#black pages white line drawings
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Books of 2024: WOODWORM by Layla Martinez.
Up next! Still in my Haunted House Eraâ˘: Translated Lit Fic Edition!
The great thing about being on several indie bookstore mailing lists is that you then have Several Indie Booksellers recommending you new releases published by independent presses, which almost assuredly I would not have stumbled across on my own. This one's just a little guy (149 pages), but I've been looking forward to it all year. Will report back on how it goes!
#books of 2024#books#book photo#nano2024#woodworm#layla martinez#i have however been periodically inverting the title ALL year lmao#i can never remember if it's woodworm or wormwood#the longer i stare at the cover the more intrigued i am by all the little details#AND IT HAS ILLUSTRATED ENDPAGES BABEEY#black pages white line drawings#EXCEPT: the outer page (the one you see first) is like. Normal House Drawing#and the reverse is HAUNTED House Drawing of the same rooms (ghosts blood mold scratches disembodied hands etc)#it's very cool#oh and it's Two Lines Press and i've really enjoyed most of their stuff that i've read so far!#good little translation publisher do recommend#general lit fic usually isn't my genre but my exceptions are for 1. weird shit and 2. international shit#i'm still idly trying to Read Around The World#i'm not interested in mundane US based stuff but i'll read contemporary or lit fic in a different culture or country#this one just happens to also be perfect haunted house nano prep lol#ONWARD TO READING I GO#hh
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Am I real or someone else's dream? Flying eccentric circles 'till I scream.
Fanart for the fic Daisy, Daisy. Another version under the cut
#the lyrics are from the song 134340 pluto (linked)#spotify recommended that song and those two lines are soooo daisy daisy#i have another wip thanks to a song spotify showed me but 80 percent of it fit soooo well that the wip is 3 pages and i may never finish it#so i made a different one! (this)#the lines represent his progress throughout the fic- cutting ouwards is a death and inwards is a respawn#the alt version makes it easier to see: red to green to blue to black to white and repeat#half life vr but the ai is self aware#hlvrai#gordos freeman#hlvrai fanart#blood cw#amputation cw#technically#the hardest part abt drawing the hev suit is all the different renders like wtf#i tried to still to the same in game render but filled in the blanks in a bunch of places w a more detailed one#*stick to
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Cute lil page of clothes that I like.
#art#artists on tumblr#drawing#traditional art#coloured pencils#and watercolour on the red one#because I reused a page that I tested a brush pen on#and covered up the black lines it made with liquid whiteout and white marker#so the colour wouldnât stay
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Iâm making progress with the âHexlloâ comic, I should probably try not to use this scribbly style but I thought it would okayâŚ
So hereâs a page of it, is it at lest passable?
Iâm at the self doubt stage and rethinking everything⌠Just got to keep at it!
Hopefully Iâll make the self-imposed deadline of 28/02/2024 but in future one shots Iâve got to restrain myself when it comes to needless details.
UPDATE: So I did manage to get this one shot drawn for the deadline, however it turns out the stupid Chromebook* wouldnât let my scanner work. So frustratingly Iâm now having to find a scanner that will work with it!
Iâm repeatedly beating my head against the wall, it makes my headache Iâm getting from the Chromebook hurt less.
*= I currently donât have a computer that can do anything creative, Chromebooksâ are useless for anything other than web surfing)
#drawing#silliness#comic art#line work#needless#Hexllo#knight#one page#black and white#monster girl#wile e coyote#road runner#tom and jerry#chromebook#chromebooks suck#failed project
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what if i posted art i made for school on my socials lmao. would that be sick n twisted or what
ok so i almost always half ass my school art assignments (i really shouldnât đ
especially with how embarrassing it gets during critique) but i really put my full artussy into this one since it was super free-form in subject and we got to use INK!!!
this was pretty improvised. the only thing i sketched was the main lines and essentially rawdogged all the patterns. i had a lot of fun with it which is why it gets the dignity to be on my art page đđť
#mayor doidles#uh its neither fanart nor does it depict my ocs :) nooo my precious tag system#i guess it will remain uncategorized on that front in my page. not like it matters at all#No characters#traditional art#line drawing#pen drawing#inkart#black and white#art
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One of my favorite drawings from my sketchbook
#fine line drawing#finelinework#black and white art#sketchbook page#inception#mindscape#starry night
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Kind of doodling to fill my sketchbook
#sketchbook art#sketches#sketchbook drawing#sketchbook page#black and white#fine art#fine line#lineart#my artwork#my art#artwork#art
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After School Ghost Theory 101 with Professor Fenton
Switch to light mode or Classic Blue to get the full transparency effect!
[Image ID: A four page comic that starts with Danny Fenton standing in front of a whiteboard holding up a white cat. "Question: Do ghosts purr?âÂ
Tucker: âDanny when was the last time you slept?â Danny: âIrrelevant.âÂ
Danny info-dumps: âThe answer is yes, but also no. Technically, all beings that possess a core are constantly "purring", a.k.a. Core Vibrations. Core Vibrations are a nonverbal, emotion-based communication system between Ghosts, similar to how some living species use pheromones to communicate. The exact tone of each ghost is different the same way people's voices are different. Humans can only hear these vibrations when the frequency passes through their audible range (20Hz - 20KHz), hence the 'purring' sound. When the range dips into infrasound (16 - 20Hz) it can cause feelings of fear and unease in humans that they often associate with ghosts and the supernatural. Also known as the âHeebie Jeebies.ââ
Danny, wiping off the whiteboard: âAny questions before we move on?"
Dannyâs audience consists of Wes Weston, Tucker Foley, Sam Manson, Dannyâs clone Ellie, and Dash Baxter in a classroom. Wes is seated at a desk at the front taking notes. Tucker is sitting on Samâs lap playing on a Switch, Ellie is sitting on a desk behind them. Dash is asleep at the back of the room.
Ellie, now holding the cat: âIs this Vladâs first cat!?â Wes: "Could you tone down the floating eyes before the next part? They're kinda distracting." Danny: "What eyes?" Wes: âPlease stop gaslighting me.â
A transparency trick on the last page reveals dark shadows and eyes all around Danny when viewed in dark mode. /.End ID]
An Extended Image ID is available under the read more because itâs over 1k. Side by side light and dark mode versions of the transparency trick is also available under the cut.
