#mermaid writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yandere-sins · 11 months

Note

can you do a male siren with a reader who loves the ocean and spends as much time as she’s able to there? maybe she’s at the beach for a week long vacation and manages to catch his eye and then she mentions in passing that she’s sad to leave the beach and go back to work and it makes him upset so he just takes her?

oh, and if it’s not too much, could you make the siren a softer, more worshippy/delusional yandere?

Thank you for requesting! Enjoy! ^-^

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content, Mermaids/Siren, Mentioning of sharp teeth/claws

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Your time with him was magical.

Not a surprise, considering he was a creature straight out of a fairy tale, and you were the human he chose to spend his time with, making it a fantasy romance. Everything felt unreal when you were with him, but you preferred to call it magical.

In the deep violet of his eyes swirled waves of adoration, unfiltered and untainted by doubts or worries. Time was of no concern to him, and he spent his days as he pleased with no responsibilities nagging or occupying him. There was no societal norm he had to conform to, nothing but his own self-preservation to care for. If he was hungry, he hunted. If he wanted to lounge in the sun, he'd find a nice ledge. And if he wanted to play, he found an activity he enjoyed.

He was different. And as much as you wished you were too, you'd never be like him.

Frankly, because you couldn't live most of your life underwater. Next to him, you felt like you could barely swim even though you spent all your childhood by the ocean. It's why the sight of such a strange creature only mildly concerned you, intriguing you even more. Coming home after living in the city for way too long, you felt like this encounter might have been destiny. As if to remind you where you truly belonged—by the ocean.

But your responsibilities were already clawing at your back, whispering in your ear that tomorrow, you'd be gone and forget about this strange but positive encounter. Tomorrow, you'd return to the dull life of your 9-5, yearning for the ocean you couldn't afford to live closer to. Reaching out your hand, you intended to push some strands of hair that had fallen into your unusual friend's face behind his pointed ears, but he caught it before you could smooth the strands back, nuzzling his face into your palm. It wouldn't fit even if he tried to put all of him in this little palm of yours, offering himself on a silver plate (or, well, your hand). He'd been a creature of no words, but the grandness of gestures came to him easily.

He had no reservations about rubbing his face against you, purring as he pushed it into the crook of your neck, listening to your heartbeat before putting his head in your lap when you let your feet dangle over the edge of the stone you sat on. When you two went out for a dive before, he'd swim up beneath you, lifting you back to the surface and letting you rest on his chest as you two floated through the water, his arms embracing you so you wouldn't slip off. And the night you spent camping out... it had been unforgettable. You couldn't forget the fervent kisses pecked all over your body, burned forever in your mind. The way he held you as he made love to you like no one ever would. His hands enveloped you, explored, and his tongue followed, making you feel as if his desire for you swallowed you whole, pushing you to unknown heights before he pulled you into the cool waters with him, his body warmed for once by yours as he held you, floated with you until you fell asleep in the warm summer night.

It was like the ocean itself loved you, and you trusted him.

A bit too much, even.

You had no way of knowing his intentions. Of understanding what was truly going on behind his violet eyes. Did he even understand you at all? You had been pouring your heart out to him for days, spilling all your secrets, desires, and fears. This week passed you by in the blink of an eye as you spent way more time out here with him than with your family at home. Even if he didn't understand a word you'd been saying, you already knew you'd miss him and the ways he could comfort you without so much of knowing what was going on.

"I'll leave tomorrow," you muttered softly, his closed eyes shooting open at the sound of your voice. His gaze was monopolizing, drawing you in, unable to look away. These violet eyes would haunt you in your dreams and nightmares, that much you knew. Living with him was impossible. Living without him just as much.

Letting out a small chirp, you put on a smile for him, knowing that latest when you wouldn't return here, to the hidden ledge you found, he'd come to understand. You had to be strong for both of you. Show him that it was okay. That you'd be okay. If he cared for you, it would help him let you go. Your life wasn't all bad, but it were times like these when you dreaded having taken a job so far away from home. One where you'd earn money to support yourself and your family but be lonely all the same with no friends or lovers or strange creatures that embodied more of both of them than anyone had ever before to keep you company.

But he was smarter than that. He could see right through you and read your emotions like a book. You wondered briefly how he learned to be so perceptive of humans. Still, when he pushed himself out of the water, his face just inches from you, you closed your eyes, banishing all these thoughts in favor of his kiss. It was crazy to think how scared you had been of his sharp teeth when his lips were so soft and plush, gently pressing against yours before allowing his tongue to dip out. He tested the waters, nudging your lips as he asked for entrance quietly, and you let him in for a taste that left you breathless.

You wondered what you tasted like for him because all that flooded your senses was sweet and alluring, his saliva not one bit salty or fishy as one might expect. When he allowed you to take a deep breath, your whole body relaxed, his arms supporting you as he laid you down on the stone, his lips wandering from yours down your throat, tongue lapping at your skin around your shoulder, kisses being planted on your collarbones.

Was it wrong to indulge? You wondered, tensing up briefly before feeling his hands slip beneath your shirt. They were still cold to the touch, but soon, as he pushed them higher to your breasts, they warmed up. After the night you shared, you knew you didn't need to wear clothes. Nudity was not something he cared for unless you two were getting frisky, and he welcomed it then. Still, he let out an approving chortle, the sound vibrating from his mouth against your skin as he found you bare beneath your shirt, not bothering to wear a swimsuit as if you had anticipated this. Maybe you had. Hoped, at least, so there would be one more memory of him to take back with you.

His touch was gentle. Kind. But the friction of his different skin texture and the webs between his fingers made you arch your back just as much. You could already feel the sticky wetness between your legs that had emerged right after the intense kiss, clearly discernable from the water that dripped from his body. The scales on his tail rubbed deliciously against your inner thighs and pussy, and you wrapped your legs around him, seducing him to move even more.

You helped him get you out of your shirt, his sharp teeth coming dangerously close to your nips as he breathed against them. These thrills of dangers seemed to only arouse you more, your nipples hard against his prodding fingers, the claws on the tips of his hands pressing moan-enticingly against your tits, dragging over your skin with careful, deliberate confidence that he wouldn't break it.

Leaving a trail of kisses down your body, you were nearly about to climax just from that. But stubborn as you were, you didn't want it to end yet. You wanted this moment to go on forever and ever, if possible, so you drew out your own pleasure even though you were gasping and trembling. Slipping below, you felt your merman's hands grip the pitiful shorts you wore, pulling them down with him. You didn't care if he discarded them or put them to the side in that moment; the shame of having to go home butt-naked was something that didn't cross your mind.

All you could think of was his hands on your legs, spreading them wide open to fit his head and body as he plunged forward. There were a few tender kisses to be left on your inner thighs, the thrill of his teeth grazing over your skin before he directed his attention towards the main attractions. You couldn't help but sink your hands into his soft, slick hair as he pushed his whole face against your cunt, your legs wrapping around his head as you felt the deep inhale he took, making his back rise and fall. He did it three times, reveling in your smell as if you were a body of water he wanted to drown in. Then, his tongue couldn't hold back.

Had you not been so busy with your own pleasure exploding all over his eager muscle, you would have been able to watch the mesmerizing show of jittery fins erecting and splashing in the water. Gills that opened to the fullest as your taste spread in his mouth, his eyelids that fluttered in awe. All you did perceive was the guttural groan vibrating against your cunt, shaking all throughout you from the tip of his tongue slipped inside. It was the one thing that reminded you of his otherworldliness, his voice making your body quiver as you became a puddle in his hands.

You came undone with no time to warn, only a gasp and moan, fingernails scratching over his scalp while he held your legs tightly closed around him, the sounds of slurping and satisfied chortles coming from your core. Every sound he made was like a punch to your pleasure, squeezing every last bit of it out of hiding again, even after you came. His tongue was a winding, desperate, but eager pleaser, surprising you every time again that it sunk in with just how far it could reach and how much wider it spread you the deeper it got. The tingle of its tip as it lapped at all the sensitive spots you liked having caressed so much was nothing compared to the fullness of your entrance, blocking any fluids from leaking past him.

When you got close again, you managed to lift your upper body, looking down at your strange lover. His gaze rose to meet yours, lips parting to reveal your soaking cunt in between his smile. You knew if you let him, he'd live down there, drunk on your juices. Even so, he slipped his hands higher, gripping you by the waist to support your lower back as he plunged his thick tongue as deep as possible into you, sending you over the edge with no warning.

Though it felt like falling, you knew he held you. He ensured no harm would come to you until your shaking and moans subsided, and he helped you lie back down.

"I'll miss you," you whispered, drunk on pleasure, as he came to hover over you. Kissing him felt so right, especially after the incredible orgasms you just had. Your merman reciprocated eagerly with no hesitation, the sounds of your lips even drowning out the crashing of waves around you. "I don't want to leave. I want to stay with you here forever."

"Then don't," he suddenly said, and your body tensed, hearing his voice for the first time. Or not. You weren't sure if you even heard it. You barely saw his lips move, the sound echoing in your brain. Alerts went off in your body as you found your mind unable to focus on anything else but the words spoken, even your breathing stopping briefly while you could not think.

"No... No, I can't... I have to go back. I have to..."

"You don't have to if you don't want to. You can stay here with me. We can always be together. Forever."

Rolling to your side, your body convulsed as his voice penetrated your brain. Every inch of you prickled like it was stung by little needles, but your head was off the worst. Pushing the voice aside was nearly impossible, its echo even stronger than when he spoke to you initially. Even with your hands clasped over your ears, you couldn't make it stop repeating itself, over and over.

