled into your head from middle school. You realised quickly that having good grades or being kind just wasn’t enough to smoothly get through the once prestigious private school you attended. 

Bullying was something you absorbed, that swirled like a disgusting parasite around you. Maybe it was something about you not having the latest phone, the newest shoes–or it was a micro aggressive comment about the deep colour of your skin or your hair being the opposite of pin straight. You didn’t ever talk back or defend yourself, hoping the less reactions given, the less satisfaction would be gained and a next sorry target would be found. Unfortunately, that never happened.

You remember the day you finally snapped.

It was a regular tuesday, and although the past few months had been nothing but dread, you felt eerily calm, like you subconsciously knew what was going to happen and had already accepted it. It was sunny for such a day in march, and you appreciated the breeze, considering it was rare to be interrupted during your lunch breaks.

Today was not one of those days.

It was the same group most of the time, a handful of girls and two boys. A cycle usually occurred, it was first grabbing your attention, then insults, maybe some physical contact, knocking some stuff out of your hands, more insults, and repeat. 

You didn’t wait until the insult part.

When your mind decides to black out on you while beating on someone, one finds it quite hard to remember all the details. It was the sound of your backpack dropping to the ground at first, then the slightly panicked tone of insults, questioning what you were doing, and then your first impact of knuckles to flesh. You're sure you and the girl both tripped on each other's feet at some point, scrapping your knees, you both hit the ground accidentally tackling her. You remember how the strands of her blonde hair that had found its way to wrap itself around your fingers felt–coarse. Ears ringing, you ignored her high pitched banshee shrieks of pain while you pulled on the strands, hard. You felt them snap at the scalp. You could feel how with each collision of your closed fist to the soft tissues of her face, her sobbing grew more and more heavy. It took the two boys of the group to pry you off her. 

Later you sat in the principal's office, the extra chair for one of your guardians empty. It always was when you got in trouble. You knew it would add stress on your already ill mother. The surface skin of your knuckles were raw and the scratches on your knee began to sting as the adrenaline faded away, the soothing cream the nurse had applied weak against the pain.

A broken nose, one chipped tooth, two black eyes, and a few tension caused bald spots. 

You were told–no, screamed at by the beaten girl's mother, that you were lucky the police weren’t called, and the only consequence you were getting was that you would be expelled. 

You should've been angry, maybe distraught at the fact you were being kicked out for defending yourself, of being kicked out of the most prestigious school in the district, especially since you were on a scholarship. But–nothing. There was a sense of indifference that surrounded you like a protective bubble, even as you were screamed at, even as you were given a formal letter of expulsion you were supposed to give to your mother, even as you were escorted off school grounds.

It almost scared you, how you really didn’t care anymore.

It had been four years since that event.

Now you were in some shitty local school that you honestly could give less of a dime about. 

It had been another cycle of detentions, fights, wounds, stings, sores, aches and a whole calypso of sorts. And they couldn’t expel you, with you having nowhere else to go.

Again, you were in after school detention for slamming a locker door shut on a girl's head. Not your fault she decided it would be a perfectly plausible idea to spit on your sneakers. 

Here you are now. It was a rundown classroom in the back of the school, like the staff was trying to hide the bad kids away to avoid staining the school's decent reputation. Not like you cared. The desks had symbols carved out with sharp objects and permanent sharpies, graffiti on the walls, floors and ceiling and a foul smell coming from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint. You had been in there so many times to the point you had gotten comfortable enough to just nap for the hour you were stuck there. It was the usual placement of connecting your head to the desk, turning away, and ignoring the others that were usually there for the same reasons just like you. 

But you also did it to ignore the fact there was always an intense stare piercing the side of your head as soon as you put your head on the table. But you let it roll off you, after all, staring towards you was just another familiar wave of negativity. The guy was notoriously known for his fights and appearance, sure, but it's not like you truly cared who he was or the feared reputation he built for himself.

For the first time, Shidou is intrigued. He watches as your slumped form in the corner back of the detention room, not talking, not even looking at anyone. No arrogance, no puffed chest—just you, head on the desk, tapping your fingers in a rhythm against the wooden leg of the desk like you were waiting for something.

So he tests you. A few direct comments out loud, a smirk, a challenge. And when you finally look at him—dark eyes, unreadable expression—he knows you're different just from the look in your eyes.