[Extended Image ID: The post contains a four page comic. The first page shows two comic panels with white borders. The top panel features a bedraggled looking Danny Fenton from the waist up holding a disgruntled fluffy white cat. There are bags under his eyes, his hair is messy, his arms are covered in bandaids and cat scratches, and his nails are painted black. Heâs wearing a white shirt with red sleeves and a red oval on the front. In a large green text bubble he says âQuestion: Do ghosts purr?â A small orange text bubble under it asks âDanny when was the last time you slept?â âIrrelevantâ Danny replies.Â
In the bottom panel Danny is standing on the far left side of the panel in front of a whiteboard in a classroom with the cat under his arm. Heâs wearing baggy jeans with holes in the knees and his classic white and red Converse shoes. The whiteboard behind him has partially erased doodles around the edges including some flowers, stars, and Phantomâs DP symbol. There are a few balls of paper on the floor. Partially out of frame on the wall behind Danny is a poster of Einstein and above it a clock. Pointing at the whiteboard with a marker Danny says âThe answer: Yes but also noâ His words are written on the whiteboard. Under the words is a drawing of a stick figure and a green bedsheet ghost with a circle between them. The circle is surrounded by green squiggly lines radiating out from it. Under the circle, an arrow is drawn pointing to it with the words âcore vibrationsâ written on the board. A green text bubble in the space under the whiteboard says âTechnically, all beings that possess a core are constantly "purring", a.k.a. Core Vibrations.â
On the second page there are two blocks of text, each followed by a drawing. The page background is a pale, greenish-grey with subtle scuff marks imitating the look of a whiteboard. The first block of text at the top of the page reads âCore Vibrations are a nonverbal, emotion-based communication system between Ghosts, similar to how some living species use pheromones to communicate. The exact tone of each ghost is different the same way people's voices are different.â Under the text, imitating the look of dry erase marker, is a drawing of two simple ghosts smiling and waving to each other. They both have a small green circle drawn on their chest area with green squiggly lines radiating out from each ghost. Between the two cores, two parallel arrows are drawn, facing opposite directions. Under the arrows is the text âcore to core communication.âÂ
Under the ghosts is a second block of text reading âHumans can only hear these vibrations when the frequency passes through their audible range (20Hz - 20KHz), hence the 'purring' sound. When the range dips into infrasound (16 - 20Hz) it can cause feelings of fear and unease in humans that they often associate with ghosts and the supernatural. Also known as the âHeebie Jeebies.ââ Under the text a red arrow points from the words âheebie jeebiesâ to a simple drawing of Dash Baxter holding a flashlight and looking scared. There is a cobweb with a dangling spider drawn to his right and a bunch of green blob ghosts behind him to his left. In blue text the blobs say âyou forgot to update your mailing address with the IRSâ and âyou filed your taxes incorrectly.â
The third page once again shows two comic panels. In the top panel Danny takes up the centre. Heâs stretched across the whiteboard in a dynamic pose erasing the drawing of frightened Dash with a big swipe. One hand is braced on the board as he looks over his shoulder and asks âAnyone got questions before we move on?â If the image is viewed in dark mode, there are five, messily drawn eyes of varying sizes surrounding Danny. If viewed in light mode, the eyes are absent.Â
The bottom comic panel reveals Dannyâs audience to be Wes Weston, Tucker Foley, Sam Manson, Dannyâs clone Ellie, and Dash Baxter. In the bottom left corner, Wes sits slouched at a desk at the front of the classroom with papers and an open notebook spread out over his desk. Heâs wearing a red zip up hoodie with white sleeves. His hoodie is unzipped showing a green shirt underneath that matches the colour of his eyes. At the desk beside him Tucker and Sam share a chair with their focus on Tuckerâs Switch and not Dannyâs presentation. Tucker is sitting in Samâs lap with her arms around his waist and her head resting on his shoulder. Tucker is wearing a red beanie with short dreads, goldenrod yellow turtleneck sweater, green cargo pants, and white shoes. Sam is wearing a black crop top with a fishnet layer over top, purple pleated plaid skirt, artistically ripped purple leggings, and black combat boots with bright green laces. Tucker has the tips of his dread dyed green and purple. Sam has streaks of purple, green, and orange in her hair. Ellie is sitting cross legged on top of a desk two rows behind Sam and Tucker. Sheâs wearing a cropped hoodie with the same colours as Dannyâs shirt and black track pants with white and red shoes. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail and she is holding the squirming fluffy white cat up in the air. At the very back of the classroom behind Wesâ left shoulder Dash can be seen asleep slouched over his desk. Wes has one hand resting on his desk holding a mechanical pencil the other partially raised with his hand open. In a beige text bubble with red text he replies to Dannyâs question with an unimpressed look on his face âCould you tone down the floating eyes before the next part? They're kinda distracting.â Under his text bubble a small blue text bubble from Ellie asks âIs this Vladâs first cat!?â If the image is viewed in dark mode, there are three visible floating eyes off to the side of the panel. If viewed in light mode, the eyes are absent.Â
The final comic page is a single, full body shot of Danny standing in front of the blank whiteboard. Heâs looking over his shoulder, slightly turned with his back mostly towards the classroom and the eraser in his hand. He has an incredulous look on his face. If the page is viewed in dark mode, the background looks dark and Danny is surrounded by dozens eyes of in all different sizes. If viewed in light mode, the eyes are absent. In a green text bubble Danny asks âWhat eyes?â In the bottom left corner Wes replies âPlease stop gaslighting me.â /.End ID]
#Danny Phantom#Danny Fenton#Wes Weston#DP#image id#Scopophobia#tw eyes#transparent#transparency trick#stove on fire#43393#long post#extended image ID long enough to post on Ao3
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Accidentally clicking the wrong part of a page during a wiki dive of a series I loved when I was younger, and being sent back in time and space as I see people organizing massive closed rp roleplay families events [PINGLIST FULL], posting fursona redesigns, fursona vent gore, colouring in bases for ocs and coming out as gay to each other all in the same feed for a series that, i promise, does not involve any of these . Not even the gay part. Someone is posting splatoon yuri. Where the fuck am i
#armour clanking#the wiki page entries were showing low res phone photographs of rough drawings on lined paper on someone's (i want to say) english homework#and whenever I tried to find that source it disappeared and showed the official page.#I would try to make myself believe i've ended up a decade and a half in the past but mortifyingly#theyre calling the autism creature/tbh 'yippees' and making bases from it (it's black and white.) ive never felt so very#'oh my god there are kids in this building. oh my god ive way outgrown this place so bad'#on the other hand i guess you can use an aging wiki like a Only One Topic forum. the youth can enjoy My Old Beloved Series safely#without getting anywhere close to fucking. twitter. hang on why do you all have toyhouses. i'm confused again. where am i#'sorry i was gone i have to write an essay to get into a science program for school' ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh I cannot stay here oh jesus christ#have fun. remember internet safety rules. stop being better at TH than me. please finish your essay. until next time