You were human. You knew you could never live like him. People were counting on you, responsibilities waiting. You were neither spontaneous nor crazy enough to just throw it away and live out there, surviving... how? You two could never live in the same environment together. It was a bad idea. A baaad idea--

"I know a place where we can be together. I will bring you there. I will decorate it, feed you, and be with you. You'll never lack anything, be it protection or pleasure. It'll be home. We will be family. I will watch over you as your belly swells with my seed, and you will play with our children. You'll never be sad again. Never worry. I promise. It'll be what you always wanted. You told me you wanted to find peace. You shall have it. I make you happy. I love you. You love me. You won't leave me. Never."

Every word felt like another needle being shoved into your brain. It was excruciatingly painful. All you wanted was for him to stop, but at the same time... The longer he forced you to listen, the more you enjoyed the feeling. The shivers it sent down your spine and the pain that made you forget all reason. You didn't even notice how your body grew limb, drool dripping from your lips while tears ran down your cheeks.

All thoughts circled around what he said, and strangely enough, it began to sound very convincing. He did make you happy. You did love him... somehow. You'd never leave him. Why would you? Where would you go other than to be by his side? You wanted to go to this place he spoke of. Have him feed you and decorate your home for you. You wanted to bear his children, be a family with him. Love him. Be loved by him. Have him lick your cunt every night and make you forget. Forget... what? Everything. Everything unless it was him.

"Let's go," he purred, picking you up from the stone ledge and resting you against his chest. "Let's go home."

"Yes," you blubbered, your head falling back as he licked the fluids off your face, your mouth wide open and awaiting his tongue to slip inside, which he did even before the wet around you two could touch you. Keeping your tongue down, he placed his over yours as the ocean enveloped you, his gills flaring wide, air flowing into your mouth to breathe. You two sank further and further, too far for you to see or hear. But his skin against yours remained warm, his embrace tight, his kiss supporting you below the ocean's surface. And as the powerful strokes of his tail carried you two far, far away from the life you had known, from everything that was important to you, all you tasted was the sweetness of his kiss. All while more words echoed in your head, his voice repeating them over and over while his eyes stayed fixed on you, the violet swirls hypnotizing you.

I love you. Mine. Forever. Mate. All mine. I love you so much.

#mermaids #mermen #yandere mermaid #yandere mermen #yandere!mermaid #yandere!merman #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

4K notes · View notes

momotonescreaming · 1 year

Text

Modern au where Steve is a part time aquarium mermaid.

He's studying to be a marine biologist or something, living in a big city, loves swimming, loves the ocean, and leapt at the chance to work at his local aquarium. Even if most of his job is swimming around in a long, dark blue, mermaid tail. Merman tail? And honestly? He kind of loves it. He gets to swim amongst the tropical fish, gets to wave at kids and do tricks in the water. The aquarium discount is nice too.

Eddie always thought the ocean was cool growing up. It seemed freeing, even if he was never very good at swimming. When he was little, before he moved in with Wayne full time, apparently he had told his uncle he wanted to be a fish when he grew up. And being a poor kid in a landlocked state, he didn't exactly get the opportunity to go to the beach, or visit those big aquariums, and his interest in the ocean sort of stagnated there.

So when he got older, and him and Wayne moved to the city, his uncle got him an annual pass to the aquarium. And Eddie was going to make sure Wayne got his money's worth.

So on weekends off or afternoons after work, he'd go to the aquarium. Watch the penguins being fed, or the keeper talks in the otter enclosure. Walk through the tanks and watch the fish. And then at the end he'd sit on the bench by the huge tank they have with all the different sorts of fish in them. And he'd put on his headphones and listen to music, or pull out a notebook and work on a dnd campaign as he watches the fish.

One day, a gaggle of young kids rush in excitedly, chattering about how excited they are to see the mermaids. Eddie furrows his brow until he sees a person in the tank, peering around the coral and the rocks with his brown hair flowing around his head. He swims closer, and that's when Eddie sees the navy blue merman tail the guy is wearing. Hugging his legs, and blending in seamlessly with his waist. A girl swims out after him, in a matching pink tail and shell bikini top. They wave and blow kisses at the kids, doing twirls and flips and tricks.

And listen, Eddie's got eyes. The dude is hot as hell. Nice toned muscles, tanned skin dotted with moles, square jaw. He's exactly Eddie's type, but he's working, and in a fishtank, so Eddie sits and watches.

Eddie keeps visiting the aquarium in his free time, and by coincidence he keeps ending up in front of the tank when the mermaid and the hot merman is there. And the guy waves at him, and smiles, and Eddie shyly smiles back with a lil wave of his own. And Eddie swears it's almost like the guy is happy to see him. Not just putting on the act.

One day when the hot merman shows up, Eddie has been doodling fish in his sketchbook. And fuck it, he sketches the merman. He's hot and Eddie's an artist. Why not right? Only when he looks up, the merman is right up by the glass, watching him. They lock eyes, and the guy mimes at him in a watery version of charades. Are you drawing?. And Eddie nods, before taking a deep breath and flipping the sketchbook around so the guy can see. The merman squints as he looks before his eyes widen as he points at himself. You drew me?. Eddie nods again, blushing faintly, and watches as the guy gets all flustered and then pretends to swoon in the water. Eddie goes to sit back down and the guy swims off to get some air.

Later, Eddie's still drawing, listening to music on full blast through his headphones, completely in the zone, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He jumps, startled, and turns to see the merman in front of him, wearing jeans and a polo, looking a little sheepish. He apologizes for startling him, his name's Steve. And fuck, if he isn't prettier up close.

Eddie introduces himself, and the guy - Steve - asks him sort of sheepishly if he actually drew him? It was sort of hard to see through the water and the glass. Eddie says yeah he did, sorry if that's creepy, but drawing and watching the tank makes his brain quiet. It's calming.

And Steve says he get it. He gets Eddie. And they chat, and they flirt, and at the end, Eddie asks Steve if he wants to see the drawing, if he wants to keep it. And Steve light up, and he looks so happy, so before he can think to hard about it - Eddie writes his name and cellphone number on the bottom of the page - and rips it out and hands it to Steve.

And Steve beams.

#idk where this came from i wrote it in a fury at work and then forget about it #Steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #stranger things #mermaid steve harrington

4K notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 11 months

Text

Mermaids

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/mermaid!reader 8.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Dark themes. Magical beings eating human hearts. Magic. Blood, Violence. Explicit sex. Blood kink. Breeding kink. Creampie. Dubious consent. Possessive Simon Riley. "And with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp, you crawled from the sea to break that sailor's heart" - F+TM

It begins early this year.

Earlier than usual, when your hunting ground in the mortal world was just starting to turn green, shaking its frosted and frozen branches free to make room for bright blooms and emerald leaves. Just as the steps of Brighton Pier changed from ice slick ledges to waterlogged, weeping wooden planks, and human clothing shifted from long coverings that protected their fragile membranes from the bitter wind to soft and flowing fabrics that allowed their bodies to breathe.

This time of the year the mortal world was alive. Full of rebirth and growth, strong and vibrant.

Vibrant, like the song that began early this year, the frequency echoing deep below the water’s surface to where you waited for its pull. The siren song of a true treasure, far beyond any other, the melody of your chosen, the ebb and flow of the rhythm that is not unlike the sea. The siren song of a mortal’s heart, the cacophony able to reach you and your sisters far below the swell and crash of the ocean, far beyond where the light ceases, the melody possessing the ability to pull you to the surface once a year.

Once a year, to hunt.

One a year, to dance and drink and fall in love, if only for a night.

Once a year, to sacrifice a human heart.

Your eldest sister holds you tight to her body in an embrace as the sun rises. Elegant fingers fuss with your hair, smoothing and tugging and pulling, a vain attempt at taming something wilder than her own heart. Her face is grim, a black void that reflects no joy or excitement, just dread. It is a mirror of yourself. It is a pain that you know too well.

“What bothers you?”

You are the last two left on the beach. The others have all gone, eager to stretch their legs and seek their own songs, the trill of the blood bubbling up in their veins, their bodies pulled like magnets to the source. One heart, one song, one human male for each sister, poor mortals who have no idea what awaits them today, their ignorance bliss on the last night of their lives. Your sisters, as well as you, all live for this night. The joy of the love, the thrill of the hunt, the taste of the ichor that sustains you. The anticipation of this night fills your dreams with swirls of violent songbird chords and sweet melodies of affection. It is all you talk about for cycles, leading up to the day when you leave the water at sunrise and your tail shifts and shatters to reveal two very human looking legs.

“I am weary.” She tells you plainly, an announcement that does not come as a surprise. You have watched how she fades. Watched her linger in the darkness of the caves, watched her float lifelessly on slow currents, gaze hollow, vigor lost. “My song is faint.” She pushes further, holding your hand tightly as she releases you from her embrace. “I think I may not take a heart this year.” But we must. Must we? It was a question unanswered, but one that plagued you both. How else could you live, if not for these sacrifices?

“You would choose to die.” You surmise and she gives you a curt nod, as if it is obvious. As if her admission does not rattle you down to your very bones. Perhaps you too, one day, would make this choice. Would choose not to hunt. Choose not to love and lose. The notion pains you, fills you with sorrow as it has for many, many years. This was not an unknown feeling, even though you still experienced the joy, the bliss of your hunting, of the harvesting, you still felt the pang of loss every time, stronger and stronger as the years ticked by.

“It aches now, knowing I will fall in love this night, just for it to end as the sun rises.” The sea crashes onto the beach behind the two of you, and her lips part with a smile before she leans in to graze a kiss along your cheek. “Happy hunting, my sister.”