And for the first time, Shidou may have found himself someone who might just be as reckless as him.

The clock ticks slowly, each second dragging like a slow–burning cigarette.

Shidou Ryusei slouches in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his lip still split from the fight that landed him here. He smirks at the memory—some senior had mouthed off, and Shidou, never one to back down, tracked him down and made sure a knuckle sandwich was given–something like that, anyway. You don't acknowledge his poking words, just pulling the drawstrings of your hoodie up further (an item of clothing that didn’t comply with the school rules either), shoving your hands into your pockets. From where he sits, Shidou can see the bruises along your knuckles, a fresh scrape along your cheekbone.

He knew you got into fights, but seeing the damage up close? It makes something in him spark. 

The room is silent except for the scribbling of a teacher grading papers at the front desk. Shidou drums his fingers on his desk, gaze flicking between the clock and you–who hasn’t looked up once.

“Who was it?” he finally asks, his eyes fixed on the clock, but you know he’s addressing you.

You don’t move. Don’t even react.

Shidou leans back, stretching his legs out, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. “Who’d you fight?” he tries again, smirking slightly. “Gotta be bad if they stuck you in here with me.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You talk too much.”

Your voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut. Shidou raises a brow, interested. Most people flinch or get defensive when he pushes. You didn't.

“I’m just curious,” he says, tilting his head towards your general direction. “A girl like you throwing punches? Gotta be a juicy story. Right?”

This time, you do glance at him—just for a second. Dark eyes, unreadable, sizing him up like he’s just another fight waiting to happen. 

“No story,” you mutter bitterly. “Just a bad day.”

Shidou studies you, almost like how a tiger looks at its prey, almost like he wasn’t deterred by the bad mood radiating off you. “Yeah? Guess we both had one.” He gestures vaguely to his busted lip, almost smug. “Wasn’t really my fault, though. The guy was fucking begging for it.”

You huff, barely a laugh, more like an exhale of disbelief. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the desk, and you're able to see the quiet–but explosive glow of his pink eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His question hits you like a light slap to the face, managing to surprise you. For the first time, something flickers in your eyes—something he recognizes. A mix of exhaustion and defiance. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted in your seat, the metal legs groaning under your weight. Tilting your head toward him, your eyes met his, tense. “Why do you care?”

Both of your expressions mirrored each other, nonchalant, unreadable.

There was another long beat of silence as your eyes darted around his face, his blonde hair with pink tips that was definitely the reason he had a ‘delinquent’ title, you think. His nails are sloppily painted black, and you could imagine how his punches hurt like a bitch with how many rings adorned his fingers. His blazer was nowhere to be found, his jumper sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His sneakers were scruffy, his buttoned collar undone.

Shidou himself seemed as if he was deep in thought looking at you himself, as well as considering your words. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe because you're different. Maybe because you're quiet, a silent but deadly type. Maybe it’s because you're the same as him, a foreign presence in an unfamiliar environment. Maybe it’s because rather than seeing a sea of pin straight black hair, it was the neat ocean of mahogany brown braids that skimmed your lower back. Maybe it was because of the fresh manicured set of nails that you got every other week, something he observed more than the normal person should. Or maybe because, for the first time, someone isn’t playing his game, and you peaked his rare curiosity.

He gives a lopsided grin, tilting his chair back until the front legs hovered above the floor. “I don’t. Just making conversation.”

You don't respond at first, ripping your eyes away from the intense staring competition–just turning your gaze back to the window, as if he’s already forgotten. But Shidou? He’s still watching you, still curious.

And it takes a lot to get his attention. 

He focused on your glossy pout, and how it seemed to soften slightly with your next words.

“Fine. Keep making conversation…i guess.”

When you meant keep the conversation going, you never implied for him to thrust his desk right next to yours, almost bumping shoulders with you. He ignored the weak yelling of the teacher telling him to go back to his place. You were amused by his actions, not even telling him to back off like you would to anyone else.