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KARU Studio Â
Visit my shop on EtsyâŹď¸
https://www.etsy.com/shop/KaruStudioStore
#colouring book#colouring page#colouring#colors#black and white#pen and ink#pen drawing#drawing#etsy#persian art#line work#detailed art
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23-113 Hang in There #1
Todayâs Mandala Message: Track Your Progress This week Iâm working through Principles #21 and #22 from Jack Canfieldâs âThe Success Principlesâ entitled âKeep Score For Successâ and âPractice Persistenceâ, respectively. I set my intention today to ponder the idea of tracking my progress. Canfield suggests: âDecide where you need to keep score in order to manifest your vision and achieve yourâŚ
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#success principles#Black and White#coloring mandalas#hang in there#honor your successes#keep score#line art#mandala#mandala art#mandala artist#mandala coloring pages#mandala drawing#mandala to color#mandalas#pen and ink#the mandala lady#the success principles#track your progress
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YEAH YEAY OKAY! here we go! welcome to i get to infodump about pens again, yay yippee!
what's the difference between ballpoints, rollerballs, and gel pens?
ballpoints, rollerballs, and gel pens all use a ball-socket mechanism that continuously coats itsself in ink as it rolls across a page. what makes them all different from each other is in the ink composition!!
ballpoint pens have an oil based ink paste. the ink is very thick & requires more pressure to write with, and can get kinda skippy as the tip gets dirty or clogged, but is able to stick to many more surfaces like receipts, plastic, really shitty paper, etc. it can be hard to wash out of things that you get it on, since it's more waterproof than other inks.
one of the neat things about this type of ink is that you're able to shade with it by varying pressure. lots of artists make great use of this!
hybrid or low viscosity ballpoint ink is often just ballpoint ink with an added lubricant to make it write smoother and flow better.
rollerball pens use water based inks. fountain pens, felt tip pens*, and dip pens all usually use water based inks. because of this, rollerballs are very free flowing and rarely clog, but paper choice is more important and some folks can find them to be leaky or overly wet. the writing experience is not as glidey as a gel/ballpoint since the ink is not thick, but it doesn't need a heavy hand. rollerballs enjoy more colour options than ballpoints and can have very dark blacks, but aren't waterproof unless the ink is pigment based instead of dye based. *felt tip pens feel very different than any of the other pens on this list cause of the soft point, they put out ink in a very even and somewhat dry way, and can also use alcohol inks, like copic markers. alcohol inks soak very deep into the page and dry very fast, and blend very differently. i'm not as familiar with them!
gel pens use inks that are made of pigment suspended in a water based gel. these inks tend to be very thick and put out a wet line that takes a longer time to dry. gel pens are most likely to clog and skip due to this, since the ball is not as evenly coated in a substance so thick. gel pens do have the widest colour options and can be fully opaque (ie. pastels, whites, etc) but are often very frustrating as they clog up and get old and dried out.
as a bonus, true technical pens are a whole different kind of beast and have very specific standardized nib sizes and colours. cad software has largely replaced the need for extremely precise technical drawing, but artists still like pens like the rapidograph! they're made differently everywhere but generally, instead of a ball, there is a small tube of a precise diameter with a little wire inside it that controls the ink flow. they can't be held at a lot of angles and aren't as versatile as other pens, but they put down incredibly crisp lines.
yippee yay pens!! wahoo!!
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FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS
PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Thereâs something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.
WORDCOUNT: 16.8k
WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping waterâdeeper than anything.Â
In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves.Â
Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines.Â
âI still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,â is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older manâs garbled words. âSo cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?â
Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later yearsâone who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast.Â
âOh, itâs not so bad,â you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled faceâthe glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline thatâs more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. âGets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.â Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. âIsnât it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.â
âDonât need my blood pumpinâ harder,â the old man grinds out, scoffing. âGonna make my fuckinâ heart stop, GirlâŚâ Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. âAnd, no, Iâm not listening to the birdsâtheyâll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.â
Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this placeâto Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe.Â
It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.
You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot.Â
The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a gruntâa cracking of old bones.Â
âNow hush,â Otto sighs, settling back.Â
You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.
âYouâll scare away the fish with all that blabber.â
A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath.Â
âIâm as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.â
âCheeky Bird,â Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. âYouâre too wild for this place, then, eh?â
âFor most places,â you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. Itâs only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisherâs basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples.Â
Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, heâll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harrietâolder than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a batâand then, finally, you. After that youâre back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat.Â
A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter.Â
Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly.Â
âHey!â Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. âWatch yourselfâyouâll send me overboard!â
âDid you see that?â Your eyes dart over the water. âI think I saw a fin.âÂ
âYou got excited over a fish?â The older manâs voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. âHell, I got three in the basket if youâre that bloody impressed.â
âShh,â you wave one of your hands, unblinking. âIt was bigger than a fish, Otto!âÂ
Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.
