#deep sea diamond au

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Angel In the Infield - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley Bradshaw is a struggling first-baseman in the major leagues. He's had bad season after bad season, until he met you, his angel.

A/N: While I'm currently struggling with motivation to work on on Take One for the Team, please instead enjoy this baseball au fic I've done in the meantime! Also I started reading sports romance novels, pls send help half these men are baseball players with dark hair. Also if you like this concept/set up, I'm toying with the idea of making this a series of connected oneshots?

pairing: baseball player!Bradley Bradshaw x reader

warnings/content: baseball au, smut throughout, oral (both m + f receiving), praise, dirty talk, mentions of divorce, unfaithfulness (neither Bradley, nor reader), public sex.

word count: 3.7k

taglist (also tagging those who were interested in Take One For The Team since it's a similar vibe and explains the lack of updates lol): @avengersfan25, @jessicab1991, @atarmychick007, @b-bradshaw, @nouis-bum, @mamachasesmayhem, @floydsmuse, @kmc1989, @dckweed, @katfanfic, @nerdgirljen, @whatislovevavy, @mrsevans90, @averyhotchner, @yuckosworld, @tgmreader, @allepaula, @lourd-ita, @mariaenchanted

The sun hung high on the horizon for a Saturday afternoon, radiating an unseasonable warmth as its rays beat down over the course. A gentle breeze made its way through the palm trees that stood tall outside of the stadium, causing large, deep green leaves to sway in its wake. A crowd of spectators sat on the bleachers that surrounded the diamond, a sea of faces filling the scenery, silently watching, sipping beers and eating hotdogs as they took in the spectacle before them. Media representatives dotted the balcony, press passes on display as they gawked at the game unfolding below. 

Bradley Bradshaw approached the plate, lining up to take his turn at bat. His bright white uniformed baseball shirt, emblazoned with the team logo across the front, his last name in bold, block lettering across the back of his broad shoulders, hugged at his sun kissed biceps as they flexed. One of his tattoos just barely visible from under the sleeve of the shirt.

 He took two practice swings, and once he was comfortable, lined up with the plate. He narrowed his eyes in focus as he looked to the pitcher, giving him the coldest stare down he could muster, his face fixed in a state of concentration. A year and a half ago, he would have begun trash-talking his opponent from the start, calling out that he’d seen his grandmother lob better pitches, and she’d been dead for 15 years. Instead, Bradley forced himself to behave, willing any inappropriate comments about Jake Seresin’s mother to himself, for now. 

He took a swing at the first pitch lobbed towards him with a loud grunt, biting his tongue as he held back a frustrated fuck from his lips as the ball sailed past him, landing in the catcher’s mitt with a thud. 

Strike one.

He caught your gaze in the sea of faces that were watching him expectantly, his lips curling up into a soft smile as he looked towards the family and friends boxes where you stood, waving subtly to him to gain his attention. He gave you a subtle nod of his head, symbolic of a thank you, for Bradley. 

In an instant, Bradley was back in the game, level-headed and laser focused, ready for the next pitch that was coming, as if seeing you had brought him back down to earth, willing him to focus his attention on something other than his once uncontrollable anger. 

He wasn’t often this soft. He never used to be. In fact, he was never considered to be a gentleman when he played any sport. He couldn’t lose graciously. It wasn’t in his nature. He was serious, determined and reserved, focused and dedicated, but even his best intended plans couldn’t withstand his explosive temper. It wasn’t that he wanted to be a walking stick of dynamite. 

He didn’t intend to fly off the handle at everyone around if he made a bad play or if someone commented on his skills not being on point the way they once were, but after nothing but criticism for the last four years of his career, Bradley thought his outbursts were justifiable. 

If he had to hear another comment about being “washed up” at thirty-one, he might snap again, unable to bite his tongue much longer. And if he had a bat in hand? He’d show whoever it was just how good his game still was. He knew his career didn’t have many years left in it, but he had just as much right as any other up and coming young asshole in the MLB to be here. But one bad year at twenty-seven had turned into two, which turned into three, which now crept up on reaching four. 

Admittedly, this year was turning out to be marginally better than the three previous - he didn’t know what to chalk it up to at first. 

Herefused to admit he could be in love. Love was never for him. At least, that’s what his ex-wife told him when she filed for divorce four years prior. He’d just been starting to make a name for himself as a promising first baseman when she served him the papers, leaving him with a burning desire to focus everything he had on the one thing that he thought couldn’t break him - baseball. That desperate need to be good at something, anything, drove him to the brink of insanity. He couldn’t control himself or his need to be the best in the only area he knew he could be anymore. 

However, that train of thought came to a screeching, grinding halt when he met you. 

As Bradley remained focused on his turn at bat, he took a swing at the second pitch sent his way, a fastball that, if he was a smart man, he would have let go, taking the ball instead of risking a strike at a pitch that far outside.

However, Bradley was not a smart man. Not when it came to his turns at bat.

Even he couldn’t hide his momentary shock as the ball made contact with the wooden bat in his hands with a crack. He started running towards first base, rounding it quickly before making the smarter decision to stay put, rather than aim for second. He looked towards where you were watching him from once again, smiling to himself as he watched you blow a kiss towards him. He couldn’t wait to finish this game and just hold you and kiss you. Watch you walk around the house with nothing but his baseball jersey on, just barely long enough on you to cover your private areas, giving him a little sneak peek as you bent over to unload the dishwasher, or reached up to grab a wine glass for yourself when you were ready to unwind for the evening. 

Those delicious thighs, soft and smooth as he ran his hands up and down them, the way you’d giggle and kick your legs playfully when he grasped at the back of them, even though he knew you were ticklish there. He didn’t give a rat’s ass though. He loved the way you laughed. He swore it was up there on the list of the most beautiful sounds in the world, along with the way you said his name right before you reached your orgasm, the way you’d call him ‘honey’ in passing and the sound of a World Series crowd chanting your number. 

Images of his hands lifting the back of that jersey up, shoving the excess material at the bottom out of his way as he pounded into you from behind flashed across his mind, the sounds of you whining out in pleasure as he relentlessly fucked into you, your pretty, pink folds glistening with arousal, letting him slide in and out of you with ease. The thought alone was almost enough to make him curse the athletic cup that was sitting in his baseball pants at the moment, making it increasingly uncomfortable to move as he felt himself hardening at the thought of you. 

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to take you in the hotel room later. 

As he rounded the bases to home after his teammate’s home run hit, his mind drifted to the thought of your teeth sinking into the tanned, taut skin of his shoulder as he made love to you in the California King Bed that awaited you both in the hotel suite after the game. Your fingers gripping his dark curly hair tightly, tangling into them and tugging as he licked and sucked on your neck, leaving a trail of purpling bite marks down you as he marked you as his own. Not that you protested - in fact, you encouraged it. 

As the game progressed, Bradley continued to think about the various ways he could make you his as soon as he got you alone. His mind raced as he thought of you again - in every way possible. He thought about your perfume, how it had some kind of hypnotic hold over him, leaving him momentarily dazed whenever he breathed in your scent. He thought about your smile, how you lit up the entire room when you beamed at him - how you were one of the only people to ever look at him like he meant everything in the world to you, and how you made him feel special and loved and wanted, for the first time in years. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the way you made him feel. 

 His ex-wife had been cold and cut-off from him emotionally, physically. She was never satisfied just being with him. She resented that he couldn’t put all of his attention on her, 100% of the time, despite Bradley feeling like he tried his best to balance his career and home life as best as he could. When she had told him she was ready to have a baby, he’d been entirely on board - ready and willing to start a family. What he wasn’t prepared for, was walking in on her sleeping with a rookie from a rival team in the hotel room that Bradley had paid for. 

As he packed up his gear after the game, his team pulling ahead with a win thanks to a home run hit he scored in the 8th inning that shocked even him, he let out a deep, satisfied sigh. He had proved himself for another day, and he was proud of himself for it. He figured at this rate, if he kept it up, he could be discussing his comeback season with the press after another couple of games. The thought of being respected once again in the sport was electrifying, enough to send a shockwave pulsating through his veins as he switched out of his cleats and into his street shoes. 

He headed out of the locker room, his baseball bag slung over his shoulder and his cap turned backwards, with tufts of dark chestnut brown curls peaking out through the opening. He spotted you, wearing one of his spare jerseys unbuttoned with a short little black dress on underneath, with a pair of stark white running shoes. Your matching baseball cap was sported backwards, just like Bradley’s, a style he started adopting on your advice. You’d flipped his cap around one day during a playful round of sex in the backseat of his vintage Ford Bronco, telling him it looked so much hotter on him when he wore it so that you could still see his face. He took that advice to heart, and now, every chance he could, backwards is how it was. 

You happily skipped over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck loosely as you peppered his lips with feather-light kisses. He laughed softly and shook his head when you finally pulled away, his cheeks burning into a rosy red tone as a slight wave of embarrassment washed over him. 

It wasn’t your kisses or affection that embarrassed him though. It was the fact that after 18 months of dating, he still wasn’t used to it. It was partially his own fault — his ex-wife had never been an affectionate lover, but even after that, he refused to actually be in a relationship with anyone. He enjoyed sex, and that was all he wanted. He wasn’t looking for his heart to be broken again, and it suited him just fine until you came along. 

He’d met you once in passing — he’d gotten himself embroiled in a bar brawl with some guy who’s mouth ran faster than the speed of light. Bradley’s nose had been broken and bloodied as a result, and you’d been leaving the bar with a handful of friends. You’d recognized Bradley as the guy who’d hit on you earlier in the night, and to your surprise, graciously accepted your rejection when you turned him down. When you saw him in this light though, drunk and vulnerable, you felt sorry for him. 

Taking a couple of tissues from your purse, you helped clean up his face as best as you could, sending your friends on their way without you as you took on this newfound role of nurse to him. With few other options to stop his nosebleed, you’d handed him a tampon from your purse. He laughed initially, in complete and total refusal to use it. You had gestured to his floral print white polo shirt, the collar now stained with drips of blood from his face. He huffed a sigh and followed your advice, grumbling as you insisted on making awkward small talk as you sat and waited with him to get checked out. 

That was the first time since his mother’s passing that anyone had ever shown Bradley an ounce of compassion when he was injured. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or not , but he could have sworn you were an angel with the way you smiled at him and how soothing he found your voice. 

Now, eighteen months later, standing here with your arms wrapped around him, his hands on your waist as you fussed over him and congratulated him on his performance in this afternoon’s game, he was sure. You were heaven sent.. In fact, it was what he called you — angel. He’d decided early on it was the perfect nickname for you, and as time went on, he only proved himself right. 

“Everyone’s left, right?” You asked him, raising an eyebrow at him as he snapped back to reality, shooting a quick glance behind his shoulder.

“Mhmm. I was the last one out of the showers. Looks like it’s just us left here.”

“Perfect. I have a little something for you.”

“Do you?” He inquired, eyebrows raised as he smirked, a million ideas running through his head at what his surprise could be. 

Together, you walked back towards the now deserted dugout, the ballpark that was roaring with excitement an hour ago was now silent, deserted by players and fans alike. You grinned as you turned around to face Bradley, dropping down to your knees in front of him, gazing up at him with a doe-eyed stare that was almost enough to make him groan out in pleasure.

“Wh-you mean, this is my surprise? You’re gonna suck my dick in the dugout, angel?”

“I know you’ve always wanted me to. And you played so good today, honey. How could I say no?” You purred as you undid the belt holding his pants in place. 

He dropped his baseball pants down to his ankles, and before his hands could remove the tight fitting boxer briefs he’d changed into post-game, your mouth was pressed against the tightening bulge, pressing warm kisses to it in a way that made Bradley’s mind foggy. He couldn’t think straight and he wasn’t even in your mouth yet. 

Fuck.

He knew he wouldn’t last long if this was how worked up he was feeling at your mouth touching him. As you tugged his boxers down, peeling them off his thighs to free his cock. A white bead of pre-cum pearled on his tip, leading Bradley to elicit a pornographic moan as your thumb swiped across it, whisking the liquid away before you began pumping your hand up and down his shaft. You tauntingly flicked your tongue out over the tip of his erection, encircling the red, throbbing head with a trail of saliva before licking a strip along the underside to his balls. Bradley shuddered as he felt you continue to lick up and down his length, your hand pumping him tightly when you alternated and pressed your lips to the tip. 

After what felt to Bradley like an eternity, you took his tip past your parted lips, hollowing your cheeks as you began to suck on his cock like it was some kind of refreshing summer treat. As you took him further back in your mouth, your saliva began to pool around his shaft, dribbling out down his length as you tried to take more of him into you. He grunted your name as he gathered your hair in his hand, gripping tightly as he thrusted his hips forward into your mouth. 

You gagged as you felt his tip brush the back of your throat, causing more of your spit to soak his cock, your hand using it as lubrication as you continued to pump on whatever didn’t fit past your lips. Bradley began panting, gasping and singing your praises as he fucked your mouth. Your eyelids fluttered as you shut them for a quick moment to concentrate yourself on your technique until you felt a hand gently squeezing your cheeks, making your mouth seemingly tighten harder around Bradley.

“Nuh, uh, beautiful. Eyes on me,” he directed. 

You gazed up at him with that same doe-eyed stare again, batting your lashes as you watched his facial expression, his eyes shutting as he enjoyed the feel of your mouth as it sucked and licked at his cock, working him into his orgasm.

“Shit, angel, ‘m’not gonna last,” Bradley panted, deep chocolate brown eyes fixated on you as he watched you pull your mouth back from him almost entirely before thrusting yourself fully into him. 

His lids shut again as he drew his head back, saying your name as if it was a hymn he was singing. He let out a deep, throaty grunt as he shot hot, white ropes of his cum down your throat. Your eyes never left his as you swallowed hard, making sure that he could see you as you did it before pulling yourself back off his cock. Pulling yourself to your feet, you wiped the saliva from your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning proudly at the mess you’d made out of Bradley.

His eyes deepened with a burning, lustful hunger for you as he wrapped his arm around your waist, picking you up off your feet and grinning. 

“I gotta return the favour, now, angel. You know the rules. You wear a pretty little skirt like that, and I just have to eat that pussy of yours.” He said matter-of-factly as he pulled his bottoms back up, chuckling to himself as he tightened his belt back up. “Bet you did it on purpose, didn’t you, honey? Knew I wouldn’t be able to resist eating that perfect little cunt of yours if you wore something like this?”

“I may have been thinking something along those lines,” you teased, shrugging your shoulders as he laid you down on the bench. 

He straddled the bench in front of your legs and tutted his tongue at you, giving you a head shake of disapproval before raising an eyebrow at you.

“Angel, come on, spread those pretty thighs of yours nice and wide for me. Throw your legs over my shoulders if you have to.” 

You obeyed his command, biting down on your lip as you fought back a grin, draping your legs over his broad shoulders as he slipped between them, his mouth hovering just over your folds. He pressed his lips to your inner thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin with his teeth. You let out a soft yelp of pleasure, feeling your body writhe at the mere suggestion of Bradley’s mouth down there on you.

“Look at you,” Bradley purred as he spread your folds apart with two thick fingers. “So pretty and wet for me already? Sucking my cock got you all worked up like this?” 

“Mhmm,” you hummed, trying to concentrate your thoughts into a sentence. 

“C’mon, honey, use your words for me. Wanna hear you say it,” Bradley said as he flicked his tongue out, swiping it across your swollen, sensitive clit. 

“Bradley,” you whined as you arched your back at the slow, sensual teasing, “You know exactly why I’m like this already.”

“Mhmm, my perfect angel,” he cooed as he licked at your folds again, gathering your arousal on his tongue. 

As Bradley’s tongue ravaged you, eating you out like a man starved on a desert island for the last few months, your heart began to race, a burning desire brewing in the pit of your stomach. While Bradley’s tongue lapped at your arousal, he delved two thick fingers into your pulsating core, pumping them into your g-spot. You could picture him grinning to himself as he heard your needy, whiny moans, panting his name as if it was the only word you were able to say anymore. That was just how he liked it though - making it so he was the only thing on your mind. He prided himself on it.

Your thighs began to shake as he dug the fingers of his free hand into your flesh, holding you in place. He pulled his mouth away from you for a moment with a loud suck. You whimpered at the loss of contact, looking down at him from beneath hooded lids as he continued to fuck his fingers deeper into you. 

“That’s it, angel. I played my best for you today, wanted to do right, earn this pretty little pussy of yours. Make it mine,” he husked. 

Your walls clenched down tightly around his fingers as he spoke, the words alone enough to send you over the edge. He pressed his lips to your clit once again, giving it a long, tantalizing suck as he drew your orgasm out of you. Instead of his name, this time all you could get out of your mouth was a breathless, blissed out moan, unable to formulate words as your brain fogged. Bradley continued to praise you, coaching you through your climax like a personal trainer coaching you through a workout. 

He drew his hand up to his mouth, sucking on his fingers until they were clean, his wide tongue pressing flat against them before pulling them out of his mouth with a loud pop. You blinked twice at him, still dazed from your orgasm as he pulled your underwear back up your legs. 

“You ok, angel?” Bradley grinned as he tapped your thigh gently with his hand to try and bring you back to reality. Your blissfully fucked out stare was all he needed, a soft smile on your face as you tried to regain your composure. 

“We’re just getting started, baby. I’ve got 48 hours with you before my next game, I’m making each one of those hours count.” 

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw au #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw smut #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw au #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x y/n #rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw au #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw x y/n #top gun maverick au fic #baseball au

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

[agentstarkid]

SAUDADE ✦ DR3

“Saudade” is a Portuguese word that carries a profound and complex meaning, often described as a deep emotional state of longing or nostalgia. It transcends mere language; it's a state of being, an emotion that seeps into the soul and lingers like an echo in the heart. It encompasses a mix of emotions, including melancholy, yearning, and a sense of emptiness, often accompanied by fond memories of past experiences or relationships. In the context of love, "saudade" captures the bittersweet essence of missing someone deeply, even when they are physically present or long after they are gone. It is the ache of the heart that comes from loving and losing, a poignant reminder of the depth of connection and the enduring power of love's impact on our lives.

✦ pairing: daniel ricciardo x famous!latina!reader

✦ type: social media au

✦ fc: becky g

✦ warnings: female!reader, latina!reader, age gap, language, lots of angst, heartbreak, drama, internet meanies, mentions of mental health struggles, assholes.

✦ pit wall live: uh holi, loves 👀 sorry for the delay, but I hope you guys enjoy this chapter 👀 it's a little short but as present for not posting in March, I present to you: a bonus chapter hehe okay, byeeee *runs away as fast as she can*

─── The Joker & The Queen (Masterlist)

JANUARY 1, 2022

yourinstagram

📍 Latinoamérica

liked by danielricciardo, badbunnypr, rubendias and 2,145,873 others

yourinstagram Starting the New Year on a bright note! ✨ Wearing yellow to channel optimism and positive energy as we dive into this new year. 💛 I'm so so so grateful for all the love and support you've shown me throughout the past year and I'm excited to continue this journey together in 2022. Here's to another year of growth, laughter, and cherished memories! Siempre para adelante, mi gente! 🎉

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View all 952.512 comments

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danielricciardo Mi reina ❤️‍🔥

user1 I wanted to take this space to thank you for the happiness you have brought me over the years. Your music or your works of art have been a constant company in moments of joy, sadness and everything in between. Your talent is enormous, but so is your ability to connect with your fans in a unique way. Your humility and gratitude show that, despite the success, you are still a close and authentic person. Thanks for all that you do!

camila_cabello Good god woman have mercy

kylieminogue you are sensationally exquisite 💛✨

xtina my angel ❤️

user2 jawline could cut a diamond 🥶

user3 muy buena artista pero sobrevalorada respecto a su belleza, y no digo que no sea guapa sino sobrevalorada

user4 you could wear the rainbow if you wanted and that would still not make you relevant or give you any talent

user5 she always tries too hard

user6 watch out for Regina George in sheep's clothing

anitta Feliz ano novo para você Rainha 😘

diplo 💛

user7 the fact that they spent new year's day apart and on different sides of the world speaks volumes

user what? that they both wanted to see their families? grow up

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yourinstagram has added to their story!

⥂ translation: Everything I do and comes out of me it's because I'm feeling it, it's okay if no one else feels the same way. Two people can never ever feel the same at the same time.