The song encourages you onward, leading you through a maze of streets and buildings while the sun rises and lingers in the sky. You comb the city for your male, following the electric hum of the song through alleys and neighborhoods, stopping to enjoy the day, your one day on land, as often as you can. You relish in the things that are rare for you, the taste of coffee and human food, the smell of flowers in the park, the feel of grass on the bare pads of your feet. The dress you’ve chosen flutters in the breeze, allowing the cool air to caress your skin softly, and the sun beams down on your exposed limbs, warming you under its light as you indulge in mortal world. It is nice, you decide while you bask in its rays, to feel the sun as humans do. Such spoiled creatures, being so close to something that gives so much life.

That same sun begins to sink lower behind the skyline and you’re still mindlessly gazing at small insects and diving birds when your heart trills, the force of the song slamming between your ribs, a smattering of warning bells going off within you. He’s close, your blood croons, so, so close. The incessant rattle, the insistent pull is enough to bring you to your feet and anxiously smooth the wrinkles of your clothing, eyes darting wildly around while you hunt for the source, feet flying beneath you. So close, so close.

You come to a stop in front of a pub where a black door is propped open, music and revelry echoing from inside. Here. He’s here. The supersonic vibrato that hums in your own blood draws you into the dimly lit bar, and you hear the song in his veins grow even stronger when you step through across the threshold. He is not hard to find, this close, and your magic strings out before you, weaving and seeking past the bodies that dance closely on the floor, each as desperate for one another as you have grown for your mortal and his song.

He stands in the back, half covered by shadow, the dark pitch of the room matching his clothes and the mask he wears over most of his face. Everything about him is bigger than the males that have called to you in the past, his height, his arms, the width of his shoulders, even the feeling of him in this place. Everywhere you venture, every spot you position yourself in, you feel his eyes on you. He is unusual, and watches, from his vantage point, his companions, other humans, the bartender.

You perch atop a barstool on the opposite side of the room to study him. His eyes carry a ferocity, a heaviness of emotion that stirs the blood running through your own veins until it is pounding in your ears. The severity of him nearly intimidates you, the level of his awareness, the pools of his amber rich brown eyes occasionally flicking over to where your fingers wrap around a glass of beer, the heat of his gaze searing away at your skin underneath the dress. The mask confuses but does not caution you, and your own heart now beats in time with his due to your proximity. Handsome. You muse to yourself, caught up in tracing the outline of his cheekbones. Beautiful, in a dark way.

There is something about him. Something ruinous, something different. Something you cannot name.

It is of no consequence. You are the huntress. You will have your prize, your immortality, the taste of his heart on your tongue. His death becomes your life. His love, his heart, becomes yours, for eternity.

But how nice, might it be, to keep this one? It is an impossible thought, a dreamless idea, but one that still crosses your mind. The fantasy of falling in love for eternity, of having more than one night, more than the blood and violence that follows, more than the loss that would sustain you. If it were to be one, you know you’d choose this one. Your thoughts stray to your sister for a moment, imagining her alone beneath the surface, mourning the centuries of life she has lived, the centuries of love she has lost. Did she know this feeling? This hopelessness, this despair. Your lips tug downward as you consider her words. It aches. It aches, knowing I will fall in love this night, only for it to end as the sun rises. Gloom washes through you, your own yearning itching inside your soul, your desperation for your human itching at your skin. It aches. It aches, it ach-

“Hello.” Someone says from behind you, a deep, distinct voice, and you snap upwards, straightening your posture to turn into the body that crowds you. You jerk backwards on the stool when you realize how close he is, the action unsettling you from your seat, and you slip forward, nearly falling free from your wooden perch. Balance on land is difficult, and yours is perpetually off, a skill you've never mastered. A massive hand wraps around your elbow to right you, gently steadying you, and your jaw goes slack when you finally look up.

It's him.

“Hi.” You smile, trying to recover from your less than graceful impression. Your heart thunders in your chest, and the melody inside him screams for you.

“I’m Ghost.” He motions to your mostly empty beer and raises his completely barren one in return. “Buy you another?”

The indulgent smile that scrawls across your face is practically involuntary as you give your answer.

“Sure.”

His name isn’t Ghost, but he keeps his true name close and won’t give it to you. You give him a nickname, one you usually use on land, and he doesn’t bat an eye, even when you tell him it’s a pet name and not your real one with a wink. The name Ghost doesn’t strike you as odd, after learning what he does, why he keeps it tucked away, and you marvel at him while he tells gives you bits and piece of himself, occasionally peeling his mask up to drink. He’s a solider, a Lieutenant in a special task force, some of which he happens to be out with tonight. He likes bourbon, specifically from a certain region in America, and he smells like the forest. You lean closer, completely unable to stop yourself, inhaling as deeply as you can, breathing in the mossy, earthy, green scent that hovers in the air around him. It was heady, and endless, and wrapped you in a dizzying cocoon of memories that you couldn’t place, but clearly envisioned. Forests, teeming with life and glowing chartreuse from top to bottom, oceans with aquamarine waters, shallow pools for you to bathe in under the sun, the water crisp and cold, your skin eagerly soaking it up its potent brine. Sapphire skies, the beaches stretching on and on, their seas fathomless, their bounties endless. You push closer, nosing as near as you can to his skin and take a lungful of the air. Strange. You knew humans wore things to mask or change their scents, but had never encountered one so… affecting.

“Alright, love?” He brushes the lightest contact of his fingers against yours, and you straighten, eyes ducking down in embarrassment.

“Yes, sorry. I- I was… distracted.”

Unusual indeed.

One drink turns to many, and you carefully note how Ghost’s posture becomes more relaxed, shoulders less tense as the two of you indulge. He continues to surveil the room, observing and cataloguing, and you find it dangerously appealing, how in tune he is to his surroundings. How vigilant. Your hand lays gently on his thigh when you can no longer hold off the desire for physical touch, and he inclines his head to speak above your ear, the warmth of his cheek behind the fabric pressed casually to your head.

“D’ya want to go somewhere else?” Yes. You nod, and he motions to his group before excusing himself, his large body cutting a path through the packed room like he’s parting the sea.

You note the couplings around the bar as Ghost approaches his companions, leaning down to speak to one who is seated, legs spread wide on a faux velvet chair. He has a mohawk, and cerulean blue eyes that trace you from head to toe after Ghost begins to walk back towards where you're seated. You break the eye contact hastily, observing the others, pity pulling on your heart strings over a distraught female who sits in a corner, watching another with longing. The state of her broken heart is written all over face, her body rife with grief. The object of her affection, another stunningly beautiful female, dances with a different mortal, her artfully woven hair spiraling from her shoulders in tune to the way she moves her body. They have it so hard, you think. The song does all the work for us. You never have to woo your mortals, just provide them with the opportunity to find you. The song pushes them to seek you out, drives them to near madness unless they are in your company. They don’t always love you back, as you love them, certainly. But you never have to vie for their attention, never have to posture for their affection.

A large hand takes yours, warm and beating with the pulse of his heart, the rhythm of the song.

“Ready?” You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out, and the feeling of dread, the ache swamps you for a passing second. I think I may not take a heart this year. All you can do is nod.

As he leads you through the crowd, you cannot help but reach forward with your free hand and clasp onto the dancing woman. She pauses, eyes lighting wantonly when she sees you, but you push a sprinkle of magic through her, sparking desire in the base of her consciousness for the mournful dove in the chair.

You don’t look back at either of them as you leave, and silently pray to no one that they find happiness in love, that they relish it and keep one another, if only for you.

You bring him to the beach, as is your custom. It was where you felt safest, closest to the ocean, it’s where your power felt most pure should you need it, should something go wrong. You shiver at the thought, shoving down the memories that threaten your balance, and you clutch Ghost’s hand.

“Come down here often?” He inquires and you shrug, a response you know mortals are fond of.

“I like it here.” You offer, and he hums in acknowledgement. You tug him towards the overhang of the pier, where the shadows will shield you, where no one dares to venture. The only light comes from the moon, it’s silver glow glittering dimly through worn wooden pier slats, and you watch it catch his eye, his pupil expanding and contracting as you step closer and closer. “I want to kiss you.” you implore. “Will you remove your mask?” The song. You’re depending on the song to help you with this, depending on his desire, the power of the melody in his veins to urge him to comply with your request, and when he tilts his head like he’s considering you, you hold your breath.

It happens quickly. He removes the mask in a fluid motion, and then his lips are upon yours, hot and seeking, tongue exploring your mouth while yours opens for him, your body clenching with dizzying desire at the feel of his touch against your skin.

“I knew it.” You gasp when you pull away and trace the fine point of a fingernail down his jaw. “I knew you were breathtaking under there.” He chuckles.

“Happy you think so.”

Your mouths melt together as he holds you around the waist, your bodies getting closer and closer until you can feel the hardness of his cock in his jeans, feel the scorching heat of him through his clothes. You are desperate for this mortal, your desire to feel him moving inside of you nearly as strong as the lust you feel to taste his heart. You sink to the sand together, a dance of limbs and movements that have you panting astride him when he settles, propped up on his elbows.

“Simon.” He says mid breath. “That’s my name. Want ya to have it.” Simon.

“Simon.” You whisper it, and he nods before pulling you back to him, two large palms cradling your face like you’re a delicate creature. It makes you feel special, makes you feel cherished, like you’re something gentle to be treasured, and not a monster out for his life. You kiss him tenderly, one more time, as softly as you can manage, your heart trembling inside your chest, before your teeth bite into his lip, the ferocious intensity of the act returned by him, his mouth meeting yours full force. You bite again, and this time his flesh gives way, bright, mineral rich blood bubbling from the tiny cut and you eagerly lap at it, the ichor coating your tongue and exploding across your senses. He laughs, the echo of it rumbling deep in his chest, and you place your hand against his heart greedily, the vigor of its beating nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. The length of his cock throbs between your legs, where only the fabric of his jeans separates you, and you rut against him helplessly. Sparks ignite between you, your body shuddering when his hands hook into your hip, strong grip guiding your movements against him. Your magic swells inside of you, and your head spins.