âLost it,â your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. âDamn.â You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. âIt was strange,â you admit. âLike a deep navy colorâwith specs of silver along the spine.â
Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back.Â
You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. âDo you know of any animal like that around here?â
âNo,â Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock.Â
Your brows furrow after the silence falls stifflyâthe boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air wasâŚmuddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water.Â
Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver.Â
â...Need help?â You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always.Â
Thereâs something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselvesâand it wasnât only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Ottoâs strange behavior. The man wasnât one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings.Â
Otto lived alone. You never asked about it.Â
âDonât need any help,â he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. âMânot in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mumâs womb.â
âFeel sorry for her.â Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paintâ
The fin is back.Â
âOtto!â Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. âItâs back! Look!âÂ
A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away.Â
Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, âGet back!â echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears.Â
âWhoa!â Youâre quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook wonât slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Ottoâs curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong.Â
Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life againâonly ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all.Â
âYou go back to the ocean,â Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. âGo back to the bloody hole you swam out of! Thereâs nothing for you here! Nothing!âÂ
You watch, struck dumb.Â
â...Mr. Whitworth?â Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the manâutterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?
Perhaps time had caught up to himâwas he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fishâs fin, nothing more, nothing less.
âOtto,â you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. âLetâs just go.â Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. âAlrightâŚ? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, itâs nothing important.â
His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, âYouâll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, Iâll be stringing you up by the tail first.âÂ
Withered hand connecting with your shawlâs edge, youâre dragged back with more force than youâd anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless.Â
Looking at the water, thereâs nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.
â
You dare to ask when youâre pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.
âWho were you talking to back there?â Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. âI never took you for someone to believe in spirits.â The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harrietâs back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.
The manâs back over at the sink tightens.Â
âYou watch yourself near the waters, Girl,â Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. âBy God, you watch yourself. Thereâs things out thereâterrible things.âÂ
âWhat kinds of âterrible things,â Otto?â Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life.Â
What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piquedâyour curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. Youâd only been here a year, that wasnât enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles.Â
Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dogâs visageâworn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. Heâd been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually, this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why.Â
He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, âWhatâs it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what Iâm telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You donât go on the water,â he blinks, face grim, âunless Iâm the one ferryinâ you through it, eh? Thatâs the end of it. Iâll say no more.âÂ
Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.
âSo much for answers,â your lips mutter.Â
But a fire had been lit in your breast nowâa low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place.Â
To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any youâd seen before.Â
Blinking to look out the window of Ottoâs home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that youâd always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.
â
It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpeâa tiny, unimportant dot on the mapâwhen the way of life youâd chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. Youâd picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.
One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment.Â
It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water.Â
Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning.Â
Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enoughâthe call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so.Â
Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder.Â
âWhat am I doing?â You ask yourself, shaking your head. âIt was just a big fishâthat old man was just being paranoid, anyways.â Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. âThereâs nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.âÂ
Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really sayâwhat can be known are only three things:Â
One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip.Â
Thereâs a gruff call from the water.
âCareful, then.â
Your head snaps up to the sound of a manâs voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before youâre suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water.Â
The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendouslyâa flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp.Â
Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown.Â
Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first placeâor who was poking a head out of the water before youâd gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.
You certainly werenât going to.Â
Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirtâs collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where youâre yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as youâre heaved to the rocky shore moments later.
Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly followsâall spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air canât come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined.Â
Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesnât take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.
But thereâs nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths.Â
Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge.Â
Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before itâs grasped from below and suddenly pluckedâvanishing without a single trace.
â
The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and itâs not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still canât stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat.Â
Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after youâd stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal.Â
There had been a man.Â
The sensation of hands around your waistâthe gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as youâd turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds.Â
Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustacheâŚsquare jawâŚ
âWhat in Godâs name?â You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. âThat isnât possible.âÂ
Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; thereâd be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and palletsâbottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks.Â
There are paintings in the tensâin the twentiesâhanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, itâs only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work.Â
There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows whatâs under that thin surface? WellâŚapparently, it wasnât human.Â
You swallow down saliva and your lips thin.Â
The thing in the water wasnât⌠unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose satâfull cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique.Â
Spiney, nearlyâfour thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a âUâ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of beingâfor show in itâŚhis?...species.Â
Could you even assign it a human gender?Â
You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. âWhat in the hell is going on?â Your voice is scratchy and low.Â
Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldnât be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings.Â
Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.
You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace.Â
âWhat has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?âÂ
More importantlyâŚyou had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.
With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet.Â
But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus.Â
You shiver again, not from the cold.
Careful, then.Â
â
There was no question if youâd gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the oceanâthe evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth.Â
Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. Youâre bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.
The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadnât stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city.Â
You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friendsâat the very least acquaintances. But before long, youâre at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.
The library.
Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences heâd called out on the docks that dayâYouâll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, Iâll be stringing you up by the tail first.
Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answerâthere had to be something about this person, âEleanor,â in them, right?
If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first handâŚyouâd rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first.Â
Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.
âOh,â the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. âHello, Dear,â she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. âMy, you look a bit under the weather, donât you? Would you like me to get some tea goingâŚ?â
âNo, thank you,â you wave an easy hand. âIâm here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.â
âRecords?â The womanâs face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. âWhat kind were you thinking, then?â
After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. âBirths and work records? Addresses?â You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. âI guess I donât knowâŚanything that might help me?â
The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. âHow about you tell me what it is youâre looking into, and Iâll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. Weâll work together, then.âÂ
Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. âDeal.â
âGo on then,â she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. âOccupation I can start with, Dear?â
âWellâŚâ you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. âNo, unfortunately. Only a first name.â
âYouâre lucky Redthorpe is small,â the woman laughs. âOtherwise I would have told you youâre lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.âÂ
âEleanor,â you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled â1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpeâ. âE-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least thatâs the common spelling, I believe.âÂ
The librarianâs body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, youâre reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face.Â
â...OrâŚmaybe itâs N-O-R-E?âÂ
âIâm sorry, but I canât help you,â is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. âThere hasnât been an Eleanor in Redthrope. Youâre mistaken.âÂ
âWait,â you follow, stuttering. âI donât understand, there has to have beenâOtto was talking about her not days ago!â
âYouâre mistaken,â is the repeated, firm answer, the librarianâs body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. âGo back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that arenât there. Donât take what he says to heartââ
âI saw it!â You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadnât formed a relationship with the people of this town.Â
The womanâs mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expressionâŚfear?