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JANUARY 16, 2022

danielricciardo

📍 Perth, Australia

liked by yourinstagram, heidiberger_, natalie_pinkham and 1,562 others

danielricciardo Back seat baby seat bangers 🎶

tagged: yourinstagram

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View all 256.254 comments

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yourinstagram this is all anyone needs to have a great day ❤️ please send me his manager's contact, I've been looking for a male backing vocal for my next album and I think he can be the perfect choice 😌

danielricciardo yourinstagram ah, you see, he's a really sought-after artist so he's super busy. But I know his uncle and he's interested on the job, only thing is that he likes to be paid with kisses 💋😏 yourinstagram danielricciardo tell him to contact me, I think we will be able to work out the payment details soon 😌

yourinstagram btw how is it possible that he's that big now if I saw him like yesterday and he was this 🤏🏽 small 🥺❤️

user1 is the copying the hand movements for me 😂❤️

user2 so this is how Y/N's future is gonna look like 👀

userA all that's missing is the ring 👀 userB yeah danielricciardo stop being lazy my friend 👀

user3 you're gonna be a great dad one day ❤️🥺

♥ yourinstagram has liked this comment

user4 siempre dije que no quiero ser mamá, pero después de ver esto... yourinstagram mi reina quién pudiera ser vos 😮‍💨

user5 coisa mais linda! ❤️

user6 Daniel really sang his heart out to that song lmao

user7 you have really shit taste in music mate

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FEBRUARY 4, 2022

yourinstagram

liked by danielricciardo, keleighteller, natalie_pinkham and 1,238,562 others

yourinstagram Te amo con el alma, porque el alma nunca muere ❤️ happy 2 years, mi Danielito 🥰

⥂ translation: I love you with my whole soul, because the soul never dies ❤️

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danielricciardo My forever partner in crime ❤️

user1 cuide a ese hombre yourinstagram, que tu y yo no somos amigas 🫡

user2 oh God I'm so single 😩

mileycyrus so much love and happiness for you both ❤️❤️❤️

user3 THAT LAST PHOTO IT'S GIVING I'D MARRY YOU WITH PAPER RINGS 😭 SO 1 + 1 = THEY ARE GETTING ENGAGED‼️‼️

userA I'm so calling it, it is happening 🤩

user4 LIL BLAKE SIGHTING 😍😍😍

hermusicofficial favs

user5 she was talking seriously when she recorded A mi me gustan mayores 😅

userA será que aplica el "A mí me gustan más grandes. Que no me quepa en la boca..." con él?? 👀👀👀 yourinstagram userA los besos que quiera darme? 👀 sí, aplica 🤭😈 userB OMFG Y/N???!!! LMAOOO iamdannaschwarz yourinstagram that's enough internet for you today 🙅🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

chloestroll did he really cook? 😂

yourinstagram chloestroll he did! and it was really good actually 🥰 I felt ✨spoiled✨

oliviarodrigo mom and dad 💜

user6 the first pic is making me feel something. i don't know how to put that something into words though 🥵 *bi panics*

userA JUST A BIG FUCKING OOF I GUESS 🥵 userB they served cunt as per usual userC I grunted and groaned and moaned 🫠😩

user7 I'm so tired of them omg yeah, you're "in love", we see you, now stop shoving it at our faces every chance you have 🙄

fioamato congrats Sandy and Danny 😜💖

iamdannaschwarz Baby and Danny 😜💖 itsvittoriasousa nah, more like Troy and Gabriella landonorris Belle and the Beast 😜 yourinstagram landonorris aww did littol landow nowis just called me beautiful? 👀😊 landonorris nvm I take it back. Fiona and Shrek* 😌 yourinstagram landonorris well that makes you the donkey 😂

user8 every time I remember that there's a 9 year gap between them I wanna puke 🤮

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danielricciardo

liked by yourinstagram, martingarrix, landonorris and 1,562 others

danielricciardo happy 2 years mi vida ❤️

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View all 2.689 comments

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user "mi vida" brb gonna go chew on a live wire 😭

yourinstagram let's do this for a lifetime ❤️♾️

danielricciardo you have yourself a deal, Chip ❤️

user2 hey God, it's me again...

martingarrix ❤️❤️❤️

user3 these adorable videos ending with daniel squeezing y/n's butt is so dan-y/n core 🥹😝

marcusstoinis congrats, lovebirds ❤️

user4 did they leave their own love lock on the fence? 🥹😭

userA I don't think we'll ever find it, but I'm sure they did 😭

landonorris congrats on putting up with him this long yourinstagram ❤️

joshallenqb 🍾❤️

user5 somethin something "find a beautiful love, make sure they know they are your morning light" playing while the sunset iluminates her and cutting to "and that you'll never let go till the day that you die" while he has his arms around her 😭😭😭

userA THIS HERE IS LOVE 😭 THIS HERE IS LIFE 😭 userB something something he's got a tattoo of that song's title 😭 userC somebody get me a fucking doctor I feel like my heart is about to burst

scottyjames31 my favorite celebrity couple 😌

caamp we love you guys ❤️

user5 grandpa copping a feel 🤢

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FEBRUARY 10, 2022

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FEBRUARY 22, 2022

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MARCH 8, 2022

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MARCH 9, 2022

danielricciardo

liked by mclaren, georgerussell63, heidi_berger and 584,981 others

danielricciardo Better this week than next… Unfortunate to miss the test, but I’m starting to feel better. I’ll stay isolated and just focus on next weekend. Big thanks to Lando & McLaren for the heavy lifting, I owe you some beers (milk for Lando). Appreciate the well wishes from everyone as well.

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View all 164.254 comments

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landonorris get well soon mate!

georgerussell63 speedy recovery danny ric 💪🏻

user did you and Y/N broke up??? please tell me it's a lie

user2 Y/N hasn't liked nor comment yet and it's been 2 whole days since he posted this

userA why whould she? they are quarantining together, she doesn't need to comment or liked every single post he makes. They are probably sitting side by side right now userB userA there's actually rumours that she was seen leaving the hotel in a rush yesterday and fans are already speculating if they broke up

user3 I hope you feel better soon Dan! I know we all wish to see you in action next weekend!!

user4 "milk for Lando" lmaooo i love them your honor <3

user5 this is your year mate don't let any setbacks bring you down 💪🏻

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MARCH 18, 2022

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MARCH 25, 2022

f1wags

liked by 3,474 others

f1wags It seems Danny Ricc has moved on quickly 👀 Just after a week since the confirmation of his break up with Y/N, a few fans have reported sightings of the driver with actress Heidi Berger —who has been linked to him a few times these past months— around Monaco.

The blonde is the daughter of former Austrian F1 driver Gerhard Berger and former Portuguese model Ana Corvo.

This love triangle drama just keeps getting juicier and more complicated! 🔥 What are you thoughts, did the Aussie cheated on his ex-girlfriend as some people say? Did he moved on too fast? or did he do the right thing? Let us know in the comments!

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View all 55 comments

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user I actually feel bad for Y/N, not a fan of hers at all but it must be hard to see the man you were talking of marriage with a month ago, move on from your relationship so quickly and easily. if it were me in her shoes, I know it'd really mess my head up 😕

user2 idc if he'd not been with Heidi physically while being with Y/N, it's still treason to be emotionally involved with someone else while you're in a relationship. I believe he already had feelings for Heidi while still being with Y/N because how the fuck can you move on from a whole 2-year relationship in two weeks?? I only hope Y/N is doing okay and that she gets to heal and find someone better for her 😞

user3 you can try to defend him with all the arguments you can think of but at the end of the day, he is still just a rich man. It's funny how you've been all pointing fingers at the innocent while playing lawyer to the guilty.

user4 I'm a Danny Ricc fan but I think this was too fast too soon, at least have some respect for your ex who stood by your side through the highs and lows of the past years, smh so disappointed

user5 Get over it already! He moved on to someone better, as he should. Let the poor man alone! He's been single for weeks! He's allowed to see anyone he wants! Stop whining about it, Y/N just wasn't enough, as simple as that 🤷🏽‍♀️

user6 I'm actually super worried for him, he's not himself lately. Just a few weeks ago he was calling Y/N the love of his life and now this? All jokes aside, I think he's self-sabotaging. He looks like a shell of his old-self, he is not smiling as bright as before, he's super quiet now and if you pay attention to him during interviews, he fidgets a lot and sounds so insecure when asked about his driving. GO TO THERAPY BABE!!!

userA you are reaching, babe! lmaoooo he's fine, he just got tired of that snake 🤪

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APRIL 2, 2022

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APRIL 4, 2022

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APRIL 22, 2022

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MAY 3, 2022

danielricciardo

liked by corey_wilson, michaelitaliano, mclaren and 269,852 others

danielricciardo Miami. We made it.

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View all 658.214 comments

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user i guess this is the confirmation we've been waiting for

user2 how can you move on from a 2 year relationship so fast??

user3 ugh men are so fucking unbelievable

userA jokes on all those whiny fangirls of his, turns out it wasn't he who deserved better, it was HER.

user4 he is a joke just like his driving lmao

user5 Heidi is so much better than that wannabe singer, she was just a plaything for him 🤣

user6 I'm so glad you opened up your eyes daniel

user7 so all those rumours have been true smh y'all were attacking Y/N nonestop for the smallest interactions with the opposite sex, and none of those rumours proved to be true but I'm not seeing the same energy directed towards him now that the rumours about him were actually true!

user8 I just know that the break up album is gonna be a banger 🔥🤪

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MAY 10, 2022

yourinstagram has added to their story!

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JUNE 19, 2022

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⇥ youtube search: falling (harry & y/n's duet version) - love on tour, london night 1

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JUNE 22, 2022

yourinstagram

liked by markhoppus, phoebebridgers, rubendias and 2,145,873 others

yourinstagram burned other memories just to make room for these ones 🎞️❤️‍🔥

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View all 75.364 comments

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user HI MOTHER!! WELCOME BACK WE MISSED YOU ❤️❤️❤️

user1 we love to see you living your best life!!! 🥰

user2 Can't wait to listen to the full version of the song she plays on the last slide 🤩

userA Daniel Ricciardo is shaking in his boots right now 🤪

machinegunkelly 🖤🥀🤘🏼

user3 🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍

markhoppus kid what are you holding on your lap and why it isn't on my liquor shelf yet? 🤨

yourintagram sorry dad 😔 it's on its way to your doorstep right now 🤪 skyehoppus yourintagram make sure you are also included on the package arriving at our door, it's been too long honey ❤️ userA “dad”??? she knows mark hoppus?? what did i miss?? 😳 userB userA they have an on-going joke that mark found her wandering around and adopted her as one of the few blink-182's children along alex gaskarth and jack barakat from all time low 😂 she's super close with his family, too! I remember she collab on a song with him, but they didn't released it and then it got leaked, she did play it at a couple of concerts tho userC userB is it 'thank you & goodnight'? 👀 userB userC YES! I miss her pop-punk era 😔 that version she did of 'little lion man' was soooo good!!

user4 Baby Iza is on her way to hit a bitch (Daniel)

alexalbon I like pizza too 👀🍕

lilymhe sorry baby, bad bitches only 💅🏻

user5 OMG OMG WE'VE GOT HARRY, TAYLOR AND Y/N IN ONE POST?! THE HOLY TRINITY RIGHT THERE 😍

harrystyles ❤️

user6 I've got my two mothers in one photo 😭❤️

taylorswift Ms. Falls-a-lot 👻❤️

yourinstagram I swear I'm gonna scare you too next time 🙄😂

lilymhe walking among legends on this post 🙇🏻‍♀️ #blessed 🙏🏻

user6 I'm so happy that she's finally back ❤️ we need to flood her comment section with love 🥰

user7 Drama queen of this generation. Always playing the victim & tricking people into thinking that she's a mental health advocate. You're way too far from that. Cancel her 👍🏻🐍

user8 the caption: ICONIC 🔥

userA the taxi driver is twisting on his grave 😂🤪

user9 the old Y/N can't come to the phone right now, why? Oh 'cause she's DEAD! 😎

user10 most untalented celeb ever

fioamato where was my invitation? 🤨 yourinstagram iamdannaschwarz

iamdannaschwarz you got one, you just decided to ditch us for mr. i-have-an-art-gallery 🤨 yourinstagram iamdannaschwarz yessss expose her, dannita! 🤭 No te hagas de la víctima, mi corazón. We've got the receipts 😎🧾 fioamato I hate you both 🙄

user11 you should be ashamed to post a photo holding a tequila bottle when so many young people follow you. You should be a role model to them, not another alcoholic celebrity 🙄

user12 babygirl I hope you are doing better and feeling great! You deserve so much more ❤️

userA she's as fabulous as ever while he's floping big time, I call that karma 💅 userB not many people know how to truly appreciate the unique sazón and sabor of a Latina 🔥 homeboy couldn't handle the heat 🤭

user13 I know that album is gonna be 🔥🔥🔥

user14 attention seeker no wonder you always get dump for someone better

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JUNE 30, 2022

Video — CLEAN SHEET KINGS | STONES & DIAS

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─── Please don't forget to reblog and/or comment! ♡

#daniel riccardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo social media au #daniel ricciardo instagram au #daniel ricciardo imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 social media au #f1 instagram au #latina!reader #daniel ricciardo x female reader #( agentstarkid's works )

[exhuastedpigeon]

Buddie Hiatus Fic Rec - Month 8 Nov 16 - Dec 15

Previous lists under the cut at the bottom

0-5k

merle said mama tried, but the prison still won by oklahoma / @sunshinediaz Teen | 2.9k Eddie goes to (mall) jail.

do you love me? all you gotta do is say yes by fleetinghearts / @shitouttabuck Teen | 3.1k two boy best friends and an ex lover walk into a grocery store. everyone is on their normalest behaviour.

drawstrings by browney3dgirl6 / @hoodie-buck Mature | 3.7k Eddie helps Buck fix his drawstrings. How was he supposed to know it’d lead to him sitting in Bucks lap?

Here Comes the Jackpot Question In Advance by lamardeuse / @lamardeuse Teen | 4.1k Buck is determined to start the new year right.

5k-10k

I'm still standing in the same place where you left me standing by trysetmeonfire / @try-set-me-on-fire Teen | 8.3k Bobby deals with the ramifications of a misplaced confession

10k-20k

Don't Push Me So Far Away I Can't Reach You by giselleslash. / @gigi-gigi Mature | 12k the one where Buck thinks he and Eddie are just friends with benefits so he pushes Eddie to date other people because he’s an idiot.

give it to someone special by rainbow_nerds / @rainbow-nerdss Mature | 12.3k Buck and Eddie meet at the airport after their respective girlfriends live their Hallmark movie dreams and dump them right before Christmas.

into thirty separate parts by hammersmiths / @henswilsons Teen | 12.6k Taylor’s book comes out.

sang to the sea for feelings deep blue by Tizniz / @tizniz General audiences | 14k The 118 responds to a cruise ship emergency.

20k - 30k

say (don't) go by bccalling / @fiona-fififi Teen | 20.4k Eddie starts dropping hints he wants more kids. Buck assumes he means with Marisol. Buck spirals about it. Eddie does not mean with Marisol.

deck the halls (and your in-laws) by oklahoma / @sunshinediaz Mature | 29.6k Eddie and Buck, recently married and moved into their new house, have the (dis)pleasure of unexpectedly hosting their parents through the holiday season. It’s not what either of them want or need, but they can get through it because they’re in this together. Right?

30k +

Facets of a Diamond by countrygirlsfun / @acountrygirlsfun Teen | 35.1k Southern California is where Buck has spent the most time since leaving Pennsylvania. Of all the places he’s lived and worked over the last few years, this place is where he decided to stay. It’s why he picked LAFD: to put down some roots. It’s warm, has the ocean, and it’s the opposite coast of his parents. So if he’s going to be here for a while, he thinks he’ll need to make an effort to let people in.

Sweet Nothing by LongConvolutedSimiles Teen | 37.8k Buck and Eddie go on dates, fall in love and get together. Yes in that order.

Maybe More Than I Should by Leslie_Knope Mature | 51.5k Eddie caught sight of the man leaning against the side of his desk and immediately wanted to retreat to the relative safety of the hallway, back in time when he lived happily not knowing that Mr. Buckley was apparently some kind of male model masquerading as a third-grade teacher.

it walks with my legs (to fall at your feet) by Underhung_Aura / @eddiebabygirldiaz Explicit | 61.8k a buddie summer sons au where buck and eddie get caught up in something bigger than themselves and awaken a power that haunts them for the rest of their lives; however, the unspoken truths and love between them haunts them more than any ghost ever could.

a blaze in the dark by woodchoc_magnum / @woodchoc-magnum Explicit | 117k Set post-Season 6, where Buck has inadvertently sacrificed his friendship with Eddie in order to focus on his new relationship with Natalia, and is shocked when Eddie comes out to the team and subsequently reveals that he is dating a guy.

All My Shattered Oaths by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels / @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels Explicit | 120k Eddie wants to stay away from his family’s legacy and give his son a normal life. Buck’s desperate to find a way to get over the love he lost. Fate has other plans for both of them.

Month 1 (May 15 - June 15) Month 2 (June 16 - July 15) Month 3 (July 16 - August 15) Month 4 (August 16 - September 15) Month 5 (September 16 - October 15) Month 6 (October 16 - November 15) Month 7 (November 16 - December 15)

#buddie #rec list #buddie rec list #911 #only a couple more lists to go #AND ONLY FOUR MORE SLEEPS UNTIL THE SEASON PREMIER

[nerdraging4point0]

Power Play // Chapter Three // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV. 

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Active taglist: @ladyveronikawrites @tearfallpixie @beaker1636 @circle-with-me @synthetic-wasp-570 @itsjustemily @thesazzb @vinyardmauro @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @letmeadoreyoux @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @shilohrosechicken @missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @somebodyels3 @sacredthefran @cncohshit @flowery-mess @graveatspeople @cncohshit @nerdywitch20 @sundamariis @srorgana1 @malerieee @bloody-delusion-expert @sammyjoeee @deathofpeaceofmiiind @hayleylatour @deadboltsblog @broken0mens

The crowd is fired up as I squeeze between Dad and Jack on the home team's bench. The massive arena throbs with energy, flashing lights dancing across the packed stands and smooth ice. Blaring music competes with the deafening cheers of fans who arrived early just to watch warmups. On the Jumbotron above center ice, bone-crushing hits and highlight-reel goals from last season pump up the crowd. I bundle up in my cozy black fleece jacket, the team logo proudly displayed across my chest. My dad and Jack wear matching jackets and hats, pulled low to fight off the chill. I let my hair fall loose around my shoulders - an extra layer of warmth for my ears.

The arena plunges into darkness as the jumbotron fades to black. The crowd hushes in anticipation before a crimson glow washes over us. Bold letters flash across the screen: "Welcome the Rooks!" Our boys in black glide onto the ice - jerseys fluttering, skates carving arcs through the chill air. Moments later, a blur of gold and silver enters from the opposite end - the opponents have arrived.

The crowd roars as the Rooks and Pirates take to the ice. Fans decked out in black and red are on their feet. Across the rink, a sea of silver and honey gold erupts for the rival Pirates. The deafening cheers make the arena shake as the teams complete their warm-up laps. 

Our players zip across the ice, passing pucks in a frenzied warm-up. They swing by the home bench, exchanging fist bumps with Coach on each lap. Sanders zooms over and bumps gloves with my dad, then swoops around to me. He flashes a playful grin, head tilted, and I can't help but smile back as our gloves meet with a thud. Then he's off again, swallowed by the sea of players circling the rink.

McClain, the towering goalie, glides around the net, his massive frame armored in pads as he gathers up pucks. Pierce and Dominick hit the ice, dropping into deep lunges to stretch out their legs before the game. The rink echoes with the sounds of pucks clacking off sticks and skates carving the fresh sheet of ice. 

My eyes scan the team, catching Sebastian immediately. He skates effortless circles around the guys, poking their shins with his stick and shimmying his shoulders to get them loose. One by one, his energy infects them all until the entire squad is smiling and gliding around the ice, ready for a great game. 

As I look out across the ice, a sea of adoring fans presses up against the glass, eager for a chance to get close to their heroes. McClain, ever the showman, casually skates over and bumps fists with a starstruck youngster, posing for a picture with the kid's beaming mom. Not one to be upstaged, Sanchez whips the crowd into a frenzy, waving his stick like a maestro conducting a symphony of cheers. The arena erupts into a thunderous chant as the fans, decked out in their red and black jerseys, stand as one to worship their idols.