Maybe you’ll let him talk your ear off a bit more.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

(Adaline to Adam AU)

⚠️this story will deal with transitioning which will also include things like transphobia, misgendering, and deadnaming⚠️

Adam hated looking at his reflection, he knew for a long time he was really a man. But the problem was that he was born in the wrong body, a woman’s body. He even preferred the name Adam over Adaline. He pulled his long hair in a ponytail wishing to cut it short, but he worried that would draw any questions. So far the only person he told was his mom and she 100% accepted him and was going to help him through transitioning. The person he feared telling the most was his boyfriend because he loved him so much and he feared Lucifer dumping him.

Adam internally: It’s one thing for him to accept me being bisexual, this is me changing so much about myself.

Sera walked into the bathroom and hugged him.

Sera: Starlight, Lucifer is here to take you to school.

Adam: I am going to tell him so I can get the break up over with. I don’t want to go to prom and be dumped there.

Lucifer had asked him to prom and they planned on going to a hotel afterwards so they could have sex for the first time. Poor Lucifer was nervous when they went the pharmacy to get the condom. Adam was surprised when he picked a bigger size. Lucifer stuttered saying that in spite of his short height he was big down there. Curious Adam asked to see it and when they were alone Adam was impressed to see that Lucifer was right. Lucifer promised that he would be gentle as Adam gently touched it.

Sera: Maybe his reaction will surprise you, he loves you so much.

Adam: He loves Adaline, not Adam.

Adam wiped his hand over his eyes hoping that he didn’t start crying over this. He went down stairs and smiled seeing Lucifer, he couldn’t help but love him. They met in kindergarten and now at eighteen years old they were dating like everyone predicted, but Adam didn’t know how long that would last.

Lucifer: Ready for school.

Adam: Yeah.

Adam adjusted the skirt he was wearing along with the tank top and black leather jacket before they got into Lucifer’s car.

Lucifer: Has something upset you, you’re crying.

Adam: I am about to tell you something and I want you to know if you want to take someone else to prom you can.

Lucifer: Why would I want to take someone else, I love you.

Adam: I am not Adaline, I am Adam. I was trapped in the wrong body. It should have been a man’s body, not a woman’s body. I’ll find another way to go to school if you don’t want to look at me.

Before he could leave the car Lucifer pulled Adam into his arms.

Lucifer kissed his cheek: Don't be ridiculous, I'll love you no matter what.

Adam cried, he was so relieved when he heard those words, he had been so worried for nothing.

Adam: T-thank you Luci.

Lucifer: Besides, I've always kind of known.

Adam pulled back: Really? How?

Lucifer gave him a knowing look: You were not exactly a girly girl, you've always been into things that most guys like and I didn't want to say anything. In case you weren't ready. And as beautiful as you look with your long hair, pretty skirt, and tank top they're not you.

Adam cried some more, this was more than he could have hoped for.

Adam: Y-you mean it?

Lucifer: I do. And whoever you decide to live your life as, I just know I want to be by your side. I've loved you forever and nothing will change that. In fact, when you're ready I'll even pay for your hair cut.

Adam smiled he was so happy, just when he thought he couldn't love Lucifer more.

Adam: You're the best boyfriend ever.

Lucifer kissed him: So are you.

[yellowcry]

You know what time is it? It's time to yap about the new solarballs episode because I loved it

Uranus, please, calm down and think for a moment. I feel so bad for him tbh. For the first time he had a chance to become something other than a joke and unfinished parody of Saturn with weird tilt. Just for reality to smash it into pieces. And the last scene, where he threatens to leave... like you can see he just begs for attention. But, just as always, the ice giants are forgotten...

Mars seems as the most conflicted. Well he did admire Jupiter. Honestly I'm glad the planets aren't all immediately jump to hug one another but seem to have pretty hard feelings in case of the rocky planets. Saturn and Neptune are probably the only ones genuinely happy. (And be real, we all could expect this from Saturn)

"Let's not pull this stunt with heading into the sun again" MERCURY I'M GONNA THROW YOU INTO THE SUN MYSELF RN this is literally the best way to make suicidal person even more suicidal why did you have to say this. 😭😭/hj No but I understand he's probably stressed too. Pretty nice to see Mercury putting his feelings first. This isn't right, but just as Uranus, it all makes a lot of sence. And the way Mercury got unsulted at being called 'a moon' bro weren't you told not to treat them as inferiour? Honestly, this kinda returns to the point where planet, while they DO love their moons, they see them as lesser.