She backs up slowly. âIâŚI donât know what youâre talking about, Dear.â
Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. âIâm done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!â Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what youâre telling her aside as she struggles to string words.Â
âItâŚit wouldnât do thatâthatâs not how it acts. Youâre just imagining things; youâre under the weather!â
âWhoâs Eleanor?â You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. âAnd what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?â
Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarianâs lips move up and down in a panic.Â
âIâŚâ she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. âI canât talk about it. Itâs not something to be said out loudâespecially so close to the water.âÂ
You bark incredulously, âThereâs a bloody monster that lives down inâ!â
A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body.Â
âShh!â The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. âStop it or youâll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!â You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. Itâs a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. âDo you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!â
Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear.Â
She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, âIf youâve already seen it, it wants you. Donât go back to the water,â before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock.Â
Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distressâthis had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers.Â
âCareful, then.â
You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coatâs collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.
â
Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.
No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could doâcould speculateâbefore the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided.Â
Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. Itâs a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until youâre bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, thereâs a point where a womanâs courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day.Â
Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where youâd been previously.Â
âDonât look at the water,â you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isnât going to topple this way or that. âDonât even think about it.â
But that tailâŚthat faceâŚ
With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on.Â
The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpeâdreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didnât mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than youâd like to admit.Â
The heat of protection, so to speak.
âEven a fish-man can die, Iâd wager,â you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. âIf I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,â you sneeze, shuddering, âif he even bleeds? If I crack his head openâŚwill blood seep out, or salt water?âÂ
You shiver, and itâs not from the cold. âFucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, donât you.â
Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where youâd fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting thereâŚbut also your shawl.Â
Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail.Â
You arenât sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.
Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.
âGrab it and run,â your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rainâthe stormâwould render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so.Â
Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath.Â
Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due toâŚyour eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.
âFingerprints?âÂ
Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do nowâand, yet, there wasnât an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared.Â
Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting.Â
Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running.Â
Heâd been going through your drawingsâheâd somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.
Did he like them?
Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasnât too important.Â
Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelpâŚwas it just under where you now study the waves?
So many questions, so few answers.Â
You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. Thereâs magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.
âThank you!â Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree.Â
The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face.Â
âTruly,â you shout to the wind. âYou have no idea how much this means! If youâre listening, Iâd like to extend my gratitudeâŚâ Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. âMy artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!âÂ
A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldnât drag you to the bottom of the oceanâŚright?Â
Hell, heâd already had a chance to do thatâa perfect oneâand yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.
Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking.Â
âYouâre good at it,â you halt in a fraction of a second. âThe images. Whereâd you learn to do that?â
Itâs a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.
A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.
Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shouldersâbroad, of courseâand the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before theyâre gone again.Â
âIâŚâ you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. âI was self-taught, Sir.âÂ
Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and youâre near bursting with questions.Â
But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.
âYou pulled me from the water,â you state slowly. âAnd I donât even know your name.â
The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laughâperhaps it was strange to him.
You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory.Â
âI scared you,â he grumbles, sighing. âIt wasnât my intention to send you over.â Eyes still stay stuck. âMy own fault.â
âI wonât deny you there,â you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thingâs eyes, and he hums. âForgive me,â your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. âBut I havenât the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.â
âJohn,â is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesnât waste his breath, seems.Â
âJohn?â You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. âWell, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. Iâve met more than enough âJohnsâ so far.â
âFunny, are you?â The response, however dry, is tinged with something you canât name.Â
âI try,â you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. âJust didnât expect a man with a fishtail to act soâŚ.human. Certainly not be named like one, either.â
âHm,â John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind.Â
It wasnât out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse.Â
What would it feel like to touch it?
âYou live here?â Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. âRight below the cliffs?âÂ
âYouâre the woman that goes out in the boat,â John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback.Â
âYes, thatâs me.â You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. âOtto goes fishing in the morningsâI like to sketch the shore. He isnât the worst company, of course. Heâs kind enough to let me along with him.â
But you wonât be kept down. Thereâs magical curiosity in your chest now.
âYour tail,â you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. Johnâs eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. âForgive me, Sir, but I must know,â your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. âIs it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, itâs like nothing Iâve ever seen before.â
John canât find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You wereâŚdifferent, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old manâs boatâlooking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes.Â
The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated overâthe skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.
He doesn't know why heâs speaking to you, truly. Heâd done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesnât dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldnât leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as thatâa woman of all things? A human one?Â
Blue eyes canât seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.
âNo.â You blink, pulling back a smidge when Johnâs voice is low and graited. âGo back to your home. Itâs late.â
âHey, waitâ!â
But heâs already gone under the waves, and youâre left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.
You stay there far longer than youâd like to admit.
â
You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and stillâŚyou were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting.Â
In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snailsâyou had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a manâs face peeking above the water.Â
Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasnât any wind in hereâand you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didnât know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didnât erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.Â
Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.
You turn in a half-circle.Â
âBeautiful,â your lips murmur, voice echoing.Â
Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and wearyâshaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.
When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child.Â
Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until youâre inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty.Â
âWhat are you doing in hereâŚ?â You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces.Â
Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, itâs as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.
Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water.Â
You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently.Â
âOne day youâre going to make me keel over,â your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his.Â
âA thief as well as an artist?â John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. âYouâve been looking for me.â
You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coatâs pocket, glaring lightly. âYou left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.â
As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before youâre left breathless.Â
Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tailâthat was something you could never describe.Â
The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You canât see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the waterâŚbut even this was enough for now.
This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity.Â
Itâs only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.
Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The beingâs beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes.Â
âIf someoneâs avoiding you, Sunshine,â he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. âThey usually donât want to have a conversation.â
âI think itâs fair,â you huff. âYou canât just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.â
John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was soâŚstoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusementâeven annoyed interest.Â
âI donât have time to fuckinâ entertain others,â he thins his lips.Â
Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. âAnd what else is so much more important, then?â You raise a brow. âScaring other women into the water?â
He huffs under his breath. âIt was an accidentâwouldnât have happened if you werenât so jumpy, eh?âÂ
âItâs not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,â you defend.Â
âMer-man, Love,â he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.