Sebastian and Karlsson slice through center ice like greased lightning, buzzing the Pirates with some cheeky close calls before zipping away again. The defensemen swoop back around, circling like hungry sharks eager for the kill.Sebastian's grin says it all - he came to fight. To win.

I'm transfixed, leaning forward, trying to anticipate their next move. Jack notices me watching and flashes a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He goes back to scribbling plays, unperturbed. The easy confidence of it makes me smile too, even as Sebastian and Karlsson continue their dangerous dance, ready to strike.

“Those two are certainly a pair of daredevils, aren't they? Always pushing the limits and getting their thrills. I gotta admit, their bold style is impressive, even if it makes me a bit nervous. They really know how to walk that fine line between crazy and genius!”

With a few slick practice shots, McClain glides out of the net and Sanders swoops in to take his place. The boys fire off some blistering slapshots, testing Sanders' reflexes. Ruffilo starts showboating, swirling the puck in dizzying circles with his stick, playing a little game of keep-away from Karlsson. Sebastian cruises by the bench, bumping fists with dad and Jack as he passes. He drifts past me, brown eyes sizing me up through his mask's shield.

The warmups end and the team hustles off the ice, dad and Jack retreating to the locker room. I'm left sitting alone on the bench, mesmerized as the zamboni glides across the freshly scarred ice, smoothing it over for the game ahead. Jack emerges first, focused intently on the paperwork clutched in his hands, barely noticing me as he takes a seat. Suddenly, the announcer's voice booms through the arena, drawing all eyes upward as he begins introducing the Rooks players one-by-one on the jumbotron.

The crowd roars as Joakim Karlsson takes the ice with a nod to his adoring fans. "Number 18, Jake Sanders!" bellows the announcer. Sanders glides onto the rink, Southern California smile beaming beneath his helmet as he greets the stands. The cheers continue as each player is introduced, building to a fever pitch when the announcer calls, "Number 13, Noah Sebastian!" The arena explodes in shrieks and screams - no doubt from his legions of female fans. The heartthrob glides to center ice, flashing his million dollar grin and eliciting another wave of adulation from the crowd. 

The energy in the arena is electric as the opening ceremonies wrap up. The anthem singer belts out a passionate rendition, players scramble back to the bench, jostling past me as I'm wedged tight between their muscular bodies. Sebastian vaults over the boards right in front of me, his rock-hard shoulder slamming me back against the glass. He rips off his helmet, his piercing eyes meeting mine for a split second before he drops down on the bench. I feel my heart race as his raw, aggressive energy radiates through the tight space. This team means business, and I'm caught up in their intense pre-game ritual, pulse pounding with excitement and intimidation.

"Listen up!" barks coach as he strides into the room. All eyes snap to him.

"Sanchez, you've got first line. Sebastian, Karlsson - you're on defense. Willow, Dominick, be ready to sub in."

He scans the bench, gaze hard. "It's time. Bring the heat today and leave it all on the ice. We've got a championship to win. Now let's go out there and crush 'em!"

The team roars, pounding fists and slapping sticks. The starting six spring over the boards, skates carving the fresh ice as they hustle into position. Sanchez glides to the faceoff dot, eyes locked on his rival Hemingway across the red line. Karlsson and Sebastian flex their gloves, sticks poised and shoulders squared, eager for the opening puck drop. The crowd hushes and the tension swells. My pulse thunders in my ears. 

This is it.

Noah's POV

My pulse pounds as the puck hits the ice with a crack. Sanchez bodychecks Hemingway, both of their wingmen rushing in. No luck - Hemingway emerges with the puck, barreling towards McClain’s net. I rock back and forth on my skates, poised to strike. Hemingway feints, faking a slide my way instead. I surge forward, stick low, leveling him to the ice as I snatch back the puck. Twirling away from the wingmen, I pass it back to Sanchez with a flick of the wrist. The crowd roars as we regain control, hungering for more bone-crunching hits and lightning-fast plays.

Sanchez charges down the ice like a freight train, barreling towards the Pirates goal. He loses control and is thrown off his skates, the Pirates pounce on the loose puck and race toward our zone, the crowd roaring in anticipation. Sticks clash and skates scrape as the action explodes, both teams desperately fighting for control.. Jolly and I scramble back on defense, sticks flashing, bodies crashing, doing everything in our power to shield McClain. The puck squirts free and the pirates pounce, but Jolly throws himself in front of the shot, taking one for the team. I help clear the rebound as the crowd roars. 

The puck is ours once again. Sanchez leads the charge, weaving through defenders like a snake. His wingmen flank out wide, drawing the defensemen with them. Sanchez winds up at the top of the circle, eyes locked on the net. He unleashes a blistering slapshot. The puck screams towards the goalie, too fast to react. Sanchez spins away, not daring to watch. The ref's hand goes up. Goal! The crowd erupts as Sanchez is mobbed by his teammates. Helmets clank together in celebration before it's back to business. 

Ruffilo whizzes past, giving my stick a friendly slap as he crosses over. Gotta love that guy. As wingmen go, he's as solid as they come. We're tight, me and Nick - been roomies for a while now. Probably for the best we don't live with Jolly too, that'd be a bit much. Don't get me wrong, Jolly's my right-hand man on the ice, we're a well-oiled machine out there. But off the rink? Me and Nick kick back, bust each other's chops, talk a little smack. That's just how we roll. I've got his back and he's got mine, on and off the ice. We make a pretty good team.

I'm still trying to figure Sanchez out. He's obviously a talented center, and he gets the other guys pumped up, which is good. But I dunno, there's something about his attitude that rubs me the wrong way. Like, he acts like he's the main character out there, and the rest of us are just supporting actors. I don't wanna judge too quickly, he might just be really competitive. But that arrogance could cause problems if he doesn't keep it in check.

The puck rockets across the ice as The Pirates battle to get it to McClain. Jolly and I scramble to guard the net. A winger charges at me and I slide to block, but the guy jams his skates at my feet to trip me up. I spin away from the attack but lose my position, forced to go where he steers me. Hemingway whacks the puck toward McClain, who splits his legs and snags it in his glove. The crowd roars at the clutch save.

I scan the crowd, my eyes darting from the approving cheers of the fans to the nods of my teammates. But my gaze keeps getting drawn back to her. The coach's daughter. She's been here since yesterday, hanging all over her dad. I tried not to notice her at first - I'm here to play hockey, not ogle girls. But I can't seem to look away for long. 

The way she moves, the cute little smiles she gives her dad. She's got my head spinning more than taking a hard check into the boards. I've gotta get my focus back if I want to play well tonight.

Coach would slaughter me if he caught me within 100 feet of his daughter. Hell, I didn't even know he had one until just yesterday. Can't blame him for wanting to keep her far away from us hooligans. If I had a girl that looked like her, I'd lock her in a tower. But damn, the second I saw her, something inside me snapped. My inner defenseman kicked in - I wanted to shield her from these animals, keep her safe. She's not mine...yet. But I'll be damned if I let any of these punks lay a finger on her. I'll knock 'em into next week if they even look at her wrong. That angel's gonna be protected at all costs. Coach better keep that beauty off the ice, 'cause she's got this enforcer feeling some type of way.

Sanchez is back on the ice, battling Hemingway for the puck like two bucks locked in a duel - even their wingmen keep their distance. Karlsson slaps his stick on the boards twice, jolting me back into the action. We watch Sanchez twirl and shove Hemingway, fighting for control. Then I see it coming - Hemingway's left winger charges Ruffilo, tripping our man and making him flinch, slashing down toward the dude's skates inches from his own. The ref's whistle pierces the tense air as he calls slashing on Ruffilo, handing him a two-minute penalty. The crowd erupts into a chorus of boos while Ruffilo glides to the box, shaking his head.

Man, I feel for my buddy out there. He didn't mean to. But did the ref see it that way? No chance. Two minutes in the box. Unbelievable. Now the rest of us have to pick up the slack while Ruffilo cools his heels. Me and Jolly slide in, McClain’s head on a swivel now that we’re down a man.

The puck rockets toward me as I skate backwards, eyes locked on it, guarding the goal with everything I've got. Hemingway winds up and fires a blistering slapshot through a seam in our defense. I dive, stretching every inch of my pads to block it, but the puck deflects off McClain's stick and glides into the corner of the net. The ref's whistle pierces the tense air. Hemingway's teammates swarm him as the crowd erupts. We were so close to stopping them. If only McClain had kept his focus. But it's too late now. The damage is done.

My blood is boiling so hot I can feel it flushing my face. I circle the rink to cool off before I explode. Nick's back from the box, his eyes narrowed to slits. He's out for blood.

Sanchez streaks up the ice with the puck, Pierce on his tail. But the Pirates' D shoves Pierce hard into the boards. Now Pierce is seeing red too. He grabs the bastard's jersey, drops his stick and gloves, and drags him along the ice. Pierce is ready to pound him into the ground right here.

We all grind to a halt, transfixed by the scene erupting before us. I charge forward, stick clattering to the ice, ready to drop the gloves as the D wads up Pierce's jersey in his fist. The ref circles like a shark, while Coach's screams echo from the bench. I glance over and see her leaning over the boards, eyes blazing, shouting breathlessly as she watches Pierce and his nemesis tangled together. Man, the intensity in her gaze is electric. Must be the adrenaline and testosterone coursing through my veins, but damn if she doesn't look sexy as hell at this moment.

Pierce and his rival crash together, gloves dropping as the ref struggles to pull them apart. The crowd roars as fists fly, the two tangled in a full-on brawl. Sharp whistles pierce the din as the ref forces them to their corners, both still straining against his grip. They're banished to the sin bin while tensions boil, leaving the ice open for Dominick to vault over the boards. He joins the nameless sub now skating for the Pirates, eager to capitalize on the empty space. The crowd pounds the glass, feeding off the raw intensity as play resumes in the wake of the fight.

We're locked in a never-ending battle on the ice, the clock winding down as overtime drags on. One more blistering slapshot, one more brick wall save, and victory is ours. Firing up my teammates, I skate around them offering as much encouragement as I can. 

“Dom, Ruff, Sanchez - skate like your lives depend on it. Harass them, frustrate them, smother them! Don't give their stars an inch to breathe out there.” I skate around turning to our goalie “McClain, my brother - I need you to lay out and block every shot you can. Be our brick wall. We're too close to let it slip away now. One more stop, one more big play. That's all we need. Let's bring this W home in front of our fans! Now let's get out there and take what's ours!”

The boys erupt in a roar, heads bowed as they clench their sticks with white-knuckled intensity under their gloves. The ice shudders under the force of their voices. They're fired up and ready to battle, adrenaline pumping through their veins.

The puck rockets through the air and Sanchez snatches it, a warrior king charging forward as the black disc zips between him, Dom and Ruff. They weave a web of deception, bamboozling the opposing defense just long enough for Sanchez to whip around the net and slam the puck into the gaping goal mouth. The ref's whistle pierces the din and I hurtle my stick away, tear off my helmet and blaze towards my brothers. We collide in a crush of celebration as the rest of the team swarms the ice. 

We separate carefully trying not to catch each other's blades. I slide back, regaining my footing before skating to grab my stick and helmet. On the bench, she bounces excitedly, hugging her dad in celebration of our victory. Her cheeks flush red with exhilaration, her smile radiant. She's tied her hair back in a messy ponytail, loose strands perfectly framing her face. I'm mesmerized watching her, knowing if she sticks around much longer, I'll either lose the championship or lose my heart completely.

#bad omens cult #noah sebastian #bad omens #noahsebastian fanfic #bad omens band #hockey player noah #hockey #bad omens au #bad omens smut #hockey romance #hockeyomens

[llamagoddessofficial]

I hope I'm not unwelcome here, I was wondering. How do you think the boys would react to a siren MC that was another variety of deep sea siren~? I've been writing a fic with the reader as a deep sea eel siren and it's on my mind since I adore your siren au thoughts!

Ohoooooo

I fuckin love the concept of a gorgeous, dangerous eel Mc. Sleek and dark and powerful. I feel like a deep sea Mc would be bigger than her pelagic counterpart... much closer to the skeletons in size. Not to mention, she’d have some other unique traits, like heightened senses and bioluminescence. 

Sans: She is, for once, something he isn’t used to seeing on his usual menu. Orca are surface dwellers. She’s a curiosity; he adores curiosities. Especially pretty ones. He’s cautious, because she’s clearly a predator, he works slowly... stalking her from a distance, then approaching fast and ducking away at the last second, baiting her into lashing out so he can see how her attacks work. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what her deal is. He’s enamoured with this beautiful, fierce novelty from the deep.

Sans frightens her. He didn’t, at first; he looked like a puny version of the much bigger, much toothier whales who occasionally make the long journey to her depths. But then he started moving- and she realised his danger wasn’t his body, it was his adaptability. He could kill her if he wanted to.

And yet... there’s something about his intelligence. Something about his powerful form as he swims. Something about his unreadable calm, soft smile around her, razor sharp eyelights taking in every detail... she can’t help it, she’s drawn to him. 

Red: ... C’mon. We know this dance by now. She’s big, she’s beautiful, she’s strong- not only that, but she’s mysterious and elegant, a dangerous predator from the depths all decorated in glittering lights. It’s like he’s at a cocktail party and a 6ft buff woman just walked in, wearing a black velvet dress and diamonds- he’s shootin his shot, and nothing will stop him. He likes his ladies capable of killing him. He makes a couple stupid eel-related pickup lines (“girl, are you a coral-dwelling eel? cus you’re my a-moray.” “I’m a conger, not a m- wait,”) and her baffled flustered reactions just cement his growing interest.

Red is... a lot. Not necessarily in a bad way. He keeps shocking her by making her laugh (“gulper? jeez, i hardly know her.”) and she likes the company and conversation. Deep sea sirens don’t tend to do the whole ‘group’ thing, but that doesn’t mean it can’t get lonely, down there in the endless night. 

She also likes the patterns on his body- you don’t see many pretty markings when you live in near pitch-black. He likes when she can’t help but touch them.

Skull: Finally. Finally. Another creature from the deep, another siren like him, who understands his mannerisms and his way of life. A siren who’ll see him as kin, who won’t view him as some kind of strange, unknowable alien. Being around her makes him soft and giddy, he lights up his bioluminescence any chance he gets, he enjoys having that point of bonding with her (he’s smug the others don’t understand their secret language of lights). He gets the overwhelming sensation they were meant to be together... the abyss is so huge, so endless, and yet somehow they found one another? It can’t be chance. The stars aligned. He knows her smell now- he’ll follow her wherever she goes.

A deep sea Mc would definitely feel more comfortable around Skull than she does around the other two sirens. They’re so similar, and she’s much more used to monsters like him; big, dark, strong, slow. She’s still careful around him considering he’s the more frightening apex predator where they’re from- being familiar with something doesn’t make it any less dangerous. But when his tentacles flash and she flashes back, it feels like stumbling across someone who speaks your mother tongue in a land full of strangers.

#llamagines #siren sanses au #siren mc au #headcanon that her teeth look like moray eel teeth #cool and sharp and like glass #mc: Red... are you sure you want to date me...? I've got broken glass for teeth and I'm venomous #red: why would you ask if i'm sure i wanna date you. then list more reasons for me to want to date you

[jessamine-rose]

bro i am eating ur work like a full course meal fr THE MERMAID AU OMG IM DEVOURING IT my motavation to draw them now 📈📈📈

i was wondering if u could have any examples i can use to draw them? or try to explain how u see them if u cant dont sweat it! ALSO CONGRATS ON 1.4k FOLLOWERS!! 🥰🥰💕

Read my Yandere Mermaid AU here ϵ( 'Θ' )϶

Aahh I’m excited to hear that!! Thank you for allowing me to ramble, dear <3

First of all, read this ask. It has important notes for everyone, specifically Pantalone and Dottore. Pls don’t feel pressured to follow all of my headcanons btw :’0

Capitano’s appearance is based on these two designs. (Their art actually inspired this AU!!) Since my version isn’t a royal guard, the armor isn’t necessary unless you want to add it He has his canon hairstyle and mask + more scars.

Pantalone’s jellyfish tail is like this but the top part is slimmer, less like a skirt and more like a classic mermaid tail. His mermaid colors are translucent violet and black + lavender when bioluminescent. He wears his canon jewelry acquired from sunken ships and human victims.

Dottore’s octopus body is shaped like Azul Ashengrotto’s with longer, thinner tentacles. I can’t decide on a color so just pick from black, gray, or deep blue lol (with deep blue suckers if black). He wears a Nautilus shell necklace get it, reference to Ursula the sea witch

For Pierro, just look at the Capitano references and replace the tail + fins with an orca’s. He has the most scars and wears his canon earring. I’d also suggest his blue diamond neckpiece worn as a necklace if you’re up for that :>

It’s up to you if all of them or only Capitano wear their Fatui masks/ glasses. Thanks again for deciding to draw them and requesting my input!! I can’t wait to see how they turn out~

#feedback #vix-honey #il capitano #capitano #pantalone #dottore #il dottore #pierro #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #capitano x reader #pantalone x reader #dottore x reader #pierro x reader #yandere capitano x reader #yandere pantalone x reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere pierro x reader #yandere capitano #yandere pantalone #yandere dottore #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #tw: yandere #g/n reader

[blue-jisungs]

diamonds + and pearls

song inspo. diamonds + and pearls — dpr live, dpr ian, peace.

summary. you thought your misery is sailed, like a letter… but then you meet a kind cargo delivery man. or so he said.

au. pirate hoshi x wealthy reader, heavily potc inspired!! set +- 1730 like in the movies lol,, they’re both kinda dumb 😭

word count. 3k

warnings. mention of falling out of the window LMAO, swearing, theft, blades (they’re pirates grrrr), forced marriage ++ lsfm sakura and bts hobi (kind of) cameo (i’m sorry hoba i promise it’s just for the fic nothing personal), kidnapping 😀

a/n. this could be better but i just had the fun of my life writing silly goofy yn and hosh + it made me want to rewatch potc again. for the millionth time. help.

you took a deep breath, leaning forward. the smell of salt made you smile, waves rustling in the distance. the sea looked pretty calm today, foam visible only at the shore.

“ah, lady y/n!” you heard a gasp, causing you to withdraw from the window. your maid ran up to you, dragging you away “i told you not to do that! what if you fall out?!”

“ugh… yeah… sorry” you mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of your corset “is the breakfast ready?”

“mhm. sadly sir hoseok won’t join us yet, he’ll probably arrive around the noon, unless there’s some trouble” your maid, miss chu, explained “i’ll get going but please join us soon”

“of course. i just need to uh… find my shoes” you grinned. she nodded and left the room. you rushed to the window again and grabbed the spyglass hidden in your closet. you scanned the horizon. there was a small ship in the distance, barely noticeable. it’s probably the cargo ship with all the necessities for your wedding.

putting back the spyglass with a heavy heart you slowly made your way to the dining room. it’s not like you didn’t want to get married. it’s the fact that… you don’t know the guy. sir hoseok seems nice from all the stories you’ve heard about him, he’s your age but with this wedding you know your fate will be sealed. no more dreaming, you will have to be a good housewife. and probably you’ll never sail out to the sea, like you want to. you wondered if there was something that could change your situation. maybe if you were younger? or if you weren’t that rich… or maybe if you were richer?

after the breakfast you decided to take a stroll around the city with your friend, sakura. arms linked, you let out a sigh while looking at other people. they all seemed so happy…

“–you know? oh. hello…?” sakura giggled, slightly poking your side “why the frown?”

“you know how i feel about all of this… i wish i could just run away… what if i never see you again?” you whined, looking at her. she shook her head slightly, a foxy smile adorning her lips

“oh trust me, you will see me” sakura joked threateningly, nudging your arm “even if, you’ll do just fine. i know you don’t want this but… there’s nothing to do. in all honesty, y/n, i’m sorry. i wish i could help you”

letting out a small, defeated sigh you nodded. you were grateful that sakura mirrored your feelings. she didn’t have a husband yet, only two years younger than you so if she’s lucky enough, she’ll be able to find a man she wants to marry. unlike you. and losing your friend?

“so it’s my last day as a free woman, huh?” you grunted, pointing at something “let me go crazy, then. i like this tiger printed handkerchief”

“it’s a handkerchief…? hm. okay, you know what? let’s have some fun” sakura grinned and you approached the seller, giggling at the silly thing you’re about to purchase… and many more.

the sun set quicker than you wished, the lights of the stalls flickering. you fought a yawn, walking up to the small bridge that lead to the docks. the only sounds you could hear was the sea and workers chatting quietly. some crickets sing quietly in the distance, occasional crush of a wave silencing them.

sakura left a while ago, only to call for a guard. besides, people knew you here. you just wanted to relax for a little bit longer, enjoying the thing you love the most as a–

“shh!”

you frowned, support your body against the railing of the bridge and looked out for the source of the sound.