But seriously can anyone put earth to therapy again. And jupiter. And sun. And honestly the entire solar system.

Low-key dissapoined that they called past Earth 'Proto.' Proto is kinda shortened of Prototype. And prototype of what he was? The current Earth? They couldn't even be aware of his existence? (Say I as if the fact their names before humanity make any sense at all). I am a deep Gaia believer. (Or at least Terra)

Jupiter reunited with his moons! Finally! I've been waiting for this for the past ten years lolz. 'Wait that was real?' The best reaction one could have. But omg they are so wholesome. And seing Europa tear up wasn't on my 2025 bingo card. The entire scene was honestly so sweet. Solarballs for real let Ganymede be hurt. (Fair, Jupiter wouldn't have to question his state. Question is only WHY is he healed in the patreon previem like it takes place right after the episode??). But dang it, nice to see that despite everything they love one another.

'Are you really saying hi to me or is it another one of your lies?' Sun, are you okay? Like mentally/j i know he is not. But this is the weirdest reaction one could have.

The fact planet X didn't lose suddenly makes a big mess. I mean, Jupiter won't be ejected again that's for sure. But damn, it would be so easier if moons had actually won. Bro, Ganymede looks so guilty when sun reminds planet X won the challenge. But Sun I am still pissed off at how you made them play an asteroid dodgeball. Kinda hope he would be confronted on this fact in the next episode.

[9mysterybook6]

This time Rhylie changed her name To:: the i m port ant girl for gacha

Please Stop Reporting My Blog On Valentine's Day🙄

((I'm always the wrong person Do not report my blog, because I'm the important goddess for all gacha community))

Seriously, do you really think anyone would listen to you?

((Everyone will never report me no matter how many times you expose me without knowing about my fake actions and consequences.

And again 9mysterybook6 is being Disrespectful to my blog.

Guys help me get rid of this junk.

Report her blog and avoid awareness now))

And secondly what about this nonsense

It is none of my business what your mistakes and actions are. You are responsible for yourself.

But every time your actions bring you consequences, you immediately start blaming others and spreading lies.

Here is Rhylie speech and it is all just guilt tripper,

oh no, why did megamanzer had blocked me?!

Did he blocked me for good, oh no...... and now someone who exposed me told him that he should have not supported or encouraging me?, I felt like I'm a bad person............. I'm Really So Stupid........ I'm totally a laughingstock, manipulative, Harraser, bully and a gultripper, I HAYE MY GUTS, AND FUCK YOU MYSTERIOUS STORIES!! FUCK YOU 9MYSTERYBOOK6 FOR YOUR SELFISH EXPOSE POSTS!!!!

Sorry I had yelled at her like this since my sadness, anger And Frustration like I Have already. Anyways, I felt sick in my head..... My Sisters And My Mother Are Feeling Sad For Me As They Notice That I Lost A Friend................My Pet Chupacabra Had Died Because I Killed It Due For Its Rabies.......................

Meanwhile In Reality Like We're On Like We Always On. does my blog and my posts and even my actions secretly have consequences, yes it does..........I don't deserve to have supporters or my blog like you guys have.............I'm a huge mistake and the problem too..................I just wished everybody could stop spreading awareness about me 💀💀

Do I Deserve To Get Banned As Anybody Reports My Blog?

(((I'm Angry At Her Too, there's nothing about your consequences.)))

(((You Might Be Stupid, But Do You Really?, you don't sound like it.)))

(((Maybe, But don't Cry.)))

(((Oh No, That's Very Bad For Yourself.)))

(((You Did Something Bad?, well I'm not sure.)))

her tag

sad vent -#angry vent -#sad and angry -#mahou tsukai precure -#why did he blocked me

First of all, this does not concern me. I am not responsible for all your actions. You are the one who made all these decisions on your own.

Ok, what is this nonsense?

(My Sisters And My Mother Are Feeling Sad For Me As They Notice That I Lost A Friend... .My Pet Chupacabra Had Died Because I Killed It Due For Its Rabies. )

This is just a guilt tripper,

Because your pet is just something in your imagination and not real.

The part about your sisters and your mother is just a lie and your imagination

Because when you mean your mother, you mean your imaginary mother.

and When you mean your sisters, you mean your imaginary sisters

You live in your imagination and hallucinations

That's why everyone says you should get out of the internet

And let me tell you, pretending not to know the problem isn't helping you.