Take him, take him. Take his heart, take his song. Have him, his love, his heart, for eternity, forever.

You push him onto his back, dress rucked up around your hips, fabric pooling around the two of you.

“I want you.” you tell him, fingers fussing with his clothes, encouraging him to strip his shirt free and then unbutton his jeans. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and sloppy but you can’t find a care. You’re too filled with want, overflowing with desire for your mortal, your desperation mounting as he stills you, tracing a finger over your ribs and then down your pubic bone to where your slick, silken folds wait to be touched.

“Simon.” you whisper his name again, the word close to begging, and he shushes you, swirling a finger down where you’re leaking, circling the swollen bud of your clit with agonizing strokes that fill your senses with electricity.

“Shhh. I know what you need.” He soothes, and deftly pushes a finger inside of you, stroking along your walls. You shiver, face dropping into the crook his neck, and he turns his head so that the soft puff of his breath wafts over your skin as you whimper. “Does that feel good?” He asks, pressing another inside, his thumb flicking over your clit in lackadaisical patterns. You moan, body welcoming his touch, and you nip at the skin of his shoulder, eager to tear it apart, to taste his blood again. His other hand pushes at the back of your head, until your teeth are flush with his skin. “Go on.” He urges, and your eyes slip closed with bliss while you break the thin membrane, blood pooling to the surface as he lets out a small grunt. Your tongue swirls in it, painting his skin ruby, and you drag your lips downward, over where his heart pounds wildly in his chest. For you. It pounds for you. It sings for you.

“I need you inside me.” He pulls at the straps of the dress, divesting you of the top, exposing your breasts to the cool air and silver light of the moon. His thumb rolls one of your nipples and you feel for him, already free from his under garment, the things humans wear under their outside clothes, and you swallow when you feel the size in your fingers.

You sink down onto him with a hiss, body stretching for the intrusion, cunt spasming around the width and length as it fights to make room. He pets your hip soothingly, and you sit straight up, letting out a cry when you feel the true length of his cock inside you, the absolute fullness of it nearly seated in your belly. When you look back down, your eyes trace the smear of blood from his lips and shoulder, and your tongue darts out against your own skin, seeking the flavor of ichor that waits on the corner of your mouth.

Something glitters in his eyes, something shifting as if he finally recognizes the danger he’s in. Even here, with you astride him, split open his cock, hips stuttering in slow circles, wariness flexes across his face as if he knows, finally, that he is the prey and you the predator.

“It’s okay, do not be afraid.” You reassure him, stroking a fingernail over his breastbone, to where his heart flutters beneath your touch. He blinks, eyes blissfully blank, the firm grip of his hand on your hip relaxing before he says:

“Will you not tell me your name?” A long sigh slips between your teeth. Mortals. So hung up on familiarity. But how could you refuse a dying man his last request? Your lips kiss the shell of his ear as you give it to him, the point of your fingernail pressing into his delicate flesh, desperate to seek the strong muscle beneath, the song in his blood echoing through your own bones with supersonic vibration. The sounds and colors of the mortal realm all increase, too bright, too loud, everything shaking like the earth is suddenly trembling and then-

Something snaps inside of you. Magic, raw and powerful, a force unlike anything you’ve ever felt spills into you, your body being washed over with the rush of floodwaters, your heart and blood now singing for him, yearning for him, desperate to be consumed by him.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

The claim burns beneath your skin, your magic twisting away into something completely new, something more powerful as your mind grapples with the changing reality.

In the next moment, you’re spinning, tumbling through the air until you’re on your back, splayed beneath him, hands trapped at your sides. Your legs are folded underneath the width of his torso, your body opened for him just so, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, stretching the slick walls of your cunt with each punishing thrust.

“I-“ the words are cut off sharply when he seals his mouth to yours, teeth gnashing and gnawing down from your lips to your jaw and then up to you ear.

“You,” He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, and you gasp. “are mine, little huntress.” It is a vow, snarled through clenched teeth, and your own body betrays you by tightening around him, eager and willing to be claimed. The air is hot, humid and electric with magic, the burning effects of your error travelling through your every vein, every cell of skin. The utterance of your name, the act of your own foolishness strings heavily between you, while your body tenses underneath him.

“Simon.” You breathe and he only nods, holding your cheek in a gentle palm, stroking a loving touch across your face.

“Sweet little Nereid...” He names your kind with a growl, and your heart slams in your chest, his cock thrusting into your cunt wildly, desperately. “More beautiful than the sea herself.” The laugh is crooned, like the satisfying scratch of a needle against a record, and his fingers stroke your clit while he presses himself to you, your hips pinned beneath his weight, your body immobile. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” He smiles darkly, lips curling with sinister satisfaction, and you feel the cold hand of fate reaching into your own chest cavity, rooting around in your soul until magic is searing across your skin, a bending and scraping feeling digging underneath your ribs, your own magic twisting and clawing until it burns away into something new, something changed, something imbued with him.

No. It’s not possible.

“You… you’re-“

“Yes.”

Simon cares little for the mortal realm. It’s pace and its noise and its scents are all cloying to him, obnoxious and foreign, the general rush of its inhabitants and their lack of care for their world offensive to him and his kind. They do not care for their realm, and do not take care of it ether, instead choosing to let it rot and fester beneath their feet, their drive and determination to outdo one another single handedly responsible for the destruction of most of their world. They call it something here, 'capitalism', like naming it will excuse it, while Simon just calls it murder, and greed.

Mortals and their extreme indifference do allow him certain things, however. Their love of violence and obsession with wealth put even the most well-off of his kind to shame at times. His kind loved things that shone, certainly. But mortals? They loved things that bled. It was this lust for power, this ravenous streak of greed that gave him the opportunity to position himself as he has.

As a hunter. A killer. A ghost.

Simon had been hunting for the thing he loved for a very, very long time.

And tonight, he was finally going to bring you home.

The first time Simon saw you; over a century ago, it was beneath Brighton Pier. You had a human male panting after you as you walked beneath the wooden overhang, your hand cupping his cheek softly, eyes full of tenderness and love. Simon, and the man, were both entranced by your beauty, the way your body moved under the night sky, how your skin seemed to glitter against the sand. Simon watched as you led him to where the moon couldn’t reach, beneath the shield of the slats, the dark of the evening hiding you from all prying, curious eyes, except for his.

He watched you take the male inside your body, watched you lavish your tongue across his neck and chest, watched your lips form sweet words of reassurance and honey while you tasted his blood. He watched the nails of your fingers gleam in the low light, watched them sharpen and then dig, scratching and clawing beneath the threads of the male’s skin, until you held an ichor rich organ in your palm, a complex system of vessels and ventricles, it’s sinew glowing red beneath your touch. He stood in awe as you devoured it, your feeding turning into a frenzy as you consumed it piece by piece, the male bleeding out and dying slowly, all while still buried inside your cunt.

After your feast, you dragged the male’s lifeless body down the sand to the water with you, where you pulled it beneath the waves, never to be seen again. Surprised, and intrigued, he stood at the water’s edge, watching the tide that was tinged red lap calmly at the shore. He knew humans had a taste for blood, but this was another desire onto itself. What were you?

The following year, Simon couldn’t help but return to the same area in hopes of spotting you again, the creature unknown to him, a mystery begging to be unraveled. You appeared at dawn on the same day, with a horde of others, who then dispersed into the city and surrounding areas, following the sound of a song he could not hear. He became a creature obsessed, tracking your every movement, watching your every hunt and sacrifice. He stood in the dark while you made love to the mortals whose lives you would take, watched you hunt with wild abandon, watched you enjoy the small, tiny things in your eternal life that others often overlook. He began to know you, began to learn what you liked and didn't, began to learn what made you smile.

You became the brightest spot in his own too long existence, the yearly reminder of love, of vitality, of life. He loved you, desperately, recklessly so. His dreams were filled with soft, sweet visions of you, bloody moments of passion and adoring, lingering kisses that he swore he could still feel when he woke.

It took time, too long of a time, before he discovered who, or what, you were. He spent a century trying to learn how to lure you to the surface. Simon tore apart libraries, bargained favors across dimensions, granted wishes and wove powerful spells just to trade for information on you and your sisters, the Nereids, the lasting remnant of a forgotten power, reclusive magic lurking inside the deepest depths, a realm inside a realm, never to be discovered unless you wished it so. And even then, the additional answers he sought were scarce.

Every year, he returned to the human realm to see you, tucking himself away in cloaks of magic and darkness so that he could creep as close as possible to you. Every year, he watched you hunt, watched you capture your prey effortlessly and consume their heart. He watched you shed a tear for them. Watched your drag their corpses down the beach to the sea, where you carried them into the water with you before disappearing all together.

Eventually, time began to change you. He watched you regard your lovers, your mortals with callousness, and cruelty. He watched you treat them with tenderness, and adoration, caring for them, making their ends sweet and soothing their fears. He watched you stand on the beach for hours at dawn and try to fight the urge to hunt. He burned to take you away from this world, to sever you from your ocean, bring you home to him, but your kind did not live in his realm. He was unsure how to sustain your life, and the search for answers was slow. Years went by, and the soft dreams that he had always welcomed turned to nightmares, fueled by the fear he’d lose you before he even had the chance to try to bring you home.