“i’m telling yer, it’s not a tiger print. i think the sea salt is starting to burn holes in your brain”

you froze and slowly looked at your hands, in which you were holding the tissue you bought earlier today. with a tiger print.

suddenly you felt a hand on your arm, relieved to know that sakura’s back.

“thank goodness! i got a little… oh” your eyes widened when you noticed that it wasn’t sakura. it was a guy, with loose white shirt and brown hair. he seemed nice but that didn’t change the fact that you were alone at docks… after the sunset.

“sorry if i disturbed you. do you happen to be from around here? our ship has just arrived and we were supposed to unpack the cargo” the guy spoke softly, smiling. oh, so this was the crew from the ship you noticed earlier today?

“yes, of course. i’m guessing you were supposed to ship it to sir l/n, my father?” you mirrored his smile. the man nodded and someone came up to you as well.

“that’s right. where are my manners… my name is joshua, this is seungkwan” the guy said, pointing at his friend. he nodded. when you took a glance at the ship, they scanned you up and down and smiled mischievously to each other “could you be so kind and show us the way to your mansion? we need to sign the papers that the cargo arrived on time”

“oh, of course. just… i’m waiting for my friend and…” you started hesitantly. the looked at each other

“that’s fine. we’ll tell them you went home safely” joshua smiled and called someone over. three guys came up, causing you to gulp. this seemed like a sketchy situation but hey, this is a cargo ship, right? they can’t be bad or something… besides, it weird no one arrived to greet them. so at least, maybe, your father will appreciate your effort.

“miss l/n, i assume? it’s pleasure to meet you” one of them spoke, voice low “i’ll be frank, we were hoping that the secretary will meet us there but… maybe it’s the delay. my name is s.coups, i’m the main captain. those are my co-captains, woozi and hoshi”

you bowed your head slightly as a greeting. woozi did the same, whereas hoshi bowed dramatically and grabbed your hand tenderly. you were shocked as he placed a quick peck on the top of your hand.

“m’lady” he grinned mischievously “we apologise for the delay, however the weather conditions on the sea are unpredictable… just like–“

“we get it. now we shall go, we already took enough of lady l/n’s precious time” woozi cut in. you shook your head and started walking towards your house. you thought the walk would be quiet but hoshi kept talking. throwing jokes, you loosened up. he was a pretty funny guy, you had to admit.

“we’re here. i’ll inform the…” you started, wanting to push the door open.

“we’ll go with you, really. it’s just a signature, that’s all” s.coups said and entered the house, leaving you a bit speechless. sure, this was the entrance that lead to the maids accommodation and your father’s office but…

you nodded shyly and lead them there. it’s good, right? your father does the same each time his financial partners come around.

knocking at the door, you sent hoshi a warm smile. he grinned and you noticed a golden tooth flickering in the light of the corridor. which, by the way, made you realise how handsome he was.

when the door opened, you looked at your father.

“y/n, i told you not to… who is that?” he asked, voice stern.

“those are the men who shipped the cargo ship for uh… the ceremony. i met them at the docks, they just arrived” you explained. the three of them nodded.

“exactly. we just need your signature that you confirm the cargo was delivered” s.coups said, his features a bit hostile “can we come in? i believe we shall not discuss certain aspects of the deal in front of the lady”

you huffed, crossing your arms which caused a giggle from hoshi.

“i… of course. and y/n, you go to your bedroom right away. sakura and our guards have been looking for you. you aren’t permitted to leave the house until sir hoseok arrives, understood?” was all your father said. hoshi noticed your mood going down, smile fading slowly. this made his heart hurt and for unknown to himself reasons, he suddenly felt anger at your father.

“yes, father. i wish you a good night” you mumbled, sending a forced smile at hoshi.

“oh we will have an excellent night” he hummed, winking at you. you felt blush creeping up on your face and you waved goodbye, leaving slowly towards your room.

once you arrived to your bedroom and changed into your night gown, you walked out on your balcony. the ship with cargo that arrived, s.coups’ ship, looked so huge and majestic. you wished you could just… sneak on it and run away.

“pssst”

you yelped, almost tripping when you took a sudden step back. you bumped into something… or rather someone, letting out another yelp. it was silenced by a stray hand on your mouth, causing you to try to squirm away.

“hey pretty lady” you heard a familiar voice and saw hoshi “looks like y/n’s all alone tonight?”

hoshi nodded and the hand from your mouth disappeared, yet your hands were held behind your back tightly.

“what… what is going on? how do you know my name?” you asked, eyes widening. hoshi scratched his head

“your father used it when he begged us not to kidnap you. which is what we’re doing right now” he explained nonchalantly, turning around to take a glance at your room “and take a few things…”

“are you serious?” you asked, voice full of shock. this is… exactly what you kind of… wanted. is it responsible and safe? not at all. will it free you from a forged marriage? yes.

“yup. we’re pirates, my dear. diamonds, pearls… tea?” hoshi hummed, rummaging through your things “that’s what i’m gonna get”

“i can… show you uh, my jewellery. i mean where i keep it. in all honesty, i’m more willing to go with you thank you can imagine. why you’re kidnapping me, by the way?” you asked, crooking your head. hoshi turned around dramatically.

“seriously? then c’mon, because we are running out of time” he grinned, yet his glare was threatening “no tricks though, lady”

someone let you out. you noticed it was a tall, buffed guy. hoshi noticed your scared expression and walked up to you, grabbing your wrist.

“don’t be scared of him. mingyu looks like he’s about to beat you up but he’s literally so dumb…” hoshi whispered and you giggled.

“i heard you” mingyu grunted.

you smiled and quickly dug out your secret chest with all the good gems. hoshi looked at you, actually surprised that you’re giving him willingly all the luxurious stuff you had.

“i… i can explain. can we get out now?” you asked. hoshi scoffed and grabbed your hand, tossing the chest to mingyu “oh, wait!”

quickly grabbing the tiger print handkerchief from your nightstand and your spyglass, you were ready to go. why were you excited…?

hoshi helped you get down the line they used to climb and in no time you were in your royal gardens.

“wonwoo, go check up on the others. i’ll take y/n to the ship” hoshi ordered and you realised there was another guy with you, all the time. he was just quiet and went unnoticed.

“can you explain what’s really going on?” you asked, letting him lead you

“we’re pirates, not your cargo ship. no offence, you made our job way easier. and for the future, you really shouldn’t trust strangers” hoshi looked through his arm at you. sending a shy smile at him, you felt blood rushing to your cheeks “it was our plan all along to pretend we’re the cargo, steal from you… and maybe kidnap you, so we can demand a ransom”

“oh”

he grinned and before you noticed, you made your way through the bushes, just next to the running guards.

“but i liked you. for that tiger print handkerchief especially” he smiled, pulling you down so you can hide from the guards. you looked at the item in your hand, smiling softly

“i bought it today… i guess it brought me luck” you hummed, looking up and him and meeting hoshi’s curious gaze. squatting down behind the bush, you could see the light from the lanterns the guards were using.

“you’re an intriguing person, m’lady. people that get kidnapped usually… do the opposite of what you’re doing right now. they run away… and don’t talk with the kidnappers” hoshi laughed and suddenly stood up, squeezing your hand “lets go!”

“well, uh… see… since you’re kidnapping me i’ll tell you either way. i was supposed to get married… and i didn’t want to… so…” you trail off and hoshi laughs

“ah, i see. well, welcome on board then. you’ll be the first and only girl on the deck, though” he hummed and you left the gardens “was the guy old? ugly? poor?”

“quite the opposite from all of the above, from what i heard” you teased, tightening the grip you had on the handkerchief “i just want to be free… and you’re pirates? i love the sea, i couldn’t even dream of sailing and now this…?”

“oh woah, you’re making me feel like i’m a good guy” he snickered, causing you to smile softly.

in no time you were on the ship, excitement rushing through your veins. you had a good feeling about this, hoshi seemed… trustworthy. or you were just too gullible. it was all soon to find out.

the wood was creaking pleasantly under your feet. oh. you didn’t take your shoes… or clothes…

“okay, everyone’s on! chan, tell jeonghan we’re ready to go! and you– who are you, exactly?” a guy came up to you, his hand resting on the blade hiding in his pocket.

“i… uh… well…” you started, trying to explain it. hoshi came back to you (wait, when did he even leave?) and put a hand on your shoulder. the warmth and gesture itself caused you to relax.

“i’ll explain in the morning. be nice to her, okay?” hoshi frowned. the guy nodded, giving you a wide gummy smile before walking away “that was seokmin, also known as dk. don’t hang around too long with him or you’ll get deaf”

you scoffed and felt a sudden move. hoshi looked at you amused, the literal stars in your eyes making his heart melt.

“if you don’t feel too good, just… return it to the sea” he patted your back and lead you to the edge of the ship, leaning against the railing.

you could see the island, the lights in houses made it look like everyone was awake. well, they probably were because of the chaos.

“aren’t you goning to miss yer home?” hoshi asked, worry in his voice.

“maybe…? we’ll see. so far i feel free… and i haven’t felt like that in ages” you admitted quietly, looking at him. the warm light of the lanterns hung somewhere in the ship made his face look cozy…

“that’s good. i’m happy i could help” his lips curled into a cute smile “now you shall rest. take my cabin– nuh, uh. i insist”

you let out a defeated laugh and nodded, agreeing. you stayed there for a while, observing in silence the land slowly becoming more and more distant. when it was nothing but dark sky and sea meeting each other at the horizon, hoshi led you to his cabin, bed quite modest but comfortable looking. he closed the moving door, leaning against the wall. the blade attached to his hip glistened in the light of the room.

“sleep well, mate” he grinned, small smile tugging at his lips. you were… so cute. he shook his head, trying to get this thought out of his head “thanks for the diamonds, pearls and rubies by the way. woozi is going to lose his mind”

“what?” you frowned, confused. hoshi laughed, the sound being so contagious that you couldn’t help but smile too

“i’ll explain it in the morning. oh and by the way… hoshi is a nickname, you know… soonyoung’s the name” he hummed.

“soonyoung. i like it, it sounds pretty” you mumbled shyly and looked up at him tenderly “good night, soonyoung”

hoshi nodded gently and left. and after he did, he had to physically prevent himself from screaming. you were so adorable.

the night passed surprisingly quickly, causing you to wonder if it was all just a dream. but opening your eyes and seeing soonyoung’s cabin and the open sea behind the windows made you realise it wasn’t.

you saw a pile of clothes and a cup of steaming tea on his desk. you put them on (hoping these were for you) and drank the tea slowly, looking at the view outside the window. the clothes you were given was male but they actually fit on you. maybe those were woozi’s? he seemed like a small person…?

you were about to leave when you remembered the tiger print handkerchief. grabbing it and putting it on, you smiled proudly. once you were done, you stepped out of the cabin.

refreshing breeze hit your hair, the smell of the sea mixed with salt filling your nostrills. the sun was shining, warmly falling on your skin.

“yoo hoo, y/n! up here!”

you looked up and saw hoshi coming down from the ship mast. in to time, almost jumping like a tiger, he was next to you.

“did you sleep well?” he asked and you could finally look at his handsome face in full sunlight. nodding enthusiastically, he smiled “good. well, then. welcome officially on the seventeen’s crew!”

you heard some cheers and applause, smile forming in your lips. soonyoung stole a glance at the tiger printed tissue fashionably tucked in the shirt’s pocket and he couldn’t help but grin.

svt masterlist | event masterlist

taglist.  @geniejunn ,, @luvhyun3 ,, @starlostseungmin ,, @elviransworld ,, @jnks6r ,, @sieunsgf ,, @ethereallino ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @duolingofanaccount ,, @slytherinshua ,, @stxrseungs ,, @ka-ni-ma ,, @iliveforlixie ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @mark-geolli ,, @l3visbby ,, @w3bqrl ,, @ddeonudepressions ,, @yourfavoritefreakyhan ,, @mirxzii ,, @kazmura ,, @primoppang

#svt fic #svt fluff #svt reactions #svt imagines #svt crack #svt au #svt pirate au #svt hoshi #svt x you #svt x y/n #svt x reader #hoshi x reader #hoshi x you #hoshi au #hoshi fluff #hoshi fic #hoshi imagines #hoshi x y/n #hoshi soft hours

[joyflameball]

WHITE DIAMOND AU STEVEN IS GOING TO FUCKING DROWN/ALMOST DROWN AND I'M NOT SURE IF I'M EXCITED OR TERRIFIED (theory post)

(cw drowning and stuff ofc)

Okay so in the past few days I read the entirety of Chekhov's White Diamond Steven AU, which is very good and everyone should read. And while reading it, I noticed something... interesting.

There are numerous instances where Steven will come close to drowning, and usually, someone will mention something along the lines of "Steven's a gem, he doesn't need to breathe." I looked through the comic to find instances, or references to Steven and drowning, or just how often Steven will go into deep water, and there are a lot. Some of my evidence could be reaching, but I have a somewhat coherent internal logic for why everything is here.

I apologize for the low image quality in places. The 30 image limit is kicking my ass.

In Seasons 1 and 2 there aren't that many instances. Steven goes underwater and comes out a soggy beast once in Season One, but that doesn't really count. In Season 2, while controlling Earl through dreams, he mentions "the water creeping higher and higher."

And in the Season 2 finale, right before it's revealed that Steven is White Diamond, Steven goes into the water to save Earl, and emerges from the water with Earl, which is followed by Rose's realization and revealing that he's White Diamond. i'm gonna bring this up again later remember this

In S3E27, Amethyst tells Steven to stop bleeding, moments before they go underwater and it's highlighted that Steven needs to breathe.

In S3E31, Steven mentions he wishes he could breathe underwater, is moments later dragged underwater by Lapis, and at the end there's a panel of bubbles floating upwards.

In S3E32, the Crystal Gems are discussing while Steven is zoning out, and Pearl(?) brings up how he shouldn't need to breathe underwater (implying they pulled him out of the water after nearly drowning). In S3E34, Lapis plunges Steven underwater, and parts the sea to let Steven find her (to reveal the full truth of who she is). S3E36, Lapis almost drowns Steven (after he reveals that he's white diamond, might i add. i'm going somewhere with this).

In S3E46, Ruby and Steven go underwater, and after Steven comes up for air, he says he felt like his lungs weren't gonna take it, and Ruby points out that gems don't have lungs.

In S4E1, Adventurine plunges Coral underwater, Steven's realization that it's just him and not him and Earl is paired with water and reflection imagery, and after they unfuse, there are a good few moments where they're underwater, and in shock.

In S4E8, Stevonnie brings up how Steven doesn't need to breathe, but Connie does.

S4E17 opens with Steven underwater and coming up for air.

S5E1, Steven and Connie have a conversation in Rose's healing fountain, and they talk an awful lot about how Steven's very much alive, and very unlike the rest of the gems. And hints started being dropped that it's gonna be revealed soon that Steven's human.

And oh yeah- in almost every single White Diamond Steven dream sequence, there is heavy use of water and reflection imagery.

Okay. So there's all my evidence. I think it's undeniable that this is, at the very least, a pattern. Steven's been associated with drowning and water and all that jazz for a WHILE. So where am I going with this?

Well, to lead into my answer, I'd like to draw your attention to another pattern: truth being revealed, or starting to be revealed, or revelations being had, around water. With Steven realizing Earl's nowhere to be found in Coral, with Connie starting to realize Steven's human in Rose's fountain, and most notably, with everyone realizing Steven is White Diamond, after they wade out of the ocean.

People have had the feeling for a little while that the reveal that Steven is human is coming up. Four seasons of believing Steven is a gem merely having deceived himself into believing he's human- that cannot continue forever. That bubble needs to pop one of these days. And with Connie having one of Steven's hairs, it's 100% coming up.

So here's my theory: part of the reveal that Steven is human is going to involve drowning somehow.

Because think about it: the gems currently believe Steven fully convinced himself he was human growing up, and as such, has conditioned himself to bleed, to want food, to get tired, and yes, to feel like being underwater for too long will cause him to drown. And so far, any instances to the contrary have been able to be brushed off with the belief Steven conditioned himself into seeing himself as human! Steven's hungry? He grew up believing he needed to eat. Tired? He grew up believing he needed sleep. Etc, etc, etc. Steven just needs to shake off that (if you will) programming, and once he does, he's home free.

But of course, that's wrong. He is human. He doesn't need food or sleep or air because he's conditioned himself into believing he needs them. He needs food and sleep and air because he is human. And the "he's conditioned himself into thinking he needs these" excuse works for a while. But there's a limit to that.

And I really think that limit would be "Steven almost/actually briefly dying." His heart stopping for a few moments. Programming can only go so far, and I don't think anyone could fully believe he's a gem after his heart stops.

And with how often Steven has gone underwater, I fully believe the reveal that he's human will come with Steven almost drowning- especially considering the water imagery in his White Diamond dreams, and ESPECIALLY considering the White Diamond reveal in Season 2 came directly after Steven waded into deep water. So it'd be a neat parallel- his Diamond status and human-ness are both revealed after going into deep water.

I also think Lapis COULD be involved with that somehow but I'm not completely sure how. Like she's gonna be FURIOUS if/when she's freed from the bubble- she got trapped AGAIN. So if and when she is released? She's gonna be pissed. And I don't think it'll go well for Steven.

@ask-whitepearl-and-steven DON'T TELL ME IF I'M RIGHT I JUST NEED TO GET THIS OUT THERE BEFORE MY BRAIN DISSOLVES IF I'M RIGHT THEN I'M GOING TO FUCKING EXPLODE AND IT'LL BE PANDEMONIUM

#cassie rambles #white diamond steven au #wdau #wd!steven #wd!steven au #white diamond au #white diamond steven #steven universe au #su au #ask white pearl and steven

[mynamesaplant]

In the Weeds

If reading things on Tumblr isn't your favorite, I also have it posted here on AO3. This piece was inspired, once again, by the amazing work of Monsoon-of-Art and the PLA Mer AU. I wrote this in like two hours because I've been thinking about it nonstop. Did some minor editing because I noticed a few things were logically inconsistent or spelling/grammar was off.

Summary:

Akari gets a little lost and overhears a conversation.

It was official, Akari had lost Ingo.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely her fault. He told her to stay put and he should have known better than to trust her when she was such a poor swimmer. When the current wasn’t bullying her around, she was having issues getting the motion down that Ingo had been patiently trying to teach her. She knew how to swim! … When she had legs… Well, if she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t the best at swimming when she had legs either. Regardless, she found herself clambering over rocks and pulling herself along by grabbing the long kelp strands.

The tides were changing. She didn’t know how she knew that exactly – maybe the pull of the water on her body as it receded back out to sea, but she was still too far from shore for her liking. Ingo was a smart - … guy wasn’t the right word. Merman? Fishman? Akari didn’t have the right terminology yet. He was smart, he would eventually find her, it was like he had a sixth sense for her. He knew that she needed to get back to shore within a certain time frame in order not to arouse suspicion. He knew where she would be headed. It would all be fine.

Or it would all be fine if the ocean wasn’t trying to suck her back in. The riptide she had accidentally found herself in during her exploring and flung her out too far, just beyond the safety of the kelp forest that Ingo had been stashing her in when she decided to visit. She had to keep moving. She had to keep in mind that she had to go up for air a lot more frequently than Ingo had to, hand over hand climbing up the kelp until her head broke the water. With those mandatory breaks, it gave her an indication of just how much further she needed to go and how much time she had left. Akari’s answers this time were a lot further than she would have liked and not long enough.

She took in a deep lung full of air, feeling the unnatural way her lungs seemed to expand past what she thought would be her normal capacity, and plunged beneath the surface. If only the kelp weren’t so slimy and flimsy and her hands so pruny from her duration in the water, she could just keep pushing herself to each strand and keep close to the surface, but everything in the ocean seemed eager to keep her there without her guardian present. Down by the bottom, she began to pull herself along again.

That was, until she heard arguing through the gloom of the forest. She paused, her ears twitching in the direction of the sound keenly and her curiosity tugging her in the direction of the voices. The words were undefined at the moment, but as she drew closer, Akari saw two unfamiliar mers having quite a heated discussion amongst the kelp.