âWell,â you chuckle. âNow weâre getting somewhere.âÂ
An emotionless glare is all you receive.Â
It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiryâwhat does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?
You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. Itâs a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations.Â
A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; Johnâs hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone.Â
âAnd the rings?â You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. âDo you find them out there? Keep them?â
John tilts his head in an affirmation. âShipwrecks. Thereâll be hundreds of themâIâm not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.â He sighs. âSeemed a waste to leave them down there.â
You huff a sound of amusement. âI see. Fascinating.â
In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when youâd first entered.Â
You blink. âYou live here?â
âAffirmative,â John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours.Â
Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. Johnâs face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.
âAndâŚâ you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. âIf I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?âÂ
Thereâs a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face.Â
The man was anything but smallâeverything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. Youâd never imagined that youâd find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than youâd care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.
Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.
âIâll be here,â John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.
Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.
â...Okay.â
â
And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fearânor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got.Â
Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks.Â
The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might beâwhat correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didnât have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself.Â
Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the mermanâs rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, Johnâs face tightens as his eyelids narrow. Youâd been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, Johnâs ears hadnât twitched to it.Â
He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dullâhe knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns.Â
He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you donât look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.
âYouâre quiet today,â he starts, frowning.Â
Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at Johnâs face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said.Â
âIâm sorry,â you sigh, and the manâs face pulls. âYou can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.â
âI didnât mean it like that, Love, yeah?â John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. âWhat happened?â
âNothing happened,â your lips mumble, and you shake your head. âItâs one of my questions again.â You pause, closing your book. âA difficult one.â
Johnâs lips flicker. âWell, weâve been at this for ages. Canât see how this one is more difficult than the others.â He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. âGo on.â
âI donât know if I can,â you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like thisâhaving you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest.Â
John hums and swallows stiffly.
âWhy not?â His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. âSomething going on up there?â
Up there.Â
The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.
âMore so in here,â you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot.Â
âThen speak to me,â John frowns, trying a low smirk. âThink we both know Iâm a good listener then, Love. Thereâs time,â he glances at the entrance. âWonât be near dark for a few more hoursâdonât want you climbing at night.â
âAwe,â you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.
Not yet.Â
âHurry up, Sunshine,â John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy.Â
Thereâs a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simplyâso near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted.Â
Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, âYouâre going to get cold.âÂ
âItâs not as cold here as it is out there,â you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. âBesides, Iâm right next to youâyouâll keep me warm, wonât you, John?â
âFucking hell,â he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet.Â
You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of Johnâs tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch Johnâs left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.
Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks.Â
âThereâs a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,â you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. âEleanor.âÂ
The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.
âAnd for some reason,â you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. âEveryone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I donât know if sheâs missing, orâŚâ
Your words trail off, insinuation clear.
Not noticing any chance on Johnâs face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. âHey, are you alright?â Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. âI didnât mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.â Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. âI donât think youâd do something like that.â
John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. âWhat makes you say that?â
âIf you were some murderous creature,â you shrug, âI donât think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.â Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. âAm I wrong?â
âNo,â the man huffs, quirking a brow. âNo, youâre not wrong.â
âKnew it,â you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.
John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. âGettinâ cheeky, are you?âÂ
If you were a bird, youâd be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. âPerhaps, John.âÂ
It is a wonder, then, that the two of you donât lock lips that very instantâlong fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, Johnâs head is already moving back and his spine is straight.Â
The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull.Â
âI knew of a woman named Eleanorâshe would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.â Dark brows tighten. âFound her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.â Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. âInteresting that Iâd be roped into it, but itâs understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?âÂ
âI donât blame you,â you whisper. âThat must have been horrible.â
Blue slips over to you silently, and itâs a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly.Â
âScared me when you fell in.â Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.
âWell,â you lean into him, face on fire, âit was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.âÂ
John huffs out a laugh. âHandsome?â
âOh, very,â you joke. âThe tail is a bonus.â Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. âSince when did you know that navy is my favorite color?â
The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way Johnâs fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin.Â
âBugger off,â he grunts.Â
Youâve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.
â
Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact.Â
Johnâs appearance in your work had started smallâa glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the waterâand had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought.Â
Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didnât was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the âstrange fish-manâ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks.Â
By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarianâ
The bell of your shop dings.
Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy.Â
âHow can I help you today, Sir?â Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, thereâs the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch.Â
âIâm here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.â Heâs well-spoken as well, and youâre shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpeâhe doesnât seem familiar at all.
âOf course,â you nod, perplexed. âIâm sorry, I think I missed your name.â
âNoah Moore,â is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. âMy neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.â
Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasnât that Eleanorâs husband?
âThank you,â your lips move, thinning. âThatâs very high praise, Mr. Moore.âÂ
âThis creature,â Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. âThe man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?â
Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way heâs trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isnât right.
âSeen him?â Chuckles echo off the walls. âWho? The beast? No, Sir, thatâŚthingâŚis just something I made up.â You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. âOh my, clumsy me.â you laugh stiffly. âApologies, Sir, but thatâs the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.â
Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely.Â
âAh,â he huffs, âof course. It was silly of me to ask.â Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. âThough,â Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer.Â
Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and thereâs a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. Heâd find youâyou know he would.
âThough,â Noah continues, tilting his head. âThere is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wifeâs body was found at the rocks.âÂ
Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs.Â
âAs far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,â he hums, âyou werenât even here.â
Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. Itâs why theyâre so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left herâthey saw him bring her body to shore.
Itâs a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure.Â
âJohn would never kill an innocent woman!âÂ
Itâs as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, thereâs a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noahâs wrist, clawing until thereâs blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, thereâs wild screaming, and you canât tell if itâs the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear.Â
Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noahâs hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you canât as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side tableâsearching fruitlessly.Â
âJohn?â Noah sneers, holding tighter. âThe thing has a name?â
Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinctâbreaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.
âIt was perfect,â Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. âI had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!âÂ
Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anythingâanything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You canât even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision.Â
Tears splatter down your cheeks.