A decade ago, he watched you falter. Your body trembled as you took your sacrifice, your cries so hysterical he was certain you’d draw the entire block to where you hid in the shadow of someone’s gaff. His own body was rigid with tense, untethered magic that sought to lash out, and he was rife with worry that you’d give yourself away, you’d be caught by some mortal force and unable to return to the sea when the sun rose. The fear he felt was unreasonable, uncontainable. He'd level the city to protect you, to keep you safe, and he nearly did. He almost took you, that night. Was quite close, so close that he was crossing the street in front of vehicles and preparing to pull you into his realm when you composed yourself and completed your harvest, the glowing organ in your hands proof of your will to live, to love.

He rarely left the mortal realm after that. Only to seek his final answer and solidify his plan, his masquerade as the masked Ghost allowing him to exist in the realm indefinitely, giving him the availability to be close for when the time was right, for when you would be ready.

A year ago, you were the last to return to the water, your steps slow and clumsy, your eyes tired and weepy. You appeared satisfied, but as you looked back on the city from the shoreline, he saw the hint of desolation in your eyes, the shadow of dejection haunting your face.

It was more than enough, to spring him into action. More than enough, to find your promised mortal for next year and steal his song, bringing it into himself by a small piece of blood magic, something so simple and obvious Simon cursed himself for not realizing sooner.

This morning, as he observed you and your sister on the beach, he knew he had been right. He could see it in your face. The pain of sadness, of loss twisting your elegance into an ache, those feelings compounded by the admission of your eldest sibling. This could be your last hunt.

It was time to bring you home. Forever.

“That her then?” Johnny nods, indicating he’s looking the same direction as Simon, watching you walk down the curb, paper coffee cup clutched in your hands, face smiling at the sun.

“Yes.” Simon answers, shifting uncomfortably. The bloody song has been heating his flesh for weeks, boiling in his veins and driving him practically mad. Nymph magic. Its incessant hum has been battling his own power, jockeying for position as it worked to pull you to the surface. Combined with his own, he wasn’t surprised it possessed the ability to bring you up earlier than normal, encouraging you and your sisters through the depths and to the shore. If his blood was singing, then so was every other poor sod’s in this city.

You cross the street into the park, dress swaying around your hips, and he indulgently stares at the form of your body, the set of your shoulders, the texture of your hair. He closes his eyes to breathe, reaching into himself to get a handle on the battle of will going on in his blood, the warring magic factions pushing and pulling beneath his skin, begging to be let out, trying to lash out. Soon. He reassures himself. She will be with him soon.

He can smell you from here. You’re ripe. Overflowing, your scent is like a flickering ocean breeze, briny and cold but full of life, of promise. You’re ready, ready to be taken from this awful realm, ready to be bent underneath his body, ready to be crying on his cock as you come while he floods your womb with himself and his power, tying you to him for all eternity.

That is, if he can get you to relinquish your name.

It is a key piece of his plan, and the one that worries him the most.

He knows you do not give it freely; knows you keep it guarded. It’s like you’re already aware that he waits in the shadows for you, watching, keeping track of every step you take, every year, from sunup to the next, until you slink beneath the water where he cannot follow.

The pressure inside his body is nearly unbearable by the time you step into the pub. Dozens of heads turn towards you, mortals’ eyes roving all over your body like you’re a treat for them, like you’re something delicious they’ll have an opportunity to taste. Foolish, greedy mortals, too busy staring dreamily at you to recognize the predator that you are, or the predator he is, oblivious to the two hunters in the room with them right now. He wonders, if you'd bathe in their blood, given an opportunity. The image makes him smile.

Johnny clears his throat expectantly, and Simon nods, casting a glance over to where Gaz sits with a pretty female on his lap, her attentions focused solely on him, her eyes heavily lidded with lust. Johnny gives him a nod.

“Good luck.” He offers and Simon waves him off. He’s no need for luck. His blood sings your song.

“Ready?” He nearly loses control when he watches your face fill with despair for a moment after his question, his aching need to soothe and comfort you almost forcing his hands out to touch you. I'm here, little huntress. You are not alone anymore. He cannot tell you this, not yet. So instead, he applies pressure to your hand gently and waits. When you nod, he breathes just a tiny bit easier.

He cannot stay in this place any longer. The eyes, the mortals, their inane thirst for alcohol and violence starting to scratch underneath his skin. He needed you, needed your name, needed to take you home to his realm, and all this noise and smoke and foul-smelling liquor stood in his way. The feeling of your hand in his soothes him, calms the anxious explosion that’s building in his chest, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough, until he has what he wants.

On the way out, he does not miss your little spell. He is, and has been, the most powerful creature in this room. He has felt every ounce of magic used, by you, by Johnny, by Kyle, all night long. It makes his heart swell when he feels your effort to push the dancing female into the arms of her scorned lover, makes his heart soar when he realizes perhaps, you have not given up on love, on life. Perhaps, you just need something else, something other than the hunt, to live for.

He allows you to take your time beneath the Pier. He cannot rush you, cannot allow you the feeling of anything being amiss, being off. You are so close to the sea, so close to the edge of the water that if he spooks you, it will be too easy for you to slip away. Too easy for you to be lost beneath the surface, again, just as you have been for hundreds of years.

When your teeth tear into his flesh he nearly moans, almost loses control again, but tamps down the urge to spring forward and toss you into the sand beneath him. He needs your name, needs your name so bloody badly it has his head spinning, his entire being desperately urging him to act, to claim, to take you. Your cunt is searing hot around his cock, your body shivering in his arms as you rock your hips delicately, eyes watching him half addled, crazed with the lust for his blood, for his heart.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He thrusts slowly up into you, and pity flashes across your features as you bend forward to brush your mouth against your ear. He feels your lips part, hears the intake of your breath and then-

You’re his. The magic begins immediately, bonding you to him, searing you into his soul and vice versa, the song in his blood slipping away until all he feels is the combined force of your power and his, the melding of souls and magic that will guarantee your existence in his realm, by his side, guaranteeing your survival, your ability to thrive. He takes advantage of your confusion, of the chaos that rises in your heart and flips you on your back, spreading your thighs wide beneath him and plunging his cock as deep as he can. So close. So, so close, and then you will be truly his, for as long as you both shall live.

“I-“

“You,” he thrusts harder, desperate to claim you. “are mine, little huntress.” He hisses it, pushing the words forward with the brunt of his power, and you gasp before whispering his name.

“Sweet little Nereid…more beautiful than the sea herself.” He kisses your throat, stroking your clit at a torturous pace while your confused gaze tracks his every movement. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” The magic pushes through your blood and bones, continuing to stitch and sear you to him, and he can’t help the feelings of possession that come over him.

His. His. His.

His magic cuts and gnaws at your own, ripping and shredding it to bits until it’s infected with him, the strength of your name, your free admission to him, turning you inside out, changing the very chemistry of your body. He watches with dark satisfactions as your face shifts, your lips parting with understanding, eyes widening with your knowledge of the truth.

“You… You’re-“ Clever little huntress.

“Yes.” He purrs, and punches his cock back up inside of you, pressing close to your cervix, your body wet and needy, just for him. You shudder and blink hazily, confusion flickering across your features while his magic roots around inside of you and binds you to him, cell by cell. He can still smell you, smell the cool salt air of the sea that comes from your skin, smell the ripeness of your body, your willingness spilling forward in the air, the scent of sweet honeysuckle and sea holly. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your body rocking swiftly in time with him while your brow furrows, like you’re not sure what you should be doing. He licks at the stain of his blood on your lips, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you let out a sharp whine, small hands flexing against his chest.

“No.” you admonish, face stricken. “No. No, you t-tricked me.”

“I did.” He agrees, reaching between the two of you to rub your clit in a swift circle, your breath hitching. Your face twists into something sour, but your cunt clenches around him, and his lips curl into a crescent moon smirk. “Are you going to come on my cock, sweet one?”

“Unnf.” You moan nonsense, turning your face away from him but he does not stop, hips snapping against yours, his body working to bring yours closer and closer to its climax.

“I think you are.” He hisses and grips your jaw to turn your eyes back to him. They’re wet with tears, but he doesn’t see fear in them, doesn’t see the despair. Only flares of rage, and the heat of desire, the electricity of the magic that is now shared between the two of you. He smiles triumphantly. “I think,” he relaxes his pace, dragging his cock out of you painstakingly slowly, gaze never leaving your lovely face. “you’re going to come for me, and then I’m going to breed you, little huntress.” You tense around him, squeezing his cock, the words pulling a delicious, physical reaction from you that shakes his focus for a moment. His palm lays flat over your lower belly, low enough that his thumb can feel the hardness of your clit, can stroke around it’s hood while you gasp and convulse in his arms. You shake your head stubbornly, chest heaving for breath, and he slams himself back into you, your spine curling forward into his chest.

“Gods.” You cry out, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto, finding his shoulders and sinking deep, deep enough that he knows you're drawing blood. It oozes from the tiny wounds, tracing down his skin and when you pull away, your fingers have been darkened with it.

He watches with small wonder as you slip them into your mouth, face going slack with bliss, cunt spasming around him while he strokes deep. His skin prickles, mouth finding yours again, and you moan into him, uninhibited, full of abandon.

“I have watched you for over a century, my sweet Nereid. Watched you hunt, watched you love, watched you lose.” He slows to look down at you, caressing your face with a gentle touch. “I have watched the light fade from your eyes, watched despair take over your existence.” Your gaze widens, mouth dropping open in surprise, and then closing abruptly, eyes softening around the corners.

“Simon.” You murmur, pressing your finger to the weeping wound from your teeth.