Akari, just as she thought when she first saw Ingo, thought they looked simply magnificent. The smaller was some sort of seal, her brown fur ruffled in irritation and her dark, inverted eyes narrowed as the larger, some sort of bluish fish, seemed to roll his eyes at her like he didn’t have the patience for her. He confirmed it with what he said next.

“You’re not taking this seriously, Irida. And I hate when people waste my time.”

“This is deadly serious, and you know it, Adaman!”

He raised his eyebrow skeptically, folding his arms over his chest and leaning in close to the one he called Irida.

“The humans haven’t bothered us in the slightest. Why should Diamond clan be concerned with any plight of Pearl clan?”

Akari had to squelch a gasp and nestled herself back into the safety of the kelp. She knew who these two mers were, even if Ingo had only mentioned them in passing, and Akari knew she should leave because the clan leaders had yet to know of her existence, but they were talking about humans… Did they mean the Galaxy Team? She knew she should move, but she couldn’t, her fingers inadvertently curling tighter around the kelp.

Irida’s fingers curled in the water in a strangling motion, like she so wanted to choke Adaman for saying something stupid and she said through sharp, gritted teeth,

“Just because they haven’t infringed on your space yet, doesn’t mean that they won’t. The only reason I suspect that they haven’t disturbed you in the way they have my clan is because the water around your settlement is so brackish and silted that they can’t even find you.”

Adaman jerked back, ears pinned back and eyes shirking down to pinpricks at the slight. His thick, muscled tail twitched restlessly in the water, stirring up sand and ruffling the kelp wildly, Akari held on tightly. She could see his mouth flapping and gasping, but no retort came out immediately, and it seemed to make him more agitated.

“Maybe if your warden wasn’t so hasty with his actions, then perhaps the humans wouldn’t be acting quite so aggressive in your territory.”

He finally spat back; the words laced with venom. Adaman was leaning in so close to Irida that he was practically nose-to-nose to her, a smirk of satisfaction curling his lips as she swiftly backed off. There was a tense moment of silence, Akari daring to peek her head out a little more to witness Adaman regain some of his composure.

He lifted his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunching shut before he exhaled slowly. Irida also seemed to take this time to recalibrate, eyes falling closed as she patted her cheeks almost as if she was giving herself some sort of mental peptalk.

“Are your pups okay?”

Irida whipped around like she hadn’t expected him to ask something like that, Akari got the feeling that it was an unusual question to be asked – but especially by Adaman.

“They’re fine… Hungry mostly.”

Adaman seemed to wince, mouth quirking with guilt, even if the surveyor didn’t know why. Ingo was always stressing the importance of pups and keeping them safe to Akari, it was one of the major reasons he cited for saving her. She looked so much like a helpless pup bleeding in the water... Akari hadn’t realized she had made a noise when she remembered the occasion, but her heart stopped when she saw Irida’s head swivel in her direction, her ears at attention and her eyes as sharp as the claws on her hands.

“Did you hear that?”

Did she almost sound grateful for the abrupt change of subject? Adaman, even if he masked it a little better, also sounded relieved as he said,

“No, but I see you trying to change the subject from the topic at hand. Diamond clan doesn’t intend to do anything about the humans. They haven’t bothered us, so we needn’t take any sort of retaliatory actions.”

Irida was still looking in Akari’s direction, her tail shifting in the water with a natural ease and looking amongst the rocks for the source of the noise she had heard. Akari buried her face in her scarf, edging back slowly as Irida turned back to give one more devastating blow before swimming off in a huff.

“Are you so unaware of your own surroundings that you don’t understand how dire the situation is, Adaman? Your tune will change once they start to take your food and start to get too close to your home.”

Her words were bitter. Adaman frowned while he watched her go, Akari could sense the gears turning in his head at Irida’s words and she quietly tried to move away. Never had she wanted Ingo at her side more than in this very instance. She wished swimming came as naturally to her as did to either of the two clan leaders who she was trying to evade, because she needed to get out of there right away.

The kelp rustled and swayed around Akari as she climbed up the long strand, keeping low until she thought she was a safe enough distance from the lingering mer, but she realized her mistake when she poked her head out from the refuge of the dense column (she didn’t realize how long she had been sitting and listening until her lungs began to burn in protest). The water column, usually teaming with small darting fish and the occasional sea otter, was utterly devoid of life. Akari knew that meant a predator was around, but she didn’t realize what kind of predator that meant.

Her immediate instinct was to hide and stay hidden until the danger had passed, but she didn’t expect the swiping hand that snagged her away from her kelp. She yelped, this was not the familiar hand that gently guided her around in this forest, but it was equally gentle with her. Akari was swung around to face Adaman who appraised her silently, holding her fast as she squirmed. The words escaped Akari before she knew what she was saying.

“D-Don’t eat me!”

Adaman blinked, his brown eyes softening and his voice considerable gentler when compared to the conversation she just overheard.

“Eat you? Who would give you such a funny idea?”

His expression changed subtly when he noticed her sniffling and trying to shrink in his hand. This pup was terrified of him. He had to keep looking at her closely, because she simply looked too old to have such a pure white coat. There were many contradictions here but there was a part of Adaman that only saw a pup, small and fragile and so clearly afraid. Was she one of Pearl clans? Why was she out here? These were all questions that pressed on his mind.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

He tried to sooth, but it was hopeless. She was just so distressed and floppy. He didn’t want to crush her, but she was so small and getting to be too hard to hold on to. Akari squirmed free and bolted, an unexpected competence for swimming striking her brain like lightning as it screamed at her to get as far away from him as possible.

Akari had several disadvantages here, but so did the clan leader. Adaman was bigger and faster than her, he was quickly catching up to her, and he seemed very invested in getting her back. Akari was small and, although her coat was a bright beacon to the eye, she could get lost in the foliage rather easily, which meant Adaman had to rely on his less reliable sense of smell and hearing to locate the pup.

What little air was in her lungs was being spent in her escape, but the panic suffusing Akari’s brain had that as a low priority in comparison to fleeing. She was on the verge of passing out, tossing a look over her shoulder to see if she had a moment to take a breath, when she barreled straight into the back of a different mer. This one instantly recognizable to Akari’s senses and he seemed to know instantly that she needed air.

Ingo didn’t mean to grab her so roughly, but he could tell by the heat emanating off her body and the hazy look in her eyes that she needed oxygen badly. He rocketed up through the water, away from whatever the perceived threat was, and thrust Akari to the surface. The poor girl gasped and spluttered, her hand gripping Ingo’s finger so tightly as her panic and adrenaline drained from her.

“Warden?”

Ingo jumped at the familiar voice, half turning to see Adaman emerging from the kelp. Oh no.

“Lord Adaman.”

He replied, offering a nod as he frantically tried to formulate an excuse for himself and Akari’s presence here, but, oddly enough, Adaman came to his rescue.

“This one of Pearl clan’s pups that escaped the pools?”

Ingo almost choked, so grateful that he did not have to come up with a lie. He lowered Akari slowly back into the water so she knew what was going on, she would be instrumental in the lie.

“Y-Yes, I was sent to retrieve her! How did you know she was from one of the pools?”

Adaman glanced between the pup and the warden, only momentarily wondering if Ingo had been the one to fill the pup’s head with lies about Diamond clan eating any stray pups, but that seemed more like Gaeric’s style than Ingo’s.

“I’ve been hearing some unusual things from Sabi… You should tell Irida to keep a better watch of your pups.”

Akari, still breathing heavily, felt Ingo stiffen at the careless words of the clan leader, but didn’t say anything. Adaman moved forward, hesitating when the pup flinched, and just looking rather blatantly at her coat. Were things really that bad for Pearl clan that their pups were stunted? Was the food storage a lot worse than Irida was letting on?

“Sorry for frighting you, little one. Don’t stray too far from home. Here.”

Without much warning, Adaman reached out and snatched an unseen fish from the kelp around them, trying to hand it to her as a sort of olive branch. She only took it after some prodding from Ingo, but Adaman gave her an easy smile and bid the duo farewell.

Ingo and Akari didn’t move from that spot for at least ten whole minutes. The warden did not admonish her, in fact he didn’t say a word, he just looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry.”

She squeaked, knowing he had probably run all over looking for her to confirm her safety. Safety was important to him, but none quite so important as hers. Ingo sighed and nodded, just glad they just managed to squeak out of that encounter mostly unscathed. Adaman had seen her and clearly her appearance had some impact on him in one way or another. Ingo had resolved to keep the girl by his side at all times in the future to avoid such encounters in the future.

#fanfic #fanfics #fan fic #fan fics #fanfiction #fan fiction #pokemon #pla #legends of arceus #pokemon: legends arceus #pokemon legends: arceus #p:la #pl:a #pokemon warden ingo #pokemon akari #pokemon adaman #pokemon irida #clan leader irida #clan leader adaman

[chemdisaster]

a bit of a backstory for the cat dad au. featuring: the first time scar sees kitten

Scar is walking.

At night, it's dark out, save for the lights glinting off the asphalt. No one is around, the cloaked silence interrupted only by the odd whirr of an engine, the light drizzle covering the shimmering roads.

It's almost peaceful.

Occasionally, someone passes by and Scar wonders what is keeping them out on the streets this late. If they have anywhere to go. If there's anyone waiting for them back at home. 

If they're just walking because there's nothing else left for them to do. 

There is no point to anything he does or is, Scar reflects as his shoes beat out a steady rhythm against the hard ground. No purpose to carrying on. Drifting through life, living for the next day, then the one after that—

Scar walks, and memories walk at his side. 

Maybe it's what happened today, or maybe it's what's been happening for the entirety of his career as a hero. Maybe it's just everything—his entire life, a cacophony of noise and numbers that came from nothing and led to nothing in the end.

Maybe Scar is just tired. 

His whole life, he's fought desperately to stay afloat—continued to struggle to swim, to kick against the waves that threatened to pull him down. And there is a certain beauty in it, in not knowing why you even exist and continuing to exist in the moment despite it.

But the water always takes its own. And Scar is so, so tired.

Stars shine above his head like diamonds and murky clouds drift in and out of view. At this hour, the sky is a sea, endless in its allure, bottomless in its expanse.

He's never seen a night this beautiful.

Scar has never wanted to die more.

Fingers still shaking with the aftermath of earlier events, his note weighs heavy in his pocket. A goodbye—to whom, he doesn't know. To the world? The world does not care. He isn't sure of much, but his own meaninglessness against the millions of mankind is something he knows like the scars covering his weary bones.

Without him, everything will be the same as when he was alive. Scar's made his peace with that. 

A strange kind of acceptance and a carefully thought out plan sitting on his shoulders, Scar walks. Resigned to his fate, he smiles at the streets for no one to see. The streets stare back at him and he fancies that he can hear a voice in the faraway fog.  

He hears a sound then. 

Something small, it reeks of desperation—a desperation that Scar himself is all too familiar with. Maybe that's what makes him follow the pained whimpers, stopping at a dark alley and peering into the unwelcoming black.

A vague shape is curled up on the floor, panting breaths ringing out in the still air. If he had his wits about him, he would leave—walk away for the final time in his life and let the breathing sort out their issues on their own. 

Scar's heart might as well have already stopped. He stays where he is. 

"Hello?" 

No answer, a sniffle—and then a squeak.

Almost like a cat. 

Fingers shaking, he calls out again, "Hello? Is someone there?" 

Coming closer, apprehension growing in his throat, Scar stares deep into the gloomy darkness of the alley. 

Glowing eyes stare back at him.

#gtws #gtws angst #cat dad au #worddisaster #tw suicide #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #hermitfic

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 4 - Treasure Part II

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

A vista of endless blue gives way jagged black peaks rising like a city's skyline.

The Hydra—or so the artificial port is called—sits in a hollow formed by two undersea cliffs, which shield the anchorage from both sides. The sun, a blinding glare, winks off the superstructure. At first glimpse, it resembles a mirage: a phantasmagoria of glass and steel. Closer, it resolves from myth to mundanity: a sprawling, low-slung complex, with an array of docks, hangars and fueling stations. Its colossal weight of ten thousand metric tons is held afloat by a series of airtight nitrogen capsules, encased beneath the steel-plated underbelly. Beneath, miles down, is a bed of solid granite. The complex's anchor, a six-mile-long steel tether, is secured by titanium-plated cables to a peak on the seabed.

The design, a masterwork of engineering, is an homage to its maker: Viktor, the Machine Herald. For an unknown sum, he'd crafted the facility, first as a prototype, then as a permanent installation. Silco had also commissioned his expertise for designing a fleet of specialized vessels: the Siren's Call. A collection of sleek submersibles, built to his exact specifications, and piloted by a cadre of elite seamen.

Their function: transporting precious cargo from the Hydra, back to Zaun.

A fan of sea-spray kicks in the wake of a fleet of skiffs. It sparkles in the intense brightness of the sun, like a handful of tiny diamonds flung to the sky.  Silco, at the helm of the lead craft, navigates with a smuggler's ease. The craft's prow, a narrow point, slices a white streak in the water. Inside, the passengers—Cevila, Hector, Lady Dennings, Garlen—huddle, blindfolded and guarded, in its wake.

Abovedeck, Mel sits hunkered behind her husband. She has taken off her inadequate boots and tucked her skirts between her knees. Her bare ankles are rashed with gooseflesh; her dress, half-drenched, clings like a second skin.

This, she thinks, is why he'd asked her to lose the chiffon.

Seamlessly, Silco threads his boat through the maze of piers, and slips between two massive derricks. Then he steers into a small basin, where a pair of towering steel doors yawn open.

At the fore, the port's emblem gleams: Zaun's dagger-winged chem-shield, etched in vivid green.

They are, officially, in the belly of the beast.

Mel, braced against the spray, stares in mute awe.

The hangar is colossal: a maelstrom of sound and motion. A web of florescent lights, strung overhead, casts a harsh white glare. Everywhere, men and women, in labcoats or overalls with Zaun's crest,  pass in and out. Some, armed with clipboards, are inspecting cargo. Others, armed with power tools, swarm the corners: checking seals, topping up fuel tanks, testing equipment.

Cranes swing. Pulleys screech. Engines roar.  The scene is a sensory assault: an undersea hive, humming with one singular purpose.

Progress.

As her eyes adjust to the dazzling brightness, Mel makes out the dimensions of the dry docks: a spread of interlocking piers and canals, all set in an intricate steel gridwork. Ships of every size and class are anchored: freighters, frigates, ferries. A flotilla of motorboats, their hulls painted the distinctive Zaunite green, zigzag in between like darting minnows. The acrid stink of exhaust and brine is overpowering. 

Silco, at the wheel, takes a deep inhale.

"Funny, isn't it?" he says, quietly.

Dazed, Mel says, "What is?"

"What can be achieved if coin is actually invested where it's due."

The spray hits Mel's face, cold as a slap. She is still in shock. She'd had no clue this behemoth existed. No inkling of the depth and breadth of Silco's designs.

Her voice doesn't quaver. But there's a taut note: like the twinge of a pulled muscle. "How long?"

"Three years, give or take. I've had my eye on these waters since before Zaun's independence. The initial plan, if you can even call it that, was to mine minerals from the seabed. Metals, crystals, ore. Anything we could find." A twist of the wheel, and their boat, with a gentle jerk, eases around a corner. "The project had to be scrapped. We lacked the resources to extract. Not to mention the funds to build a port. Revolution's a costly business. So's maintaining control over a city. Especially one that's eating itself alive."

"So, you turned your eye elsewhere."

"Necessity is the mother of invention."

"Shimmer."

His profile is inscrutable: a figurehead at the prow. "Yes."

Mel feels no anger yet. Only a dull hiving in the pit of her belly. The same feeling she gets whenever their arguments veer into dark territory. A sense of disorientation—surrealism—at how easily Silco shifts between extremes.

How, without warning, he steals all her air, and leaves her suffocating.

"And this?" she grits out. "When did you discover glyphs under the seabed? Or that they linked to a portal system?"

"I knew nothing about the glyphs. Only that, since my smuggling days, there were stories of a secret network used by Oshra Va'Zaun's navy. A shortcut between sea routes, where ships, powered by ancient magic, could pass from point A to point B in a heartbeat. Like Piltover's Hex-Gates, but at sea." The corner of his lip curls. "As a young man, I'd always thought the maps drawn up by different navies seemed—odd. The Noxians, for example, are too busy with their conquests to chart out a thorough seaway. They're more concerned with securing the strait's borders, rather than what lies underneath. Demacia, meanwhile, is a landlocked bore. They have no real seafaring tradition, nor the need for one. Their navy's purpose is mostly for patrol, and the odd skirmish here and there."

"And Piltover?"

"Piltover has always been the authority. Or so it claims. It is, however, a city built on greed. The first thing I did after Zaun's independence was to invest in archaic runes from the Shadow Isles. I gifted these to Jinx. For her research into the arcane, and its connection to Zaun's network of magic leylines. Soon, she and Viktor discovered a common thread. The runic systems were not simply confined to Zaun. They were also present, on a much larger scale, along the coastline. A stretch of sea-passage, coincidentally, where Zaun was already establishing a nautical corridor."

The hiving in Mel's belly is spreading. The truth is a bitter sting.

She whispers, "You planned all this."

His profile shifts: three-quarters to the light. The left side, a dark slash. "Is that a crime?"

"The coin from each investment I approved throughout the years. Each transaction sanctioned at my table. Each project aimed at mutual prosperity between our cities." Mel's fingers clench the railing. "It was all being funneled into this!"

"It was being put to proper use."

"This—this is an act of subterfuge!"

The engines rumble as they slow. She's glad for the white-noise. It serves as a screen. The rest of the party, belowdeck, cannot hear them.  And yet, the privacy is its own torment.

Here, there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.

Silco, his eye fixed on the horizon, says, "This is an act of necessity."

"Necessity?"

"Zaun's independence is a reality, not a dream. Reality requires capital. And, unlike Piltover, I can't rely on a bottomless treasury of stolen goods. Our mines are ripe with gems. But gems mean nothing without trade routes, and markets, and vessels to transport them. We are one of Runeterra's most well-situated cities, but we can only export via one single corridor: your Hex-Gates." His good eye swivels her way. "If I had asked the Council, you think they would have funded this port? This fleet? The Iron Pearl?"

"You had no right to—"

"No right?" His tone is biting. "I have every right. Zaun is a sovereign state. This is statehood in motion. Fissurefolk have a history of carving out a living, no matter the odds. We've navigated these seas for centuries before the Cataclysm. We've endured wars, famine, natural disasters, and the collapse of an entire empire. We've fought and bled and clawed our way to a foothold. If anything, the least you can do is to afford us the dignity of making our own way."

"You," Mel fires back, "are undercutting the city that supported you."

"Piltover has already taken its pound of flesh. Now, we're taking back our share."

A dull throb begins in Mel's temples. She'd always known Piltover's stranglehold on Zaun. The city's natural bounty: a vast reserve, kept under lock and key by dint of the Peace Treaty.  After the Siege, and Zaun's rupture from Piltover, she'd needed to assuage the Council's fears: that Zaun could be, if no longer a treasurebox, a viable trading link. That an accord between them was of mutual benefit. 

Two cities: partners in prosperity.

But what Silco has constructed, with the aid of her city's coffers, is a different beast. A counterpoint to Piltover's supremacy: a network of ports and channels, hidden from view, and under his absolute governance. A private empire, beyond her grasp—or the Council's oversight.

A disaster, Mel thinks, with a thousand mile radius.

Once word gets out, the Council will be in uproar. They'll see the Iron Pearl as a direct challenge: their monopoly on foreign goods undermined in the span of a night.  Investors will be stricken. Some, dreading a capsized market, will flee. Others, emboldened, will seek Zaun as the next safe harbor.  Global trading networks will split along two faultlines. Shipping chains will likewise crack at the seams.

A tectonic shift, as profound as the invention of the Hex-gates.

And Mel, a wedge, caught in between.

Trust me, he'd said.

I do, she'd replied.

The irony is not lost on her: her trust, like her marriage, has led her into a trap.

And, like any trapped animal, she lashes out.

"This your idea of compromise? An ambush in plain sight?" She hears her voice crack, and hates herself for it. "I would've given you anything. All you had to do was ask. But no—you'd rather skulk around in the shadows. Scheming like a—"

"You call it scheming. I call it strategy."  Silco's hands, guiding the wheel, are steady. "Or did you expect me to stay on sufferance? My city's trade—its lifeblood—tied for generations to your Hexgates. My future hinging—year after year—on accords written by your Council. Bureaucracy, backtracking, backstabbing. A charade of concessions, with Zaun's dignity as the cost?"