âTwo years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?â
Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noahâs head.Â
Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping.Â
Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead.Â
Running, you donât know how to stop, and itâs even harder to catch your breath by the time youâre down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasnâtâbut the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of Johnâs cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.
Thereâs a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hearâwhipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking.Â
âLove!â
Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue thatâs a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck.Â
Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.
âHey,â John breathes, having dragged himself at a momentâs notice across the floor of the cave. âHey,â he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury.Â
His hand is outstretched, but he doesnât try to touch you again seeing how youâd jerked away. The manâs heart had stopped at thatâhis concern shooting up similar to how he felt when youâd raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.
But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.
âWhat is going on,â he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. Thereâs only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant.Â
Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is Johnâs outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jawâthe eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.
Openly gazing, when John sees youâre back, his blues slip to a softened caress.Â
âLove,â he mutters, face tight.Â
You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang.Â
âShh,â John breathes, knowing that heâd get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. âIâm right here, Sunshine. Breathe, thenâŚIâm right here, yeah?âÂ
His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fishâno air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.
John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.
You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm.Â
Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth.Â
Heâd wait as long as it took.
â
When it became apparent you couldnât speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool. Â
Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks.Â
âCareful,â John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. âLet me get it, eh?â
Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate.Â
âIâm not glass,â you croak, one hand near your throat.Â
Blue eyes blink at you. âNever said you were,â he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adamâs Apple bob. âDonât like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.â
Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, âAnd stop talkingâyouâll make it worse.âÂ
You hadnât explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time youâd been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.
The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you werenât blind.Â
John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat.Â
He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment.Â
â...Can I?â You pause, swallowing as the burn persists.Â
Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefullyânot tightening, not holding you thereâresting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose.Â
He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.
âEasy,â John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. âWhen youâre ready, explain it to me, eh?â His head tilts, voice a low tease. âGlass or not.âÂ
Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, âQuietly, now. Can hear just fineâdonât push yourself.âÂ
Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back.Â
All you say is one name.Â
âNoah.âÂ
Thereâs a moment of confusion on Johnâs face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftlyâhe wasnât a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. Itâs of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog.Â
A dog with scales, that is.
Your body is still running hotâyour heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. Youâre tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again.Â
When you shift your body, the manâs eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.
A noise exits the back of his throat, and Johnâs mouth moves in serious question. âWhat are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at youââ
Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck.Â
You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a mermanâs tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. Johnâs chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.
You both say nothing, and itâs a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.
â
When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch youâd strung together in the meantime.
You fiddle with one of Johnâs ringsâthe emerald oneâas you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.
âI think he killed his wife.âÂ
By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.
âHm,â is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.
He shakes his head, growling out, âYouâre not going back up there. Not while heâs still walking the streets.â
You frown, but John glares without any venom. âIt wasnât a question, Love.â
âWhat will you do,â you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. âRun after me, John?â
The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. âIf I have to.â
Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as Johnâs fingers once again continue their touchingâas if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins.Â
âYou donât have legs,â you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply.Â
âIâll crawl,â he grunts.
âThe rocks are sharp.â
His face is immobile. âThen Iâll bleed.â
Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expressionâthe pull of the crowâs feet beside his eyes. There wasnât an ounce of a joke in Johnâs eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low.Â
The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.
John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green.Â
âKeep it,â he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. âMore of a use to you.âÂ
Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you.Â
John shrugs. âThe rest of âem, too, if you want the damn things.â His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things heâd seen from far distant waters.Â
Oh, but theyâd pale in comparison to how you would wear them.Â
A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait.Â
A women to the water.
Heâd seen your latest sketchesâyouâd brought them down to him hereâand when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. Heâd not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as heâd listened to you explain it. Youâd told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.
You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciationâa voiceless devotion. Heâd never beenâŚcaptured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didnât even know himself, and yet there they were.Â
Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that heâd all but forgotten about, the list was endless.Â
But he looks at you now, and he can understand why thereâs a draw to immortalize the mortal.Â
His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. Thereâs little air to be taken in between the two of you.Â
âJohn,â you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips.Â
He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you donât want to fight it, you donât want to think about the strangeness of this predicament youâve found yourself inâa creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.
When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself.Â
Head snapping up, Johnâs body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, itâs not long before you realize whatâs going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse.Â
The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls.Â
âJohn,â you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. âYou need to run,â you choke out. âGo! Quickly!â
You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows itâs fruitless. He wonât leave you here alone.
âTheyâll kill you!â Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will.Â
âStay under me,â John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows thereâs little that heâd be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones heâd yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a shipâa spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter.Â
There was a sharp feeling in Johnâs chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment heâd seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers.Â
He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was.Â
âJohn!â You try to bark again, growing desperate.Â
Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadnât shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell. They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.
Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something youâd keep for a home invasion beside the bedâthe Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story.Â
He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves.Â
Half of Mr. Mooreâs face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the groundâskin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup.Â
You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and Johnâs glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him.Â
âThere!â Noah shouts, balking closer. âSee! I knew it was hereâseducing the next woman to take to the ocean!âÂ
Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. Johnâs face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noahâs visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the mermanâs waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go.Â
âGirl!â Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, youâre not sure you would. You wouldnât even know what to say. âGet away from it!â
âIâd put that down,â John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. ââFore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.â
âOtto,â you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in questionâs face pulls, wrinkles thinning. âYou have to listen to me, please, itâs not how Mr. Moore told youââ
âIt speaks!â Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. âFreak of nature, it already has its hold on her.â
âOh my,â the Librarian gasps. âNoah, itâs horribleâlook at the tail.â
Your eyes flare with rage as John doesnât react.
âHey!â You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but youâre already pushing until youâre on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.
âYou watch your bloody mouth,â you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.
 Steady. Keep your head on.
Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.
Your eyes glint. âDrop your weapons,â your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. âLeave. John is innocentâhe told me all of it.â You turn to Otto. âMr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.â Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers.Â
âNoah killed Eleanor,â you breathe, Johnâs grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls.Â
âAbsurdâ!â
âHe pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,â you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. âYou all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.â
It didnât surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dullâhe never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.