“My huntress. You will never be alone again.” He noses your jaw, licking and sucking against your skin, cold brine exploding against his tongue. Your scent crests, peaking with the honey flower and salt, your body yearning beneath him, cunt milking his cock. “Come for me.” He encourages when he knows it’s time, when he sees the glossy want all over your face. It doesn’t take much urging, another stroke of your clit and you’re coming, body locking up around him, muscles straining as you cry out, face full of bliss and legs tense around his hips. You clamp down around him, holding him deep inside your body like a vice but he works you through it, thrusting slowly inside your scorching cunt, your walls desperately trying to keep him inside. “There you go.” He soothes, fucking you through the aftershocks, your face still twisted up. “That’s just what I needed.” The orgasm makes your more pliable, more soft and less angry, and he sees in your eyes what he knows to be true. You want this. Perhaps this is not what you would have chosen at first, perhaps the magic was too strong in your veins in the beginning, but your body knows what your mind works to accept. You are choosing this, choosing him, over the hunt. Over the sacrifice. Over the immortal life of loss.

So, so close.

He folds your legs towards your chest, opening you deeper and you mewl, lips parted in dazed, post orgasm glow. He can’t help but kiss you again and again, his painfully slow thrusts forcing irritated breaths to puff from your nose.

“Something you want?” He teases, and you nod, pressing your face into his shoulder and groaning into his skin.

“Simon. Please.” You voice breaks, and he feels your cunt pool around him, liquid heat forcing him to grit his teeth in an effort to stave off his own orgasm.

Ask me for it, little huntress.

“Please, what?” He mocks, thumb pressing down on your clit hard, causing you to keen. He doesn’t move, just stays steady inside of you, your cunt working pull him deeper.

“Please, please. I want-“ you gasp when he bites the skin of your neck, and he smiles wickedly. Your cunt practically strangles him now, body working to drag his orgasm from him, magic singing in both of your hearts.

His. His. His.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

Your scent overpowers him, the swell of the ocean behind him combined with the salt of your essence pulling him harder into your gravity.

“What do you want?”

“I want your come.” You beg and he snarls, finally losing control, fucking into your eager body with abandon, hard and punishing while you moan and cry beneath him. He takes your earlobe in his teeth before whispering a vow:

“Then you shall have it.” He plays with your clit, the intensity of his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts and you pant eagerly. “You shall have it every day until you are full of me, full with my child.”

“Yes.” You moan, and he feels you moving towards another climax, your muscles spasming and eyes slipping shut.

“I’m going to breed you, give you my baby, sweetling. Make you mine, forever.” Your back arches and you wail, your cunt clamping down on him again, and he thrusts as deep as he can, chasing his release, fueling his burning desire to empty himself inside of you. He lets go completely, untethers his magic, lets it fully fuse with yours as he spills inside of you, the pressure of his orgasm working against your aftershocks, and your own magic that wraps itself wildly around him, clawing at the seat of his power, desperate to attach itself.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

His. His. His.

You fall asleep on his chest, body relaxed and sated, mouth open in a small o. He needs to get you up, needs to get you ready to travel to his realm but in this moment, he’s content to sit here, against the old wooden pier, timing the rise and fall of your breathing and planning for the future, for eternity.

“Will you care for her?” A musical voice asks from a short distance, and his head snaps up to see your sister, the one you stood with on the beach this morning, inclining her head towards your peaceful, sated body that sits snugly in his arms.

“Always.” He promises, and she nods, eyes looking down the shoreline.

“I am happy for her.” She looks sad, forlorn, not unlike how you appeared hours ago.

“It is not too late, for you to hunt. There is still plenty of time before the sunrise.” He tries to encourage, and she nods.

“Perhaps.” Simon briefly wonders if Kyle or Johnny are still in town, a sinister idea forming in his mind, taking shape before his very eyes. He pushes, just the gentlest bit of magic, the piece that’s mixed with yours, towards her. A long moment passes, and then, “I think I’ll walk.” She motions up the pier and gives a goodbye nod, as he strokes a hand down your spine when you shiver in his arms.

You do not stir until she is a speck on the horizon, and when you do, you lift your head wearily, like you’ve slept for a thousand years.

“What’s going on?” you murmur, shifting your dress so it covers your thighs. He presses a light kiss to your forehead before giving an answer.

“We’re going home now, little huntress.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #mw2 #ghost call of duty #mermaids #mermaids au #magic au #ghost x reader #cod fanfic

2K notes · View notes

lobsterfork · 7 months

Text

hey not to be that guy, but for everyone looking at the Stede!Mermaid scene at the end of the Innkeeper and thinking it's cringe... do we think maybe there's some externalised shame here? as queer fans, our love, enthusiasm, skill and labour (fanfiction, fanart, etc.) has mostly been relegated to the shadows, despite it being the backbone of many shows/fandoms. to have that love & labour visually represented in an unabashed, unashamed, silly, CANONICAL and queer way? to have the very stories we devote our time to crafting for one another manifested on the screen in an unapologetically gay visual feast? that should be a fucking celebration.

it's okay. lean in with me. let's practice some radical self-love and healing in this chillis tonight. together. this is a love letter to us. lean in.

#literally writing this for myself 'cause turns out i had some shit to unpack #but it turns out i would die for the fucking mermaid sequence so jot that down #ofmd #our flag means death #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #stede bonnet #edward teach #fucking mermaids #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd spoilers #FUCKING MERMAIDS MAN CAN YOU BELIEVE IT #we don't have chillis in Australia is it one L or two????

1K notes · View notes

dilatorywriting · 9 months

Text

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Fish are friends (?). You are not food.

[PART 1] [PART 2]

The Siren wasn’t leaving.

Which a part of you had been expecting. Because surely if there had been a snowball’s chance in Hell of him making it out into the open ocean alive before you’d cut through the ropes, he would have taken it and left you stranded without a second thought. And his odds weren’t that much better now—his fins were still a mangled mess and the wounds all along his scales and dainty featherings were still raw and oozing. It only made sense that he’d take at least a few days to try and recover.

But… But still.

Did he have to make it so obvious that he was sticking around?

The glint of the light off his tail was a constant distraction—always bright and eye-catching even at the cloudiest points of the day. Always flashing just out of the corner of your eye as a perpetual reminder that there was something in the water that would very happily gobble you up if you bothered making a swim for safety.

He’d also taken to sunning himself. Like some kind of overgrown mer-cat. Stretched out languidly on a flat rock with the tips of his violet fins hanging over the edge—just enough for the gauzy edges to play along the surf and avoid drying out entirely. His pale hair splayed out in a halo around him as he snoozed softly in the heat of the afternoon.

Which! No fair! This wasn’t a vacation! This was a stranding! An SOS! A Rose Queen Procedural Rule Four-Hundred-and-Four! And him taking up the whole of the cove to, I don’t know, tan, felt like another intentional slap in the face. The sun rose over the bay, which meant this stretch of shore was facing East. Which was the direction your vessel had been coming from. Which meant that this was the place on the little islet where you needed to be. Subsection Three of Procedural Four-O’-Four. ‘In the case of Crew Overboard, we will always travel the same route as planned. In order to give the Strandee a chance to map out a reconnection point.’ Riddle always had been so smart about these kinds of things.

‘It’s just until he’s better,’ you reassured yourself for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Then he’ll leave and I can get rescued or die here alone and in peace.’

A fin flicked up from the shallows to spray you with saltwater splatters and you spluttered indignantly when it ran down into your eyes. You glared at the Siren’s retreating back, musing bitterly about how you’d never thought it was possible for someone to make the tuck of their shoulders look smug.

‘Alone and in peace,’ you repeated hopefully. And it sounded like such far off dream.

On the second day post-rope-removal, the Siren waved you down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You approached the waterline hesitantly, still mostly waiting for him to turn on you and make toothpicks out of your bones. But instead of murdering you and getting crafty with your corpse, he just pointed to some scribbles in the sand. You squinted at the loop-de-loops suspiciously. It almost looked like an illustration of dancing bubbles—the lot of them curling and popping along the ground in a line like a limerick.

“Uhm, very nice,” you tried, and the fins flattened pissilly all along the side of his head.

He jabbed his claw towards the mess again. Then firmly at your eyes (hopefully not as a threat that he’d be happy to take them right out of your head if you continued to be obtuse). And then back again. He made a point to move the tip of his sharp nail from one swirl to the next in a little hop-hop-hop. It reminded you a bit deliriously of Riddle trying to teach some of the more socially bereft members of the crew their letters, and—

“You want me to read that?” you gaped, staring at the elegant curls of nonsense in the sand.

The Siren crossed his arms across his lean chest with a scoff that puffed past his lips hard enough to fluff out some of the paler, purple-tipped, hair hanging by his chin. He rolled his eyes at you and muttered something thin and spicy under his breath that you just knew had to be some sort of insult.

“I can read!” you defended, because it felt like it needed defending.

He leveled you with an entirely unimpressed ‘Oh, I’m sure you can’ sneer and you dropped to your knees, incensed. You dug your fingers into the sand and started sculpting out your own very cheery message into the muck.

When you were done, you waved a hand towards your proclamation and watched his brows pull together at the center into a teeny, pinched sort of expression. He let himself roll forward with the seafoam to lay more fully on the shore, and stared down at the mess you’d made like it was some strange code. Even reaching out to poke softly at the straight edge of a ‘T’ with one of his knife-sharp talons.

After a long moment of contemplation, he looked back up at you with an arched brow that was so unintentionally poised and not full of spite that it almost took your breath away. Who knew how pretty an already stunning face could become when it wasn’t twisted up in absolute vitriol? You shook away that absolutely damning thought in horror. That’s exactly what he’d want you to think. Siren, and all. Using his hotness to lure people onto his dinner table. Not you, baby. Because you were smart. And so gross from being stranded under island sunshine for a week that surely you’d taste like some absolutely rancid jerky at this point.