"Charade?" Her face goes hot, then cold. "Is that what you see this voyage as?"

"Worse. I see it as a farce." His knuckles, she notices, are whitening. "You, playing at being my wife. Putting on a show for all your guests. The men and women who've undermined my city at every turn. And what do you do? Peddle your smiles to grease their palms. Force my hand, and force yours, and force everyone else's—all to keep the peace." His laugh is pitched low. And yet it slices through the air. "Peace. If this is the price, I'd rather go to war."

The pain, like a needle, pierces Mel's skull.

She'd known, since the voyage began, that he was angry. That he was sick of the hollow platitudes and hidden barbs. But she'd thought, with her efforts this morning, that she'd successfully mitigated the damage. Diplomacy, rather than daggers—all to the goal of keeping the status quo.

A false premise, she realizes.

Zaun no longer recognizes the status quo. Not when the city has an undersea fortress, and a fleet of ships, and a web of trade routes.

"This—this is politics," she tries to reason. "You've seen me do this countless times!"

"That's precisely the point."

"What point?"

"You." It is a sibilant hiss. "Doing this. Every. Damn. Time."

"Silco—"

"You have a gift for it, Mel. I won't deny." The wheel spins beneath his fingertips.  The craft veers into a narrow canal, bordered on both sides by towering cranes. "I've always enjoyed it. How you can turn a crooked cause into a straight road. Turn a cutthroat into a charity case. But have you stopped to consider—just once—that I don't want to be your charity case? That watching you play nice with those leeches and bootlickers, day after day, makes me sick? That I'd rather toss the lot of them overboard than have you sacrifice a shred of yourself for my city's coffers."

"I am a Councilor," Mel protests. "My duty is—"

"Your duty is to be my wife!"

The whipcrack timbre cuts off the words in her throat. For a moment, Mel can do nothing but stare. His expression—the slow hardening shift of muscles, the creeping chill of mismatched eyes—is as remote as a dying star.

In her mind's eye, she sees their wedding night: her ruined silk underthings a breadcrumb trail between parlor and bedroom. Thinks of Silco, a phantom silhouette in the gloom: on top of her, inside her, filling her, all burning eyes and biting kisses and sweat-slick skin. Thinks of the aftermath: of him cradling her in his arms, his fingertips tracing the scratches his teeth had gouged, his whispers a cool balm to the fire his touch had lit.

"We'll get there," he'd promised her, again and again. "Just give it time."

"Time," Mel had whispered, clinging to his neck.

"All we need. All I ask."

"You could ask for more."

His chuckle had grated deliciously against her skin. "I'm greedy, my sweet wife. I take what I want."

And she'd smiled, and let him take.

Wife.

The word, entwining with sensuous tenderness, now constricts like a noose.

"My wife," Silco repeats, quieter, but with an unmerciful intensity that cuts her to the quick. "Not the prop to humanize me in front of hysterical prudes like the Dennings. Not the pincushion to hide behind when Cevila Ferros slings barbs about my bloodline. Not the bargaining chip to trot out when Hector wants to renegotiate a loan, in exchange for a few harmless gropes. Certainly not a piece of meat for Garlen and his pack of jackals to paw at in full view—all for the good of my city." A vein pulses dangerously in his forehead. "My wife, Mel. Mine."

Mine.

The word, like a key, unlocks the full dimension of his rage.

She'd known he was a jealous man. Had assumed, in her naïveté, that it was born of a bruised male ego. Because he was a powerful man, who'd risen from nothing. And, like all power-hungry men, he'd sooner hoard her attention than share it.

Now, she sees her mistake: the root cause of his jealousy was never the sharing.

It was the humiliation.

Having a shipful of strangers, in all their privilege, look down their noses at him. To treat him, publicly, with varying degrees of hostility—all because he'd been born in the wrong place, and raised by the wrong people, and bested his own fate with his bare hands. To be regarded, in turns, as a volatile threat, an exotic savage, or a useful commodity—but never as an equal.

And Mel, in the course of a single evening, had condoned the whole circus.

In her mind, she was protecting his interests. In her heart, she was trying to make amends. In her actions, she was keeping the peace.

But in Silco's eyes, she was making a mockery of her vows.

And with this voyage, selling his soul. All to keep Piltover's good standing at Zaun's expense.

Mel's throat hitches. She can feel the miserable tremors of childhood bubbling up. Her fingers clench the rail; the only thing left to cling to. For a terrifying heartbeat, she is a girl again, condemned beneath her mother's shadow.

But Silco is not Ambessa.

And she is no longer a girl.

"I did this," she grits out, "for us."

"No," Silco says, flatly. "You did this for them."

"They're our guests."

"They are the enemy."

"Silco, they—"

"My enemies," he says. "By word. By deed. The difference, Mel, is that both of mine have teeth."

The salt-spray stings Mel's eyes. Adrenaline, cold as seawater, sluices down her spine.

And it hits her:

I am in hostile territory.

"Why have you brought us here?" she says. "What are you planning?"

At the word—us—there is a change in his expression. It is subtle, but unmistakable. Suddenly, the fluid animation that powers his every move is gone. The man left behind is—not an effigy—but a facsimile of human life. Skin and bones and blood, but nothing more.

Beneath, there is a bottomless void.

And it is very, very hungry.

"I told you," he says. "This is a treasure hunt."

"Silco—"

"I've given them the bait. Now all that's left is to reel them in."

"Reel them in for what?" Without realizing, Mel has begun to edge away. To put herself between him and the bodies belowdeck. "Silco, these are my guests. My allies. I am responsible for their safety."

His stare doesn't falter. "So am I."

"Tell me," Mel says, her heart pounding. "Please."

He is still a moment longer. Then he lifts a hand and smooths back the flyaway curls that have broken rank from her coif. The gesture is oddly gentle. And yet, Mel has a sense that he's gripping her throat in a fist.

"Put your boots on," he says, deathly soft. "We're here."

And the skiff, neat as a pin, glides into the dock.

The guests, in a dazed cluster, file off the skiffs.

Their blindfolds stripped, they resemble, to Mel's eye, a school of bewildered fish: faces palely pinched, eyes gleaming, mouths working. Their shoes squeak on the steel plates. Many, still in their finery beneath their life-vests, shiver in the deepsea chill. There are whispers. Shaking heads. Furtive glances. As if, beneath the dazzling florescence, a monster lurks.

It's the fear that's always in the back of their minds.

The fear, Mel realizes, that Zaun will be their undoing.

She, too, is stunned. Not simply by the sheer size and scope of the Hydra, but by the fact that Silco has, for years, managed to conceal such a behemoth construction. She'd known he was cunning. Known he had a gift for biding his time. But to have built, under her city's nose, a sprawling, multi-level port complex, and an armada of submersibles...

It's not a matter of scheming. It's a matter of strategy.

Did you expect me to stay on sufferance?

Trust me—and don't run.

Her mind, a stifled storm, feels the full brunt of his words.

In her ear, Ambessa's lesson, learned the hard way:

Marriage is a sea unto itself... If you try to tame it, it will swallow you.

"Mel?"

Lady Denning's voice, like a clubbing blow, sends her stumbling back to the present. She blinks. The crowd, a collage of anxious faces, solidifies.  The noblewoman is clutching the spray-dampened hem of Mel's sleeve. Her lips, blue-tinged with cold, are pursed in a moue of distress.

"I think," she quavers, "I may have caught a chill."

Mel's nurturing instincts kick into gear. "Stay close. We'll find you someplace warm."

"Mel, where are we? This place—I don't recall our itinerary including it. Is this truly one of Zaun's ports? The size of it—" Her eyes flit, birdlike, over the vast expanse of metal. "Why, it's like the mouth of a leviathan!"

"Sssh. My husband wanted us to see the fruits of Zaun's progress."

"Progress! Oh yes. And then we'll go home?"

"Of course."

"Oh thank gods." A childlike hiccup. "I'm truly not dressed for an expedition."

"I wouldn't worry." Mel, her arm firmly looped around the woman's waist, casts a swift glance at the rest of the group. They are, she notices, also clumped in clusters. The women, huddling together. The men, pacing around them in small, tight circles. The air, despite the chill, crackles with tension. "The sooner we see the treasure, the sooner we'll leave."

"Treasure." Lady Denning jitters a forced laugh. "Yes. A treasure. How—how exciting."

"It will be, yes."

The answer is rote: a reflex honed over years of crisis.

Inside, she is paralyzed. She'd been prepared to deal with the economic repercussions of the Iron Pearl. Nightmare scenarios of Piltover's trade networks collapsing into a morass of litigation. Zaun's ships, their holds laden with contraband, being impounded at sea. The Council, furious, holding her at fault—

All of that, she could've dealt with. She's a Medarda, and Medardas can outfox the fiercest threats.

But Silco's plan, whatever it is, is a different beast.

She has no precedent for this. No guidepost; no rules of conduct. Only a feeling, as visceral as the bite of winter, that something is closing in.

She looks across the platform, and there, a hundred feet away, is her husband.

He is speaking to the crew: wiry, sharp-eyed men and women in grease-streaked uniforms. They are all Fissure-born: Mel can tell by the tattoos and scars crosshatched on their bodies; by the glint of cybernetic implants on their hands or faces; by the sinewy muscles that flex in their shoulders and arms.

Ambessa had often liked to say there's no trusting a man or woman without a single scar.

A marked man has more backbone in his pinkie than an entire pedigree of soft-skinned cowards.

If that is the case, then these are the most upright people in existence.

A court to a crooked king.

In their midst, Silco is a slender silhouette. His features are set in blandly neutral lines; his body holds an easy languor. And yet his voice, compelling in its slow articulation, holds the group in thrall. They do not shrink in subservience, like serfs under their liege's boot. Instead they lean in: grim-faced, intent. The deference in their stance verges on reverence.

Mel knows how much power the Eye of Zaun wields. In Piltover, he is a formidable adversary.  On the global stage, he is an up-and-coming terror.

Here, in Zaun's territory, he is a god among men.

Succinctly, he issues a series of orders. As one, the crew nod. A single gesture, and they disperse: each vanishing down a different corridor of the maze. The last of the men—a hulking brute, with a shock of bright orange hair and a face that's a mass of knotted scars—touches his fist to his chest. His mouth, a lipless slash, cracks in a smile.

Silco imparts the barest smile in turn.

Then, he turns—and his eyes, two chips of different-colored ice, lock onto Mel's. She feels, again, as if her throat is being encircled in a cold fist—and lovingly, oh so lovingly, squeezed.

A blink, and the pressure is gone.

And her husband, closing the distance, is at her side.

"The crew are bringing around carts," he says, pleasantly. "They'll escort the guests to the viewing gallery. Give them a bird's eye view of the haul."

"Haul?" Mel keeps her frayed nerves from her voice, "Of what?"

"Patience. You'll see." He gestures to the brute-faced crewman. "This is Kolt. He and his men will handle the party's safety."

The man, with an affable grin, nods. "Yessir."

Lady Dennings, huddled close to Mel, whispers, "Safety? I—I don't understand. From what?"

"Protocol," Silco says smoothly. "Nothing more."

The poor woman, trembling, presses closer to Mel. "I think," she mumbles, "I need a hot drink. And a dry cloak."

"You'll have both, and more. Just an hour's patience."

"An hour—?"

The noblewoman's voice fades into white-noise. From within the warrens of the Hydra, a strange rumble erupts. A low-pitched buzzing at first, it grows, like a wave, into an earsplitting discordance. It resembles a thousand metal gears grinding against each other. And yet the echo is surreally musical, like a symphony swelling from the depths the sea.

The guests, crying out, huddle into protective swarms. Some clap their hands to their ears. Cevila, hissing like a wet cat, swats free of her cringing husband. Hector, quivering volubly, nearly stumbles to his knees. Garlen, swearing, draws a pistol, and is immediately restrained by his own retinue.

Lady Dennings, clinging to Mel's waist, nearly swoons. Bracing her elbow, Mel holds her steady. Her skin crawls with seven layers of gooseflesh. The sound is everywhere: a palpable force, vibrating up her spine. It feels like a descent from foreboding to doom. Her mind, always balanced on an effortless gyre of equilibrium, is suddenly off-kilter. The imagination conjures a monster: vast and unseen, rousing itself from slumber. Acres of sea-water, churning, as it begins its slow crawl towards the light.

Only Silco stands his ground. He is preternaturally calm, his hands laced behind his back, his profile cut from cracked stone.

Like a conductor before his infernal orchestra.

Then—

The demonic grinding fades. The molecules in the air, pinwheeling spastically, begin to settle. The silence throbs into lingering aftershocks—until, gradually, the ordinary hum of activity resumes.

As one, the guests heave out a collective sigh.

"My stars," Hector wheezes. "That was frightful!"

Cevila cries. "It was a seaquake!"

"Feh," Garlen grunts. "More like a faulty engine. I've heard worse at Zaun's foundries."

To punctuate his point, he kicks the railing. His boot-heel rebounds off the metal with a hollow clang. Sound and fury, Mel thinks, signifying nothing. Underneath, he is terrified.

Lady Dennings, curled at Mel's side, is a wreck. Her eyes are swimming; her cheeks wet.

"Oh, dear gods," she whimpers. "Please, Mel. Let's just go. Please."

"Hush," Mel soothes, though her heart is pounding. "It's over. We're fine."

"That noise—ghastly! It sounded like a monster."

"No monster," Mel says, hoping she's right. "Only—"

"Magic," Silco finishes.

At this, the noblewoman buries her face in Mel's shoulder.  Mel, keeping her composure, holds Silco's stare. Even with the distance between them, she can feel the electricity of impending danger in the air jump like a needle into the red.

"Magic," she repeats, flatly. "What sort?"

"The undersea glyphs. They emanate a resonance, each time they are used." His tone is light, but the gleam in his eyes is pure blackness. "Different frequencies for different distances. That, for instance, was an arrival."

"An arrival of what?"

"Treasure."

Lady Dennings has begun to whimper. Reflexively, Mel smooths circles between her shoulderblades. She's a delicate soul, prone to the vapors. Her husband, the milquetoast, is too feckless to do anything but hover.

Mel's own husband, the bastard, is only a stone's throw away. And yet, the distance might as well be the breadth of an ocean.

"I don't care for games," she says, leveling the turmoil beneath her tone into steel. "Explain yourself. Or show us the way out."

"I intend to."

"What?"

"The way out. That's where we're going."  With a languid sweep of his arm, Silco gestures them deeper into the abyssal maze. "Tread carefully, my dear. The rest of you: come."

It's not a request, but a decree.

And the guests—the hostages, in all but name—follow.

The cart ride is a rollercoaster.

Not the exhilarating type: with loops, and spins, and a plunge that leaves you cheerfully breathless. This is the opposite: a series of gut-wrenching spirals and gravity-defying corkscrews. The carts, a fleet of narrow, flat-bedded vessels, are designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Mel, seated with Silco, grips the edges with bloodless knuckles. She's half-certain the next twist will send them colliding straight into a dead-end.

The interior of the Hydra is a labyrinth. The network of zigzagging corridors, catwalks and canals is an infrastructural marvel: a cityscape unto itself. Everywhere, generators throb. A latticework of pipes snakes overhead. Workers rush to and fro. The pulse of machinery is a warm womb, burgeoning with possibility.

A sense of the world changing shape.

The Medardas, Mel thinks, believe in keeping the world as it is.

Now Silco, with a single decade's work, has thrown that belief into a tailspin.

He sits, an impassive silhouette, in the seat opposite. She'd always known he could keep a cool head under pressure. Now, witnessing his calm in the face of the unknown is terrifying. He is no longer the man who'd kissed her, with such fierce tenderness, at breakfast. Nor the sly enigma who'd sat, smoking, at the bar, while Mel had spun her diplomatic web.

This is a stranger: an ice-cold entity, his plans locked behind a sheet of blankness.

She feels for the ring he'd given her, twists it on her finger. It's all she can do not to wrench it off and fling it in his face.

"Bastard," she hisses under her breath.

He doesn't flinch. "So many have said."

"I will never forgive you."

"Many have said that, too." A beat. "I wonder how many times I'll have to listen to you say it."

"Not much longer, the rate you're going." Her rage has calcified into a core of gold: reactive to nothing, and solid to the worst blow. The Medarda rage, Ambessa used to say. It's why our women are the fiercest.  "I'm beginning to see why Sevika warned me to steer clear."

A crease—instantly flattened—passes beneath his forehead.

"Sevika?"

"Before the engagement was publicized. She pulled me aside. Told me I was taking a huge gamble. That she didn't think you and I would suit." Mel, sensing the chink, presses her attack. "She never told you, did she?"

Silco, motionless, says nothing.

"Now I see why. Truth has no appeal to you. Only games." A glance at the guests, a straggling cluster in the rear cart. The poor things are terrified: the women shaking, the men pale. Only Garlen, the bullheaded brute, looks ready for a fight.  "She warned me of that, too. She said, if this was a passing fancy, I should keep an escape route open. But if it was a permanent fixation, you'd make my life a living hell."

The crease appears again. And holds.

"What," he says, "did you tell her?"

"I advised her to save her breath. I said I wasn't afraid. I was a Medarda. And Medardas, come hell or high water, always get what they want."

"A bloodline of unparalleled ambition."

"I believe the word Sevika used was 'blind hubris.' I could tell she didn't think much of my pedigree—or my choice. When she left, I thought she was simply bitter. All her years of loyal service, and her beloved leader had bypassed her. Worse, he'd chosen a Topsider." Mel smiles without humor. "Blind hubris is right. I didn't understand at all. Her warning was less about me, and more about you."

There is no change in Silco's expression. Yet the opacity is deceptive: more a veil than wall.

"Sevika," he says, low, "has only ever had Zaun's interests at heart."

"Does she know the full extent of your plans?"

"Yes. She is loyal to the cause."

"Then perhaps it's her you should've chosen."

She'd meant to hit below the belt. But his answer, flat in its simplicity, leaves her reeling.

"I nearly did."

The cart's wheels shriek. Sparks leap. They round a corner, and the corridor narrows. The walls, composed of industrial metal, are streaked with rust.

Or blood.

Mel's throat closes. "You two—"

"She was my comrade. When necessary, my sounding board." The timbre is even. "Sometimes more."

The veil is drawn. Behind, Silco is unknowable. But no longer, Mel thinks, untouchable.

"Did you—" she begins.

"Did I what? Trust her? A damn sight more than I do you. Did I fuck her? Yes, and often. Love her?" He doesn't bother hiding the derision. "Sevika never angled for my love. She knew where she stood. In my bed, and at my side. That's what made her a good lieutenant. She understood loyalty." A shrug, careless, but weighted with intent. "Unlike some."

Mel lowers her head. There is a tiny taste of blood where she's bitten her underlip. It fades fast beneath the sourness of rage.

She thinks of Sevika: all hard lines, and cold dark eyes. Of her body—scarred, sinewy and so unlike her own—that Silco must've taken pleasure in. The thought of them together is an ugly blemish on her mind's eye.  And yet, she thinks of the rapport between them: a seamless coordination of word and deed. The implicit understanding of each other's motivations. The tacit safekeeping of the other's secrets. The fierce devotion, born from a shared purpose.

He says Sevika, and his surface stays deceptively slick. But if she dives deeper, the waters are bloodstained.

"You," she says, "loved her."

"That's not what I—"

The rebuff is too sharp. Like the crease in his brow.  His facade: cracked.

And Mel, a lifetime's study of her mother, sees her opening.

"You loved her," she says, "but you had to let her go."

She has him. She knows, by the flicker of his eyes.

"Yes," he admits, finally. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because, in Sevika's words, I'd already committed myself. Because the crisis between you and I was too fraught to sidestep. Because if I'd kept her around, I'd have done something... rash. Selfish." Another shrug. "She told me, in simple terms, to get on with it. Even if, by the end, my cold feet had morphed into fins." He offers a thin smile. "Mal de Matrimonium. It takes a certain woman to inspire it."

"Like me."

"Yes."  The smile fades. "I'm sure of many odds, Mel. Sure of Zaun. Sure of Sevika. Even Jinx, my wildcard, works in ways I can predict. But you? You're the one variable I cannot account for. And that makes matters... complicated."

"You regret our marriage.

"I never said that." A long, awful silence. “I detest the waste."

Mel, stunned, stares.