I have a question

how many times megaman do he have to tell you to stop Or tell you that your actions are wrong

But of course you didn't listen to him or anyone else before him.

Everyone warned you not to continue doing what you did, but you didn't listen.

This will happen to your followers too when they discover your actions and your true nature.

Again, your problems are none of my business. This is all just a consequence of your actions.

And stop changing your blog name

I know you do this so they don't report your blog.

But of course this does not help you because I will find your blog no matter how many times you change the name of your blog

[echoric]

trans iceman who is scared of needles so he asks the others to do his t shot for him

this is so canon in my trans iceman truthing heart </3

Goose knew first - he met Iceman in the Academy and with his Mother Goose tendencies, he was the first person to get under that ice cold exterior that Kazansky always put up. He noticed how Ice would never change in front of the others, how he always showered last and was the first to the locker rooms in the morning, already in PT gear and warming up before anyone else even showed up. There was one day when he woke up early, couldn't get back to sleep, and decided to go to the locker room to get an easy warm up in before PT would start - and he promptly had a shoe thrown at his head while Ice scrambled for his shirt. They had a talk, Goose was sworn to secrecy, and a few weeks later, Iceman appeared at his door with a vial and a question and Goose was more than willing to help.

Slider was second - he met Iceman fresh out of the Academy, but he had known about the infamous pilot for years before that thanks to Goose. He knew about the prickly exterior and the walls that would take patience to get through, but he wasn't put off by the glares and the icy attitude. They flew together, and slowly, that icy persona started to melt and Slider saw Tom peeking through. It was only a matter of time before they changed in front of each other, they bunked together after all. Ice told him to close his eyes, and he did - just thinking it was another one of the pilot's quirks - but when Ice told him to open his eyes again, the first thing he saw were the large twin scars on his chest. And Slider might've freaked out because he had no idea what they were, but once Ice explained, he held his hand out for the vial before Ice could even ask - he'd been through enough medical check ups after flights and missions to know that the man hated needles.

Hollywood and Wolfman were the next to learn - entirely by accident. They were messing around in the locker room at Top Gun after a hop because they were the first two back after getting shot down in almost record time, just throwing shit at each other and trying to smack the other with their towel. Ice and Slider are the next to in, both looking pissed and ready to kill - and Hollywood and Wolfman exchanged a single look before calming down their chatter. Ice opened his locker with more force than normal, and something fell out onto the ground and rolled over to Hollywood's foot. He tried to pick it up, but Slider was darting forward to grab it before he could, and Hollywood makes a face - "Dude, steroids are so bad for your heart, you're going to kill your career." Slider is about to tell him off when Ice stops him with a nervous glance, and Hollywood and Wolfman are added to the roster of people more than willing to help Ice with his monthly injection.

Sundown and Chipper never learn outright - but they have their suspicions. When a drunk Slider gets into a bar fight bad enough that the civilian ended up in a hospital bed and Ice ended up bailing Slider out of jail, there was a quiet understanding throughout the entire group. Some drunk prick making a snide comment about Ice's appearance was enough to set all of them on the defensive. Sundown and Chipper might not have known why, but they had their brother's back regardless. They noticed after that incident, Ice seemed to lower his guard a bit more around them.

Maverick was the last to know - and it was completely intentional. In fact, Ice was willing and hoping to go to his grave without Maverick knowing. The only reason he ended up learning was when Ice finally cracked and slammed him against the wall of their shared bunk room on a carrier. It was all heat and passion and years of built up tension crashing down at once around them, and it took only a few seconds for Maverick to rip Ice's shirt off - and then there was an icy chill colder than the Arctic ocean washing over Ice as he saw Maverick's eyes catch on the scars. Ice was ready to get told off, to get thrown out of their room, and dishonorably discharged from the Navy after so many years of careful work to purge any F from his files. But Maverick's hands were burning hot against the scars, tracing them with a concern and care that Ice had never felt before. They said the bare minimum amount of words so Maverick understood the situation, and then they didn't leave their bunk room until they were almost late for breakfast. None of the others commented on how they both carefully adjusted the collars of the flight suit - but money was definitely passed between hands.