“Oh no,” you droned, and immediately that subtle curiosity of his ticked right back into irritation. “Two creatures from entirely different species and ecosystems have somehow managed to develop unique alphabets. What a completely unpredictable complication.”

The Siren puffed up like an angry lionfish and turned with a snarl to dive back into the shallows—making sure to whip his tail in your face and slam into the water with a huge splash as he went. The salt spray pelted down like rain and you snickered as it sloughed off your cheeks in rivulets, content to sit merrily in the wet sand beside your hastily scribbled: ‘Mermen Are Vicious Bitches. Hit Me if You Agree :)’

The next morning, there were more fish on the shoreline. Though these ones looked a bit less like they’d been dragged up by their souls and left to writhe in the wake of Siren-Screaming-Agony and more just like the unfortunate victims of a pair of too sharp claws.

You frowned down at a brown, sad-looking flounder that had clearly found itself at the very wrong end of a certain merman still swanning about in the bay not fifty feet away. It was mostly intact, and pleasantly plump for a flat, pancake-looking blob of muck. Your stomach gurgled and the thought of a nice, coal-charred, fillet really seemed quite nice. You chanced another peek at your resident Asshole, debating if it was worth swiping his snack. Another ominous rumble from your abdomen and you reached down to steal your prize and scuttle off deeper inland like a troll returning to its layer.

It didn’t take very long to get a small fire going, and within the hour you’d been fed and were more than ready for a cozy, full-bellied nap in the soft sand.

By the time you began to make your way back to the cove, the sun was high in the sky and you were already dreading sitting beneath its weighted rays for another afternoon. So you slowed your pace to a near snail crawl, dragging your feet as you went.

The little octopus from earlier was still swaying contentedly around the tide pool you’d shoved it into. It probably needed to be carried back out to the bay at some point so that it could swim back into the depths of the ocean, but the poor thing was just so small and round. Surely it’d get devoured by the first sharp-toothed thing that caught sight of it. Especially with your merman apparently being out for the blood of whatever other scaly things were swimming about in his temporary home. So for now you slipped it some small bits of leftover fish instead. You sat, crouched at the pool’s edge, and watched raptly as it grabbed the shredded bits of pale meat with its chubby tentacles to shove towards an eager beak.

“You’re the only friend I have left in the whole world,” you told the octopus miserably, wiping the greasy remnants of your lunch off your chin with a sigh.

The traitor hurriedly moved to snatch up the treat you’d offered it and hide itself away between some rocky crevices. You sighed louder. Rejected. What a time to be alive.

The next morning, the Siren was singing again.

That familiar prickle danced its way up your arms, leaving pinpricks of goosebumps in its wake. Some pirates told tales of storms leaving their mark in such a way—that seasoned sailors could feel the tickle of thunder against their skin long before they could spot dark clouds on the horizon. You’d have to amend that little legend whenever you found your way back to The Rose Queen. Siren Sense was a lot cooler, anyways. Any idiot with arthritis could tell you when rain was due.

But either way, Mister Merman was back to idly circling the bay and calling into the distance. At least it wasn’t as miserable as it had been the other day—more of a leisurely pacing than the frantic, near-feral caterwauling that had soured your gut so terribly.

There was another fat fish on the shore. A bright, red snapper so brilliantly crimson that it was almost impossible to make out the garish wounds in its side. Almost. And even if it hadn’t been, the drooping, rust colored, rivulets dug into the sand would have been enough of a clue.

Why the Siren was bothering to leave his clawed-up kills at your feet like some overgrown cat dragging in mice, you had no idea. Maybe he was poisoning them, and subsequently you. Maybe he was bored and it was some sort of fishy enrichment. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother leaving dead things around to contaminate his favorite sunning spots, and tossing his leftovers in your vicinity was as close to a reliable dumpster as he could find on a remote island. Who’s to say.

Either way, you dutifully ignored the magical tingles racing up your shoulders and brought the newest fish back to your makeshift firepit. You grilled the snapper in silence, debating. Then you fed your octopus friend and returned to the beach, cooked fillets in tow.

You waited in awkward silence for a few moments, fish burning your palms, before raising your fingers to your lips and whistling loud enough to make your teeth ache. The mystical static faded from the air and you watched in pleasant (?) surprise as the Siren made his way back to where you’d set up camp. He rolled in with the tide, cresting on a gentle bit of surf and coming to rest neatly in the shallows—fins splayed out beneath him like a lord lying amidst his many silken robes. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you with an arched brow and slanted frown.

You awkwardly extended a hand—roasted snapper still resting in your open palm and burning the absolute fuck out of your fingers.

“Uhm,” you said, feeling a bit too much like the local idiot trying to feed one of the rabid, wandering, strays around town. “Food?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at you.

“Do you want food?” you tried.

The other brow joined the first, nearly rising all the way into his hairline. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of surprise.

“It’s better cooked?” you coaxed in the face of his outright constipated scowl. Be fed and full, you thought hopefully. Maybe then you won’t fucking look at me like I’m a boxed lunch.

He jabbed a sharpened, black talon in your direction, and then pointedly again angled up towards your mouth. Then back to the fish still roasting your poor cuticles straight off your fingers.

You blinked, a bit thrown.

“What? It’s supposed to be for me?”

He nodded, throwing in another one of those bombastically snarky eyerolls for good measure. ‘Obviously,’ that sneer said.

“Well,” you huffed, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the sand and offering up one of the fillets. “There’s plenty for both of us.” When he stared at you like you were attempting to serve him up a choice pile of literal dog shit, you wiggled your hand and entreated, “Please just take it before my skin melts off.”

The Siren huffed and reached out, plucking up the fish with the tips of his claws. He observed your meager meal as one might a particularly unappealing cockroach, and after a long moment, his nose scrunched (cute, you thought absently before immediately suffocating every wayward braincell that would dare call your murderous shore-neighbor anything of the sort) and he leaned forward to nip at a crisped, pink corner with the barest edge of one canine.

When your culinary creation didn’t immediately strike him dead on the spot, he took another, equally dainty bite. And then another. The tight pucker of his mouth eased as he chewed, and you watched as the harsh cut of his purple irises warmed with that same intrigue as they had when you’d first scribbled your foreign letters into the sand.

He readjusted his grip on the fish between his claws to get a better angle and took a proper bite, chewing thoughtfully. Before you knew it, you were watching him nip at the pads of his fingers, his gaze going a bit round and shocked when he realized that he’d devoured the entirety of it.

“See?” you hummed, tucking into your own portion with gusto. “Not all things humans come up with are terrible.” He harumphed and turned to glare back out over the bay, slouching into the surf with an expression that was most certainly not a pout. “But maybe you’d know that if you bothered to do anything other than murder and devour us on sight,” you chirped.

To which you were immediately doused with an armful of water for your troubles. The Siren glowered petulantly from where he’d just wave-bombed you, and then dove back into the deeper waters of the sandbar. He immediately started up his stupid singing all over again—pointedly keeping his chin high above the surface and splashing brine into your face anytime he looped close enough to shore.

“I don’t know why I bother,” you huffed, and ate your sopping snapper in grumpy silence.

There was a ship wrecked off the coast.

Nothing overly cool, and definitely only a small chunk of what had probably at one point been a rather impressive vessel. But it was something. The first change in pace you’d had in days and oozing with possibilities.

The only problem was that the great, rotting, hull of the thing was dug up into a jagged skerry about a hundred yards off the shore—wedged into the pointed rocks with no chance of any wave or breeze sending it adrift. You could swim perfectly well. I mean, living your life on a ship surrounded by tumultuous, depthless, ocean would have been a hugely stupid career move otherwise. The issue, naturally, was the thing currently making its home in these waters. Sharks and barracudas, blablabla. They were just animals, no matter how many teeth they had. The Siren had a grudge. And just as many teeth.

Right now, said spiky pain in your ass was lounging in the shallows like the froth was an elegant daybed made just for him—shredded fins swaying in the soft tides and his hair floating about him that same, white-gold halo that made him look far too peaceful for anyone’s good sense. He wasn’t singing today, which was great for the local wildlife population but terrible for your Siren Sense. Once you waded into the waves, you’d have no real way to keep track of him. Hope, maybe, that he didn’t think fucking with you was worth messing up whatever tan-line he had going on. But nothing concrete that you’d be willing to bet the safety of your limbs on.

You wiggled your toes in the sand and stared longingly out at the stupid, wrecked ship that was so stupidly close. If you swam your fastest you could probably make it there in under two minutes—less than that, even. But that was still more than enough time for the Siren to rake those dark claws of his across your throat and drag you down into the depths to drown.

Riddle’s angry, red face swam through your thoughts, and you could practically see him shoving that beloved law tome of his under your nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Rule 32, never make dangerous bets that you’re certain you won’t win, particularly if you are betting against a Blue Nosed Beetle.’

‘Rule 15, do not needlessly sacrifice your life in the name of curiosity, excluding—of course—if you hail from Cheshire or are a Cat.’

‘It’s only a dumb shipwreck,’ you thought miserably, if rationally. ‘It’s probably not even that cool.’

Your captain would be so proud.

The next morning you were rolling up the cuffs on your pants and wading into the cool shallows, silently lighting a candle in your heart for your beloved, steam-faced leader and promising that you would at the very least cover the costs of your own funeral so as not to inconvenience him further.