"I've lived long enough to know, when the dice are cast, the result is a tossup. It's the nature of the beast. With you, it was always a question of whether it was desire—or the desire to make a difference. Whether I could live with the first. And whether I could afford the second."  His stare, unerring, holds hers. "With Sevika, the scales were simpler. She understood my means. She understood my ends. Our desires didn't hold us hostage. They were simply a natural consequence. I've no doubt, had I chosen her, she'd have my bollocks on a platter. But, at the end of the day, Zaun would be the stronger for it." A beat. "And my life, safer."

Safer.

The word slashes through Mel's fugue. In her mind, she sees a pair of warm tawny eyes. A smile, pure and true. Arms enfolding her, and soft lips kissing her forehead, her nose, her mouth. A different man, a better man—his embrace a refuge rather than a tightrope. To the last, he'd cradled her close, and whispered, with all his heart: 

Don't go.

I'll take care of us. We'll be okay.

If she could've chosen her Happy Ending, it would've been Jayce.

But there is no such thing as Happy Endings. Or, if there are, her mother made sure she'd lost hers the moment she was born.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, languishes in safety.

It is in danger that she shines.

The cart shudders, its speed decelerating. Mel's anger—that golden core—has gone brittle. His confession is an axe. Each sentence, a blow.

But her spine does not bend.

"It's too late," she says flatly. "You’ve chosen me."

"I have."

"I'll oblige you, if you wish. Your bollocks on a platter." Her smile barely wavers. "Your heart, I've yet to find."

Now the crease deepens. Barely perceptible: a cut of shadow.

“Mel,” he says, warningly. "Let's be grown-ups about this."

"Oh, indeed!"

"We entered this union with our eyes open. Our motives were never altruistic, much less romantic. You sought to stabilize your Council seat. I, a means to leverage my city's independence. It was a bargain struck with a single clause. To both our benefit." He shakes his head. "The rest is noise."

"I've seen how well you deal with noise."

"And I've seen how you manage the same. But this is not noise." A grim chuckle. "This is our future."

"Don't presume to speak for me."

"I'm not presuming. I'm stating facts." He leans forward. "If you had no intention of seeing this through, you would've cut your losses. Hell, you had the perfect chance. Back on the ship, you could've sided against me. Could've claimed ignorance, or trickery, or betrayal. Instead, you chose to stand by me. Why?"

"Because—"

Because I've failed one relationship already.

Because I’m tired of losing what’s mine.

Because, gods help me, I—

The words stick in her throat. The truth, too deep, refuses to dislodge without bleeding.

"Because I gave my word," Mel snaps. "Earlier today, you made me promise not to run. You said, and I quote: 'I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater.' Now you've taken me to a secret stronghold. A place you've built with Piltover's money, and kept hidden from Piltover's eye. You've put a shipful of foreign dignitaries on the chopping block. Tell me—is this the endgame? Because it's beginning to look like a declaration of war." 

The crease disappears between Silco's brows. In its place is a frown. It's not the frown he makes when she's displeased him. It's the frown that lingers in the aftermath of his daily Shimmer-shot. When the pain is a dull, grinding ache, and the medicine's effects have yet to kick in.

"War," he says, "is the last thing I want."

"Then what do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. A better tomorrow."

"For who?" She looks him dead in the eye. "You—or us?"

"That depends on the ‘us.’"

The cart snakes sharply down a corridor between two columns, jogging left and right. Sparks fan from a welder's torch above; the glittering embers, sulfurous and bright, cascade past his cheek. His profile is shadow, set against a background of fireflies.

"Us," he goes on. "What's your definition of the word, Mel? Is it a piece of paper? A ring? The words we say, or the acts we share? Or is it those great heaving ideals: peace, prosperity, and the common good? Because all of that won't happen unless my city's free. Free to be a powerhouse unto itself. Free to control its own destiny, and make its own choice. That, Mel, is my endgame."

"And my guests?"

"Witnesses—or collateral."

Mel stops short.

"They can choose to swim with the tide. Or resist, and drown." 

The golden core flares into molten fury. Without meaning to, Mel bolts to her feet.

"If you touch a hair on their heads—"

The cart shoots past the corridor and veers sharply to a stop. The sudden change of momentum, from full speed to dead stillness, throws Mel off balance.

The world spins. Her fingers skitter off the metal grille. She pitches forward.  

Then—

Warmth. Solidity. Anchorage.

Mel, reeling, finds herself enfolded in Silco's arms. His breath, soft and smoky, gusts against her temple.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "That's all I ask."

The golden core is in meltdown. A thousand sensations, a thousand emotions, fractaling into a single streak of focus. For a moment she isn't sure whether to cling, or claw. Her body is caught in a mad swelter, a furnace-blast of need. The only certainty is the thud of her heart, and the scent of his skin.

Then, like a match, her clarity ignites.

"Let me go," she seethes.

He obeys. The air is a vacuum: chill where his warmth had been. His mismatched eyes kick off a strange smokeless heat that Mel feels all the way to her spine.

But he makes no further move.

"Your choice," he says, very quietly. "Same as theirs."

Then, without waiting for a response, he steps off the cart.

Mel is left to gather herself. Her guests, disembarking dazedly, are looking to her for direction. She feels, the way she had in girlhood, the weight of the world bearing down. A thousand pairs of eyes, a thousand expectations. Lady and Lord Dennings, huddled together like children. Hector and his wife, whispering furiously. Garlen, his fists clenched, pacing the length of the platform.

And Silco, loping ahead, his shadow a shark's dorsal fin cutting through the light.

"This way," he calls.

The guests, in a straggling line, follow.

Mel brings up the rear, her belly a pit. A few faces swivel her way. She forces a bright smile.

"We're nearly there," she soothes. "All will be well."

Her confidence—an unraveling lie—is the only veil she has left.

The viewing gallery, a vast circular arena, is submerged deep in the Hydra's belly.

The cantilevered walls are lined with portholes: round, glass-paned halos, crusted with salt. They offer a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the undersea vista. The depths are lit by the bluish glow of spotlights. Despite their incredible intensity, they do not illuminate much. Just a stratum of alien landscape: the swirling patina of deep-sea sediment, dotted with the skeletal carcasses of sunken ships. Now and then, a shoal of fish flits by, trailing a ghostly phosphorescence. Squids materializing, then vanishing, in a tangle of pale tendrils. Eels undulating slowly in the current.

It is an abyssal kingdom, guarded by the dark.

In the center of the arena is a colossal pit. Ringed by a rudimentary safety rail, it resembles an amphitheater. The rim is a series of interconnected catwalks, in concentric circles. At their aperture, a single walkway juts out. It leads, not to a door, but a tank. It is colossal: shaped like an hourglass, with a diameter nearly twenty feet wide. Its surface is perfectly smooth: a mirror of polished glass.

The bottom chamber is empty save for a layer of powdery white sand. Either it is Mel's imagination, or the grains seem to hover a half-inch above the floor.  The top chamber is constructed out of scaffolding. Upon the platform sits a dais shaped like a hexagonal star. Its points are etched with a series of sigils

Mel recognizes the patterns. They are similar to the ones on the Hexcore.  

At the pyramid's base sits a series of blocks. They are etched with letters: a script so incongruous it verges on absurd.  

XOXOXOXO

Atop the dais rests a metal cylinder. A glowing purple sphere, the size of a man's fist, floats in a cradle in its base. Hidden behind its faceted surface, Mel glimpses the dimensions of a mysterious shape: a pentapod, conchical and quill-spined. Trapped like a fly in resin, its silhouette is delineated, then swallowed, then delineated again, in pulsations of light. 

Her pulse kicks up a notch.

Everywhere, the air holds a palpable crackle. The glyphs are a throbbing lattice. The sea's currents, a massive heartbeat.

Science. Chem-tech. Magic.

All converging, like the spokes of a wheel, upon a single, impossible nexus.

"This," Silco says, "is the greatest treasure aboard the Hydra."

The guests, hushed, stare at the hourglass. They resemble children beholding a forbidden toy.

Hector pipes nervously. "It looks—like a fossil."

Garlen snorts. "A gewgaw from the Fissures, more’n likely."

"But it seems—alive!"

"Psssh. Just Trencher trickery." Garlen cuts a scathing look Silco's way. "Isn't that right?"

Silco's look of placid indulgence never wavers. In the marine twilight, he resembles a figment of the deep: coiled and patient. Biding his time before the fatal strike.

"Trickery, no," he says, lightly. "A relic, yes."

"Relic?"

"Indeed." He gestures to the floating sphere. "This is what the ancients called the Forbidden Idol."

The guests fall deathly silent. Their expressions are a spectrum of dread and disbelief. They've heard the old tales, in some fashion. The legend of the Forbidden Idol: an arcane device, forged by the sorcerers of Oshra Va’Zaun, to unlock the gates of the Netherworld. Its existence had, for generations, been relegated to a fairytale. The Idol, if it ever existed, was lost to the silt of time.

Now, here it is: floating serenely before them.

"Gods above," Lady Denning whimpers.

"No gods," Silco corrects. "Only industrious men. I'm sure we all know the legends. In the days before the Cataclysm, the Idol was a symbol of the Void. A vessel believed to house a multivariate spirit. The key to all knowledge. In the right hands, it could unlock the mysteries of time and space. In the wrong ones, it could usher the end of days."

His tone is casual. As if describing a peculiar species of coral.

"Horseshit," Garlen grunts.

"Perhaps. But there's a kernel of truth to it. The Idol does, indeed, contain a matrix of information. But not to the universe. The knowledge stored within is far more mundane. The details of a project—a map, if you will—compiled by voyagers from the First City."

Cevila, white-faced and tightly-wound, snaps, "Voyagers? You mean—" 

"Mages," Mel cuts in softly.

Silco nods. "The original architects of Oshra Va'Zaun. Their purpose was to establish a concourse between our world and the Void.  They believed the binary could be bridged, through the use of the right conduits. Sigils. Seals. Gems. Taken altogether, they'd be capable of translating the energies of the Void into a language comprehensible to mortal minds."

"Language?" Hector echoes. "A language of what?"

"Power."

The word falls with the faintest ripple; a stone arrowing straight into the depths.

"Power is the only language the Void understands. It is not an entity that can be bargained with. It is a primordial force; a vast reservoir capable of granting—and destroying—life.  The mages sought to transmute this raw essence into a finite form. To capture a shard of the infinite, and distill it. To that end, they devised an artifact that contained, within itself, the blueprint for its own construction. A creature, born in the Void, and imbued with a fraction of its wisdom. A living repository. They trapped this creature, ageless, in a stasis field. Through sigils and spells, they calcified the beast, and imprisoned its consciousness, until it could no longer escape its enclosure."

The Idol coruscates hypnotically. The stone’s facets ripple and reform. The pentapod, briefly, seems to flex its coiled body. Then, the light subsides, and it slips back into inertia.

"The Void's ambassador," Silco says. "Frozen between life and death. A hostage to the whims of progress."

Lady Dennings shivers. "How dreadful."

"Men, playing god, are singularly cruel." A beat. "But their ingenuity? Undeniable. The creature's body has been alchemized into flesh and bone. Its spirit is sealed into the crystal. And its knowledge—a compendium of a hundred thousand years—condensed into a single volume. All of it written on the pages of its own prison."

The silence stretches. All eyes, in their orbit, are fixed on the Idol. Mel imagines the weight of it: a vast, crushing pressure like the bottom of the sea.

If the creature were ever to awaken, would the crystal shatter, or the world?

"This," Silco continues, "was the oracle of Oshra Va'Zaun. The old mages used it for their own ends. With its energies, they fueled their city. Their architecture. Their weapons. Their ships. They discovered zones, on land and sea, where the boundaries between our world and the Void were thinnest. There, they established nodes: glyphs carved into seamounts, obelisks erected at cliffsides, temples built from the bones of the earth. And, invisible to the naked eye, a network of ley-lines, linking each node to the other."

"Like a spiderweb," Mel says.

"Precisely. A web sensitive to the currents of the Void. It took years, and thousands of lives. When the final node was completed, the mages—foolishly—decided to test their creation. They activated the web, and drew from the Void an unprecedented amount of energy. Too much, for manmade structures to contain. The network collapsed into the waves. The mages were wiped out. The Idol sank to the bottom of the sea. Out of sight—but never truly gone. As the centuries passed, it continued to serve as a magical beacon. A siren, singing its song. Calling out, to those willing to listen."

The guests, half-seduced, have drifted toward the railing. A few lift their hands, as if to reach for the Idol.

Like pilgrims at a temple, Mel thinks.

Or moths lured to a flame.

Lady Dennings, and a few others, shrink back.

"Gods above,” she breathes. “This is—madness."

"On the contrary,” Silco says. “This is the purest expression of physics. Two charges, positive and negative, in a magnetic field. A force, pulling them together, by increments of time and space." The gleam in his eyes briefly shutters. "That’s how Jinx was able to find the Idol. An affinity of blood—or spirit. At great cost to herself, she recovered the relic from a distant shore. At great risk, she decoded its secrets, and unlocked the power contained within. All to make the dream a reality."

The dream, Mel thinks.

A network of undersea glyphs.

A trade route traversed in minutes.

A city: shining, strong, self-contained.

Free.

"So how's it work?" Garlen demands. "How's it haul cargo between places?"

Silco's half-smile cuts like a blade. "As I said. Resonance. The Idol is sensitive to the frequency of the Void. Each glyph buried along the seabed exudes a unique vibration, which the Idol is attuned to. Like a song of call and response. Zaun's navigators—over the years—have made deep-dives, mapping every glyph hidden under the waters of this strait. Their patterns are recorded, then faithfully carved into the dais in a series of sigils. Now, each time a different sequence of sigils is activated, the Idol broadcasts a corresponding vibration across the distance. The matching glyph, transforming these vibrations into sympathetic wave, opens a conduit. A portal that can be crossed by any vessel. Anywhere."

"Anywhere," Garlen repeats dubiously.

"Anywhere within Zaun's network. Which, I assure you, is extensive."

Hector whispers. "How—how far?"

"A dozen cities, spanning Valoran and the southern coast of Shurima. All linked by ley-lines of magical hotspots. Each one hosts a port similar to the Hydra." He spreads his arms. "The Hydra itself? The epicenter. From here, our goods are transported to Zaun’s shores. At the Iron Pearl, they're unloaded and redistributed to buyers from far-flung lands. A perfect loop: no delays, no customs. All right at Zaun's doorstep."

The silence shudders—not with dread, but temptation. In the guests' faces, Mel sees the naked dimensions of greed taking shape. A trading nexus without parallel. For a politician, hungry for favor, it is a banquet. Investments in everything from textiles, tech, trinkets. All available at a fraction of the expense, with a quarter of the wait. The returns would be astronomical.

All Zaun asks is the right to traffic freely across the seas. The right to be seen as a trading partner, rather than a pauper.

"But what of the danger?" Lady Dennings interjects. "The Idol's energy... It's unstable. Isn't it? Look at the way it's pulsing. And the sound earlier. So ominous..."

Silco's half-smile deepens.

"That, my lady, is the song of progress. The power of this Idol is derived from the Void. The same Void that destroyed the world, in ages past." He tips a mocking salute. "A debt, I'm afraid, the world has yet to repay."

Lady Dennings lets out a low, terrified moan.

"Hush, now. It's less volatile than you think. The sigils on the dais act as a mechanism to dampen the force. Jinx calls it a Hex-Code. She uses a great deal of technical jargon, so I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, each combination of sigils controlling the Idol does not simply activate its power. It also ensures the power remains within a controlled radius." He indicates to the letters embedded into the base of the dais: XOXOXO. "No doubt, you've noticed the particular script."

"What is that?" Cevila says. "It doesn't look like any rune I've ever seen."

"Because you haven't. Jinx made it up. A private joke." The grin that touches his lips suggests he's the only one privy to the humor. "Simply put, it means 'Crossing Over.' It's the acronym Jinx and Viktor used to first calibrate the intensity of the Hexcore’s power. Now it's a safety mechanism. A trapped-key interlock, as Jinx calls it. Through a combination known only to Jinx, and myself, the magic of the Idol can be safely manipulated."

Lady Dennings' hand flutters over her heart. "But—what if you two were to have an accident? Wouldn't that be catastrophic?" 

"My daughter, and I, are very careful. We're aware the power at our fingertips is vast. If the worst should pass, there are failsafes in place. Including an automatic lockdown sequence. The Hydra also has its own protective wards. They mitigate the worst of the Idol's force. As long as we take care, and follow the proper procedures, it is safe."

The final syllables, soothingly authoritative, fall like a spell. Mel senses the guests' fear abating; a narcolepsy of calm washing over the arena.

"And now," Silco says, "for the demonstration."

The guests jerk into alertness.

Turning, Silco gestures to someone. It is Kolt, the stolid man from earlier. His craggy features are unreadable. But the shadow of a grin touches his lips. Mel, watching him stride into view, feels a frisson of foreboding. But Kolt only crosses to a narrow control panel at the corner. A series of switches are thrown, a sequence of dials turned.

A moment later, the molecules in the air begin to hum.

It is a high-pitched note, piercingly pure. Mel flinches. The guests cry out, covering their ears. Then, like a tuning fork, the sound modulates. From a discordant thrum to a deep, melodic pulse. It is, Mel realizes, the same frequency that had been heard earlier. But more sonorous, and less frightening, like an underwater dirge.

Like the sea itself given voice.

Inside the hourglass, currents spiral. On the dais, the pyramid's panels, in sequence, begin shifting. The sigils glow a preternatural blue. One by one, they slide up and down, aligning into the desired configuration. At the base, the blocks imprinted with X's and O's slot into their grooves. The purple sphere, the Idol, gives off an irradiated glow. Inside, the pentapod seems to strain against its prison. Mel catches a glimpse of a single, cyclopean eye.

A scream builds in her throat, threatening to burst.  The frequency reaches a crescendo. The light's intensity is blinding, searing, melting.

Then it happens.

In the bottom chamber, the sand begins to rise. It accumulates slowly, drifting as if on a current. Then it coalesces into a vortex. Mel thinks of the shapes she'd seen across nature: fractals, radials, double-helixes. Each shape, a geometric construct: a blueprint of life. A snowflake, an atom, an embryo.

And then—

Gold.

Formed from the particles, and solidifying. The grains of sand, all congealing into a single point. The gold takes shape, and mass, and dimension. Nuggets, becoming chunks, becoming ingots. A river of riches, pouring from the vortex and spilling into the chamber.  The hoard is the color of the sun, and flashes with a warmth that dazzles.

Then the frequency shifts. The glow ebbs. The Idol goes dormant. In the chamber, the vortex collapses, and only the gold remains. It is a vast pile: a king's ransom. Enough to make the Council's coffers tremble. 

Enough to set the mind of every guest aflame.

"How—" Garlen begins, then falls silent. He is thunderstruck. "How did it—"

"Sands from the seabed of the Urvashian Islands," Silco says. "Their minerals, according to alchemists, are the purest counterbalances of elemental energy. Each time cargo is transported, the sands are placed in the hourglass. They act as a stabilizer, absorbing the effluvium of the Void. By the time the cargo is retrieved, the sands go inert. Harmless." A quirk of the brow. "Best of all, we've no need to replace them. Their potency never wanes. They can be used over and over, indefinitely."

The guests are speechless. Even the bullheaded Garlen is mute with awe. Their eyes, passing from the Idol to the gold, are lit with a collective fever.

The crewmen, wheeling in a pair of crates on flatbed carts, make their way down the catwalk. Mel follows their progress. With utmost care, they unlock the chamber, and heave out the gold. The ingots, stacked neatly, fill the crates. Their movements are matter-of-fact: they've witnessed this miracle a hundred times before. But a twinkle of elation catches in their eyes.

They are all Zaunites: born and bred in grime. Now, they've hit paydirt. That twinkle is the taste of a life changed.

A future, free.

Silco, at the railing, watches them work. When they've finished, the crate is sealed. The crewmen wheel their burden toward the elevator. The grille gates clang shut. With a whirr of cables, the cart begins its ascent. A few men wave jauntily at the guests.  Silco tips his own chin, a laconic farewell. His smile, though thin, is a rare sight.

The smile of a man whose dreams are, inch by inch, becoming real.

Then his eyes meet hers.

Something, briefly, breaks through the rigidly neutral expression. Something he'd tried to hold back, and could not.

It's not a look she can name. But Mel's throat catches. In lament, or longing, she cannot say. 