Hands whipping to snare around the mermanâs shoulders, youâre only able to get a quick breath in before youâre completely enveloped in water, with Johnâs hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine.Â
You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noahâs muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Ottoâheld at his sides. Thereâs a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then Johnâs fins hide the rest as they slash through the water.Â
When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the sideâalways having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below.Â
âLier!â Noah screams, face contorted. âSheâs lying!â
You look at Otto and see the grim way heâs already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian didâbelieve a woman whoâd been here a year or someone theyâd known nearly their entire lives.
âNoah,â Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. âBreathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speakââ
The knife in Noahâs hands slashes the air, and suddenly thereâs a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood.Â
âOtto!â You scream, fingers flinching.Â
The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate.Â
âDonât move,â he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. âKeep still. Focus on my words, Love.â Under his breath is a tight, âFuck!â
John speaks above the garglingâthe spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes.Â
âDonât look,â John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The soundsâŚoh, the sounds were horrible.Â
But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.
Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.
âThatâs it,â Johnâs fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. âThatâs it, then. Doing good, donât move until I say so, alright?â
When you donât answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You donât have to say you know him to understand that heâs only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.
Otto was dead.
John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil.Â
John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.
âHey, hey, you hear me?â John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smileâa flash nothing more. âThere she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; donât look until I say so.â Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead.Â
The man that brought you out on his boatâthe man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you canât stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood.Â
âThereâs nothing out here that can hurt you,â John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. âSo long as Iâm here, I wonât let it.âÂ
He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears.Â
Noah is still screaming, but now itâs for help.
Johnâs voice lowers as he utters, âHey,â the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes.Â
âStay here. I wonât be long.â
Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss thatâs leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, Johnâs already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film.Â
Yet, you have no trouble following his advice.Â
The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck.Â
John always seemed the one for revenge.
â
With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple.Â
Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarianâattacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, heâd walked into the sea and had taken his own life.Â
The authorities werenât going to dispute it.Â
You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as heâd named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, heâd been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth.Â
Harriet stays in the shop with you, where sheâll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. Sheâs quite fond of the fireplace.Â
Most days, people find you near the water, and itâs something that wasnât going to change even after Noahâs body was found in the rocksâfreakishly close to where Eleanorâs had been. Some were calling it poetic and youâd have to agreeâŚbut for different reasons.
âYou shouldnât be giving me all of these,â you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of Johnâs trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.
Johnâs lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer.Â
âWant to,â he grumbles.Â
Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the manâs scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicatedâlifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below.Â
Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. Heâd let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his lifeâthe softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well.Â
Shivering, Johnâs breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.
Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to âpaintâ him, heâd allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distractionâŚ.but because he canât bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.
âWhere do you come from, John,â your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull.Â
That near kiss.
âNo answer, Love.â You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. âI wonât be going back to distant waters anytime soon.â
John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Uniqueâmade for one another despite the obvious.Â
He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.
âGetting water on you, Love,â he breathes. âNew painting soon?â John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isnât sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind nowâinstinct.
âMhm,â you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. âI think Iâll make this one a portrait.â
John blinks, tilting his head slightly. âPortrait? Whyâs that?âÂ
Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant.Â
For a second, the manâs surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.
âI have a subject thatâs caught my eye.â You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.
John watches, lips parted, as you continue on.Â
âAnd Iâd be a fool if I let him swim off.â
The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.
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Simply wanted to draw a Jon. It's been a while. And it felt wrong not to add a Martin. Cow-mug or cat-mug? ----------------------------- image description: Two digital potraits of Jonathan Sims ex-archivist and his Martin K. Blackwood painted in a dynamic mixture of rough, broad and thin, squiggly brush strokes. The first images shows Jon's head and upper body, sitting and reading a paperback book. His long black, salt and pepper hair is gathered in a loose knot at the back of his neck. The black beard on his jawline, pointy chin and upper lip is not very dense. Small round scars pepper the brown skin of his face, neckand the back of his visible hand. Additional there is a thick pink-white-ish line stretching across his pronounced Adam's apple. He wears a thick woolen cardigan in a deep green and rectangular glasses through which he gazed with his large, heavy lidded eyes not directly at the book in his hand, but just over the pages at something else to the left. His expression is not fully open and happy, but certainly unguarded and soft. In the shadow of the book cover which has the symbol of a green eye on his, one can make out a black ring on the middle of his left hand. Martin is depicted as a light-skinned, big, broad man with a round face and tousled, ash-blond hair. He too wears glasses, although their frames a big and much rounder than Jon's. He wears a green-blue pullover and holds two mugs in his hands, both steaming with hot tea. One mug features the cartoony face of a cat, half hidden behind the tea string and paper bit on those. The other mug has a shaggy Scottish highland cow on it and the painful pun "Cow are you?" There are soft dimples in Martin's round cheeks as he smirks mirthfully down to his right.
#jonathan sims#tma spoilers#the magnus archives#martin blackwood#tea mug#ace character#character portrait#scribbles#procreate#cow are you?#described#image described
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JONATHAN FUCKING SIMS
If you would like to support my work, consider buying a print of one of my works! You can find this piece and many others on my page!
PHOTO ID: in the photo Jonathan sims , a brown middle aged man with a beard and greying-black curly hair, sits upon a throne with his legs crossed. He is holding a gold sceptre with a eye pattern emblazoned onto it. He is wearing two green, fur-lined cloaks and is wearing a mostly green outfit as well as a nazar necklace. On the right hand side of his face, his eye is normal and green and on his left hand side he has mutilple green glowing eyes. In the background is a tapestry like design with mirrored drawings of Jonah Magnus (a white old man with green eyes and rectangular glasses) a cassette tape spilling out its film, an illustration of a panopticon and underneath that a illustration of three people bowing down and preying too a giant eye in the sky. Above the drawing of the panopticon is a drawing of a green barn owl.
#tma#the magnus archives#tma fanart#Jon sims#jonathan sims#Jon sims tma#my art#magpie#the magnus institute#illustration#Jonah magnus
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