The scale of his will is beyond measure. What else could he have accomplished, had he not been cheated? Has he cheated her, now, of her own choices?

Or only bypassed her own prejudices?

"Where—" Garlen swallows, and tries again. "Where'd the gold come from? It looked—"

"Icathian?" Silco, his eyes still on Mel's, nods. "You are correct. Payment, for a contract. We're aiding in the restoration of their capital, after its sacking at the hands of Noxus. As recompense, the chieftain has granted Zaun the rights to navigate the southern waters. A boon, given Icathia's history. The strait is a graveyard of lost civilizations—and buried treasure. It took years, and a great deal of coin, to excavate the remnants. The gold you see is a small percentage. Our share." A shrug. "Yours too, if you wish."

The guests stir. A few murmur. Cevila's face holds a harpy's lineaments. Hector's waxen countenance is flushed. Garlen's massive fists are clenched. Lady Dennings appears on the verge of swooning. The rest, spines jellied and appetites whetted, are starved fish circling round their own greed like chum on a hook.

Silco's words resound in Mel's head.

"I've given them the bait. Now, all that's left is to reel them in."

"The Iron Pearl," Silco continues, "cannot flourish as a Free Trade Zone, without the cooperation of Zaun's allies. That is, after all, the reason we've sojourned these waters. To broker peace, and forge alliances. You are my guests. Your presence here is a show of good faith. And your goodwill, in the coming days, will be integral to the success of this endeavor. I'm certain, should your nations respect Zaun's independence, you'll receive your just dues. In partnership—and profit."

There is a bland smile on his face. But his words are a stormfront. They move, inexorably, blotting out the space. They push aside all resistance, making impossible anything other than the total awareness of him. The gallery's temperature changes perceptibly from a cool draft to a chill. 

Mel, weaned on her mother's lessons, feels goosebumps pebbling her skin. The guests, stripped equally bare, shiver. Even Garlen's sneer has gone brittle.

The offer, soft-spoken, is the soul of diplomacy. But not a single man or woman is insensible to the undertow. Zaun has established, with possession of the Forbidden Idol, a series of gateways at the doorsteps of every nation. Should a war be declared, these channels can be easily cut off. A chokehold, economic and strategic, that will strangle the ports into poverty. Retaliation will mean incurring Zaun's wrath: the cost, incalculable. Weapons of unknown potency. Threats, in a dozen secret hideaways. And a sorceress, mad as a hatter, whose whims may, at any moment, turn the tide.

All of this, Silco has spelled out in the politest terms.

Alongside the third option.

A handshake—between the guests, and the man whose worth they now know is worth gold.  The man they can no longer afford to snub. After six nights of insulting everything from his city's origins to his personhood, their arrogance has led them to this moment. He: the powerbroker. They: a motley assemblage of aristocrats, a thousand leagues from home. Without the protection of their vaults, their vassals, their vanity.

With only Silco's word to guarantee their safe return.

There are no gods at sea, Ambessa used to say. Only the depths, and their mercy.

Silco's mercy, Mel thinks, will be less forthcoming.

"This is—" Cevila clears her throat. In more modulated tones than Mel has ever heard: "This is a marvelous opportunity, Your Chancellorship. But it is—that is—there is a lot to take in."

"In—Indeed," Hector says. "I, for one, will have to confer with my peers. They’ll need to—we’ll all need to—”

He breaks off. The rest nod their agreement. A few glance around, seeking guidance, or a savior.

Their eyes alight on Mel.

Mel, who has been in Silco's crosshairs the whole time. Who, by a series of events that now seem utterly inevitable, has been maneuvered to stand either beside the man whose hand will tip the scales of power—or be the last barricade between him and progress.  Her choices, her convictions, her desires—all flowing weightlessly on a single rolling wave, and converging upon this very moment.

Did he plan this, too?

Or did he let the chips fall where they may, and seize the opportunity as it arose?

The air in the arena goes chokingly thick. The guests, a chorus of anxious breathing, stare at her. Silco's eyes never once leave her face. He is reading the small nuances of her expression like sailors read the stars. She can practically see him calculating the odds: gains weighed and losses tallied.

He is the highwire act, balanced between the heights and the abyss.

He is the shark, circling bloodless waters.

He is the bridegroom, waiting at the altar.

Waiting, Mel realizes, for her to make the call.

He's laid a gauntlet at her feet: a choice, with no margin for error. And yet, the ultimate test of trust.

If she refuses him, then she is the last line of defense. Piltover will become a citadel, with its worst nightmare at the doorstep. Her marriage: a failed gambit, her alliance with him a sham. She'll have to reconnoiter in every sense: reestablish her reputation, rally her allies, then re-enter the fray with all her armor intact.

And if she sides with him...

If she sides with him, Piltover's pinnacle is his to scale. The Hex-gates will no longer be the bastions of her nation. Their reach will stagnate, while his will grow.  Not an imbalance, but a parity.  One that, if she can believe him, will secure a better future. If she can believe he wants nothing more than a handshake, and a bargain. If she can believe that his ambition, though vast, is not bottomless.  That the dream he has built, with the labor of his own hands, is the best hope for a divided land.

"Trust me," he'd said, and kissed her.

And imperative—and a dare.

A Medarda, Ambessa had said, will risk all, if only to shine.

And she, in this moment, is the only Medarda present. The sole voice of authority. Her approval is a green light, or a red signal. One word, and she seals her fate, and Zaun's. One word, and the scales of balance are tipped. A stalemate of seeping blood and crippling self-sabotage—or the chance to walk falteringly forward, hand-in-hand.

You are a Medarda,  Mel thinks.

A Medarda does not simply stand.

A Medarda stakes her claim.

And he, Silco, is hers.

Schatze, Ambessa had called her father. Treasure.

And he'd been hers, for a time.

Until the day he'd sailed off, and caught his death.

Mel, the last of the Medardas, lifts her chin.

She thinks of Jayce, and the breakthroughs of Hex-tech. That night she'd crossed the threshold into Heimerdinger's office, and beheld the miracles conjured by a boy, desperately willed, thrusting himself beyond the constraints of mundanity to kiss the stars. And how, by the end, his ascent had become a collision course with disaster: Icarus with his wings clipped, and shadows etched beneath his bright eyes, and the ghost of the dead child, cold as the void, lingering at his feet.

She'd thought him, in his brilliance, unstoppable.

And she'd learnt that even a sun can burn out.

Now, she takes in Silco's silhouette. The Idol's radiance, a violet starburst, touches his face with eerie luminescence—the steep angles and unforgiving ridges not otherworldly but subaqueous. He is Icarus' shadow, a distorted mirror of his ambition: wings scabbed into scar-tissue and claws dripping blood, his trajectory not upward, but deeper into the dark. 

Yet the burn in his eyes is the same.  The desire: to push past the limits of the known; to see the world, and everything in it, transformed.

Will he, Mel wonders, prove the death of her own ambition, or its fulfillment?

"Trust me," he'd said.

A siren's lure, calling her to the depths. Calling her home.

Mel makes her choice.

"This," she says softly, "is certainly a leap to progress."

Silco's remote smile does not alter. "A leap? I'd call it a bridge."

"And its foundations? Are they stone—or sand?"

"They are as solid as gold." 

If he's aiming for a weak-spot, it doesn't show in Mel's smile. Instead, she steps closer. Close enough to share the same air. To see the way his nostrils flare, just the tiniest bit. The way his body shifts, infinitesimally, toward her own.

Inside her, the golden core flares: a heat-seeker, finding the one spot in the ocean's depths that is warmest.

She looks into his mismatched eyes. The green, a glacial rime, unyielding. The red, a blood moon, waxing. Both: watching her intently. Waiting for the next move.

"Gold," she says, "is not a foundation. It is a lure."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't so much as breathe.

"It is not what keeps a city's ships at the dock. Nor its people loyal. Nor its trade, stable and profitable." She tips her chin. "That's all built on trust. On an exchange of values, and the willingness to compromise. A bridge built of gold—one based in profit—is a bridge that will collapse under the first sign of strain. Because the real value—the intangible—lies in the bonds we build." Her eyes probe, deftly, behind his forbidding stare, to the human impulses buried at its root. "It is trust that keeps the gates open. It is trust that holds nations together. Without it, a bridge can never be built."

He remains motionless. But in his eyes: a flicker. "Are you speaking of Piltover, or Zaun?"

"I speak of both, as one." She leans forward, and speaks for his ears alone. "Because they are one."

He smiles. It is, in a strange way, the smile that had first won her over—out of hostile distance and into wary truce. The smile that, in its slow, steady burn, had drawn her closer and closer. A glint so full of fire and shadow, a conspirator's promise and a lover's secrecy, that it had been like a spark struck to a fuse, a chain reaction set into motion until all at once she was caught and burning too.

Jayce, Mel knows, was her match.  Always incandescent; always brilliant.

Silco is her catalyst. Always igniting, always setting her ablaze.

"A bridge, then," he says.

She nods. "A bridge."

There is a collective breath. The guests relax into whisperings and nervous trills of laughter. They weren't, Mel realizes, certain whether she was truly in on the secret, or if she'd been blindsided the same as them.  Then again: why would they assume she and Silco had a rapport? That he'd chosen her as his partner, in every way? Their own marriages—and it hits Mel with a belated shock—have been predicated on nothing beyond political convenience. One-sixth remain unconsummated, one-third in the throes of extramarital affairs, and the remainder enduring a mutually-beneficial detente.

No desire. No trust. No love.

Marriage: the purest definition of compromise.

Silco, Mel thinks, would rather have something different.

So would she.

"A bridge," she repeats, her eyes never once leaving his. "Across borders. Across the seas. Across all that divides us." Her voice softens. "For a better future."

The guests' crosstalk flows with ease now. She has, as Piltover's envoy, conceded the point. The wrinkles of the Iron Pearl's operation will need to be smoothed out. The terms of the trade agreement negotiated. But the groundwork has been given leeway to settle. Piltover may remain, ostensibly, the neutral party. They may neither invest their coinage, nor participate directly. But, like any partner, they'll have a finger in the pie—and a hand in shaping the terms.

It is a formidable concession.

One that, Mel hopes, will not come back to haunt her.

"Piltover," she continues, "will honor the treaties, and respect Zaun's sovereignty. In exchange, Zaun will guarantee the safe passage of Piltover's ships through these waters.  And those vessels belonging to the nations who are recognized as our allies." She pauses, then adds, very quietly: "Is that agreeable?"

Silco's smile—a sly sideways slant—returns. "To the dot."

"Then, perhaps, I might make a suggestion. As a gesture of good faith."

"Of course."

She smiles, demurely. "I believe the Hydra should have a new name. One less... intimidating."

His brow quirks. "Such as?"

"I was thinking—" Beneath her lashes, she casts him a pointed look. "Thesaurus."

"Like a repository?"

"Like the old Shuriman vault."

His look—of surprise, recognition, and humor—is fleeting. But it is no mirage. The grin cuts his features into an uncanny semblance of boyishness. It is, she thinks, the first time she has ever seen him smile without a trace of irony.  The golden core inside her, deliquescing, is a slow, heavy, heated pulse.  The crowd of guests, the vast room, the Idol, fade back.

He is all she can see: the prize at the blackest depths.

"It sounds," he says, "like the fitting end to a treasure hunt."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #mal de mer #melco #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel

[hanilessa]

dark paradise

` childe x fem!reader

` genre: titanic!au, romance, angst with happy ending

` warnings: major character death

` summary: you slowly walked along the wide empty deck. this ship was beautiful. many years ago and now. and now you understood, that this place was your dark paradise.

you slowly walked along the long empty deck of a large ship. a light sea breeze washed your face, and the salty smell of ocean water entered your nose. it was so familiar and so alien at the same time. you thought so, because many years have passed since you were here. and now it all seemed like a magical dream, where you were so happy to be. you had the feeling, that your soul never left titanic, and in fact you died here that fateful night. in the cold, icy ocean, following your first true love into the dark depths of the deep.

gentle hands caress your naked body. your body smoothly arched towards sweet touches, and quiet moans flew from your scarlet lips. in this empty room, in this car, it felt like you and he were hidden from the rest of the world. in this saving place you and he belonged to each other, and it was the best feeling of all. ajax continued to shower soft and wet kisses on your body, the car windows fogged up from your and his heavy and ragged breathing. you gently lifted his face with your hands so that he looked into your bright and loving eyes.

his red, sweat-drenched hair clung to his forehead in a mess, and his bottomless blue eyes gazed lovingly into yours eyes. even the "heart of the ocean" – the most expensive and beautiful diamond in existence – could not be compared with the beauty and blueness of his eyes. you exhaled breathlessly, full of feelings and emotions, that made your head spin.

"kiss me, ajax."

this request was made in such a needy voice, as if at this moment you and he were kissing for the last time. how ironic.

he smoothly approached your face, and your and his lips found each other in a kiss, full of passion and love. you felt so free and uplifted. you knew, that when titanic arrives in new york, you will go for ajax anywhere. because only with ajax you saw your future.

you remembered that night. languid, but painful bliss blurred inside you. it made you happy and hurt you at the same time. as if you were in hell and paradise at the same time. bright hell and dark paradise. you kept walking on deck and it was your lifelong journey. and now you have found your final stop.

it seemed to you, that thousands of sharp needles pierced your body. your whole body was bound by unbearable cold and pain. you stopped feeling your arms and legs, your breath was ragged, and your pale lips were covered with a layer of frost. you wanted to scream in pain, but all you could do was let out a faint wheeze. ajax continued to hold your hand, desperately clinging to a piece of board drifting on the water. he told you, that everything will be fine. but you couldn't believe it. you could only look helplessly at how quickly life left your lover.

until the last moment you looked with your eyes into his beautiful eyes, which were the color of the ocean. you hated and loved it at the same time. and as ajax's eyes slowly closed, you died with him.

your heart contracted painfully, a feeling of unexpected excitement and lightness appeared. you felt the ground slip from under your feet and opened the large front door, ending your journey. there, on the stairs, he stood.

your first and last love. ajax.

now you are so fucking finally happy – so that it takes your breath away, and you want to scream with boundless joy, breaking your voice in a loud cry. you are crying – look with your own eyes into his blue eyes, which are overflowing with love and such an endless, barely perceptible expectation. ajax smiles at you so tenderly. you put your small hand in his strong hand, and time stops. freezes forever in a single moment of your and his happiness, freezes somewhere far, far away on april 15, 1912 on titanic. the clock shows twenty past three – and in this endlessly repeating moment, you and he are both together again.

` a/n: i would like to dedicate this fanfic to my dear @kiryoutann !! my favorite author and source of inspiration and motivation. thanks for all your wonderful work! ♡

also a funny moment from writing this fanfic. i recently listened to "dark paradise" by lana del rey. and i really wanted to write a fanfic with this title. when i was thinking about the title and summary, this phrase flashed in the summary. i was very surprised and happy lmao.

also i would like to clarify about the whole action of this fanfic. in the film itself, the director left an understatement for the audience. did rose die at the end or did she just have a dream with her lover jack? in this fanfic, i still lean towards the first option, where y/n and ajax reunited again after a long time of separation. i also mentioned the ever-repeating moment of their reunion, this is like a reference to samsara of the sabzeruz festival.

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate your likes, reposts and comments :3

#tartaglia x reader #tartaglia angst #childe x y/n #childe x reader #tartaglia x y/n #genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #tartaglia imagines

[silvercap]

Here we go...

Summary:

Strange waters, monsters from the deep, and an age-old magic better left alone. Mind your sails. -~- A single, glowing green eye fixes him with a glare, diamond-shaped pupil blinking sideways as another gust of wind buffets Leon's hair through the gap in the hull. It is the depths of the ocean itself brought to life, a gleaming gaze filled with the tempests and unforgiving waves of a storm; ancient and far too powerful for any mere human to defeat.

Tags: Rating May Change, Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pirates, Sirens, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Sea Monsters, Drowning, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Action & Romance, PIRATE AU GUYS IT'S HAPPENING!!, Magic, Sailing, tags to be added!

Chapters: 1/?

Past Chreon, eventual Nivannedy, eventual Nivannedyfield

#hehee #pirate au #my fics #resident evil #;)

[diamondcrownacademy]

DCA Info Part 36: Outfits from 2020 - 2021 (Part 1)

View Part 2

Art colored by @au-ni-ro

🍎 Evonie Apfel

🏵 Coronation Outfit

During Coronation Ceremonies, Evonie wears a white and gold off-shoulder gown with a pale yellow petticoat. The neckline has a pale yellow rose, the angel sleeves have gold bands and she wears a gold collar and fingerless gloves to match. Evonie accessorizes with a gold circlet with a red heart shaped jewel on her head.

🗡 Fencing Uniform

For Fencing Classes, Evonie wears a pale yellow tunic with the sleeves having silver bands. She also wears silver and blue bodice armor with a gold chain at the bottom and the breastplate has an apple on it. She also has a short red overskirt.

👑 Pomefiore Outfit

During visits to the Pomefiore dorm, Evonie wears a modified version of the Pomefiore dorm uniform possibly suited for females to wear. Evonie wears a purple robe which reaches just above her knees. On the top-right corner of the robe, there is an intricate golden pattern which displays the Pomefiore logo. There is also a golden floral pattern, which displays the poison apple, on the outer fabric of his deeply slitted-sleeves. The inner sleeves of the robe are a rich-red with black trim, they also have the same floral pattern. Her robe is held together by a thick black sash, similar to a kimono obi. On top of her sash, there is another belt made out of red rope, which has been tied to her waist in a thick knot.

🐰 Allison Liddel

♥️ Tart Thief Outfit

Inspired by Ace, this outfit includes a red romper with the pants having gold heart details, maroon folds and yellow lace. Over the romper is a red bolero jacket with maroon trim, a gold chain with red heart jewels, maroon folds with red heart gems, and yellow lace. The footwear consists of a pair of red and yellow boots with maroon bows and heart motifs on the top.

The accessories include a red bow with a heart charm, a pale red scarf and a pair of maroon gloves.

♠️ Flamingo Duo Outfit

Inspired by Deuce, this outfit consists of a two toned bolero jacket with a white outline, one side is violet with an argyle pattern while the other is purple with stars on them, the jacket is held together by a pair of silver buttons with blue gems attached to a pair of white string. Underneath the bolero jacket is a deep indigo turtleneck dress with the skirt being pale lavender with white stars. The footwear consists of a pair of two toned boots that features the same patterns present on the bolero as well as white soles and deep indigo details.

The only accessory included is a periwinkle bow with indigo ruffles and a blue spade charm.

☘️ Polite Clover Outfit

Inspired by Trey, this outfit consists of a short pale yellow green puff sleeve bolero with the collar having a chain as well as pale green cuffs with gold trim. The remainder the dress's bodice consists of a teal almost dark sea green bodice with thin black lines. The dress's skirt is made up of two layers and both feature argyle patterns and gold trim, the only exception is that the top layer has green diamonds on the trim and the top layer is a lighter shade of green than the bottom. The footwear consists of a pair of mint green kitten heels with green straps, gold buckles and gold chains with clover motifs on them.

The accessories include a green hat with a ribbon and clover charm, a pair of dark green gloves and light bracelets that resemble shirt cuffs with gold buttons and a green sash with a gold outlined clover shaped charm that has a green gem in the center.

🔶 Dazzle Ribbon Outfit

Inspired by Cater, this outfit consists of a pale yellow tunic with various gold ribbons and bands throughout. The bodice has a gold ribbon with an orange diamond charm layered over a red one. The tunic's overskirt is gold in color with the trim and interior resembling stained glass in orange and pink colors. The footwear consists of a pair of orange kitten heels with one having an X strap and the other having an ankle strap with yellow diamonds on it.

The accessories include a yellow diamond hair clip attached to smaller diamonds and yellow ribbon. Another accessory included is a gold belt with a bow on the side attached to a black chain with a yellow diamond.

🌹 Royal Rosette Outfit

Inspired by Riddle, this outfit consists of a red rose printed dress with puff sleeves and gold accents. The bodice includes gold details outlined by gold ruffles and there are white and red roses on top of the puff sleeves. The dress's skirt consists of two layers with the first one being red with a rose print and the second one being magenta with the same rose print, both layers have gold trim. The footwear consists of a pair of magenta boots with gold soles and the top of each boot has a red and white rose. A pair of maroon and gold stockings is also present.

The accessories include a maroon hair ribbon with a maroon gem, a floral crown of red and white roses and a maroon wrap bracelet.

#clothing information #DCA info #diamond crown academy