The waves lapped against your ankles and the waters themselves were shockingly clear and blue. You could practically see each grain of sand beneath your heels—make out each pointy rock and the little, red crabs that scuttled away from your tromping like civilians fleeing from the shadow of a leviathan. The Siren was back to singing today. Perhaps his poor, overworked throat simply needed a break every now and again. But either way, your Merman Magic Missive was working in full force. The hairs on your arms stood at full attention and you liked to imagine you could see them twitching in circles to follow his long, looping arcs through the bay.

You made it up to your knees and waited, eyes scanning the open water and nose twitching like maybe you could smell the fucker. There was nothing but a familiar prickle along your shoulders and that deep sense of ‘tug tug tug’ with no answer, so you took a deep breath and pushed further, the water sloshing up to your hips, your chest, and finally you were floating—paddling slow and cautious towards the wreckage.

It really was insanely close. Even moving at your most cautious, sneakiest crawl, you’d made it nearly three-quarters of the way there within perhaps five minutes. And no signs of a vengeful, hungry Siren circling the waters beneath you either. More rules that perhaps that you’d have to tell Riddle might need some amending once you finally made it back home to your crew. ‘Dangerous bets,’ who? ‘Needless sacrifice,’ what? You might as well have outsmarted the whole ocean.

As you moved closer, you could make out a strange coat of arms on the side of the hull that you didn’t recognize. Twining, silver songbirds soaring against the sparkly backdrop of an otherwise plain faced crest, which honestly looked far too delicate to be heading the broken remains of what was no doubt at one point an absolute monster of a vessel. You reached out to brush your fingers against the shining plaque and then you were underwater.

You fought the immediate impulse to gasp in surprise, because expediting the process of your inevitable drowning just seemed stupid even by your standards. There was a clawed hand wrapped around your calf yanking you down, and you squinted through a stream of panicked bubbles to see your terrible, horrible, completely thankless co-strandee snarling up at you with sharp teeth and a sharper flail of his delicate gills. Thankfully the water wasn’t all that deep, so by the time you’d been dragged to the bottom you were maybe only ten feet under. But still. It was the goddamn principle! And besides, you’d heard about enough drunks drowning in puddles to know that this was more than enough Liquid Death to put you in an early grave.

The Siren looped around you in tight circles, and you could feel the brush of his tattered fins against your skin like the ghostly fingers of a reaper trailing down your spine. You’d known he was big—giant, even. Long, and impressive, and built to rule the very depths he’d dragged you into. Large enough to wrestle with sharks and capsize lifeboats. Big enough, no doubt, to eat you whole and still be hungry enough for seconds.

The salt stung your eyes and you blinked hard to keep his vibrant, amethyst tail in focus. Would he strike from the back, where you couldn’t see? Or would he go right for your throat—a direct, full frontal, ‘fuck you, human’ if there ever was one. And honestly, what were you expecting? That a good deed and a few pieces of cooked fish would sway him from devouring you whole? Maybe the island sun had fried whatever remained of your rattled brain.

He stopped in front of you and hissed—a stream of tight, tiny, bubbles jetting past his canines. You glared in petulant confusion, absolutely refusing to give your would-be murderer whatever reaction he was hoping for. His brow pinched into a tight, angry, v and he snarled again. You snarled back, and with that, the last breath in your lungs swooped out of you in a tight squeak. You choked, and struggled, and kicked at the claws holding you down. The Siren reared back, eyes widening in something that looked insultingly like genuine surprise, and you used his moment of hesitation to propel yourself off the sandbar and back to the choppy surface.

You gasped in a hasty breath, expecting to immediately be dragged back under. But when you weren’t pulled back down to your watery grave, you took in another and another. Gasping, and hacking, and spitting up seafoam. The Siren’s head crested the surface beside you and you flailed away, nearly pushing yourself under all over again. You paddled frantically, trying to keep your nose above the tide, and then suddenly there was something under you. You squawked and kicked it on instinct. The Siren snapped his pointy teeth in your face and you realized with a start that oh. That was him, wasn’t it? The long, winding, scaled muscles of his tail curled beneath your toes in what almost seemed like an attempt to keep you upright.

He stared at you with those unnervingly bright eyes of his—blonde hair curling softly at the edges where it plastered elegantly along his finned ears, and those too-long lashes dripping with small, sparkly, drops of salt water.

“What the hell is this bullshit?” you choked, coughing up more bubbly froth. “You don’t get to look so—so put together after trying to murder me!”

The Siren huffed out something that the delusional, still half-drowned, part of you wanted to classify as a laugh. And then he organized that bemused expression back into its usual, haughty, iciness and began to carefully make his way back towards the shore—towing you along like a poor, little, lost buoy with nowhere else to go.

You let him drag you up into the sand and only flopped around a little. He flicked his tail at you and your dramatics and you turned on him with a fierce, waterlogged scowl—a bit more confident now that he didn’t have the home field advantage.

“What was that for! I just wanted to look at the ship! I wasn’t even doing anything to you!” you wailed. “I haven’t done anything to you at all! Ever! Why do you keep—" you collapsed back into the sand with a miserable whine that rattled all the teeth in your head, and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

After a long moment of nothing, you felt a gentle tap at your shoulder.

You looked back up with a start to see Mister Merman looking nearly sheepish.Or as much of an equivalent that his aloof mask of a face was capable of pulling off. The clawed finger resting at your collarbone dropped to the sand by your hip, and he carefully began to draw more of those squiggles. No, scratch that. Not the dancing, popping, ones from the other day. These actually looked sort of like the silver songbirds from that shipwreck. More jagged, certainly. But similar enough that you felt something a bit too coldly cautious to be confusion seep through your guts.

Once he was finished, he looked up and met your gaze—sharp, pointed. And then he reached back out and smeared the birds into nothing and shook his head, firm. His red lips moved slowly, exaggerated, again and again. And you could make out the vague shape of words you’d had shouted at you a hundred times over.

‘Not safe.’

That same, shivery, nervous feeling bit at your limbs.

“…okay,” you said after a moment. And then leaned forward to dig your own fingers into the sand, dutifully ignoring how your elbows knocked against his own.

‘Not safe,’ you wrote, and watched his eyes trace each letter like a treasure map.

There was another tap at your shoulder. And then he pointed to the words in the muck, then to himself.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re not safe either.”

He sighed dramatically enough to ruffle the ends of your still soaked hair. And then pointed to the words again, tapping at the ‘N’ with the curved tip of a claw.

“Nnnn?” you mouthed, confused.

He moved to the ‘o’ next and it clicked.

“You want me to teach you how to read my letters?” you asked, flabbergasted. Another sigh, like you’d dropped the weight of all the world on his pale shoulders. Or perhaps that your idiocy was enough to put that hearty mass to shame. You decided that you were still feeling a bit too much like you’d only just barely escaped a brush with death, dismemberment, and dinner plans to push your luck with sassing him back too harshly, and just blinked owlishly in dazed surprise. “But why?”

His purple eyes trailed in the direction of the shipwreck and something cutting and poisonous clouded his expression. He pointed to the words again.

‘Not safe.’

“Alright,” you said, looking out over the water with a strange sort of sinking feeling in your gut. You leaned forward and began to draw the alphabet at your feet. His tail twitched by your fingers and you ignored the soft brush of his still-healing fins. “This one’s an ‘A’, like in ‘Asshole’—"

Whomp went the tail as he cracked it across your knuckles like a school matron with a ruler. And you couldn’t help the startled burst of genuine, tinkling laughter that bubbled past your lips for the first time since you’d been dragged overboard.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

@marvelous-maxi, @ilikefanfics4, @jackalope08, @crocwork-clockodile, @cosmicobubisi, @buttplugs-stuff, @pomefleur, @decemebercircus, @ailynyan, @genzombie, @meliade-ot, @sunlightocean, @theofficialantitherapist, @hermiona18, @sailorenthusiast, @fantasy-dating-sim-trash, @thefiasco-onyourblock, @insideous-beez, @its-clockwork-princess

@novaloptr, @imlost-sendhelp, @matcha-berry @preciosayorgullosa @whoretaglia, @kookygirlwholikescookiesandcoke, @nanauedorian, @trixeraptops, @voxnipop, @starkling25, @thedum1, @horcrux-alchemist, @sleepykitty21, @apathicace, @instantregret101, @nekanecorvus, @looney-mori, @re-ducing, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @naughtybodypillow, @rendy-a, @carmen-404, @candy284, @thealiennamedterry, @their-name-is-fake, @huetolog, @glacticrose, @seraphinariddle, @rabioa, @sn00zl4x, @dreasimping, @jeidoreech, @ai-dev, @galaxyshine24-7, @fatally-incorrect, @juulranch, @camrastuff, @nocteetdie, @stargaryengirl, @warmsmilesandhugs, @01paige01

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Mermay #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 2

1K notes · View notes

theminecraftbee · 2 months

Text

The thing in her cargo hold is looking at her again.

Really, Gem should have sold it by now. If the fishmonger had refused to take it--and really, it seems unlikely, Gem thinks, that the fishmonger would refuse to take it; he has taken and carved up and made meals of far stranger fish than one with a human face and hands and torso--she could have easily sold it to the man on the train, who takes exotic catches for his zoo. She could have even taken it to Grian; it's not a mending book, but it's the sort of thing he'd like to make fun of her for catching, instead of anything she's after.

Really, she should have. The longer she keeps the thing in her cargo hold, the more it starts to look properly human to her. She should know better. She has caught far stranger fish, and none of them have been human. It's another trick these seas have been playing on her, she thinks.

Long nights alone do that to a woman.

She ignores it. Instead, she opens the lid of the tank and starts depositing salmon. "It's a really weird request, that I keep them alive the whole time. You won't eat them, right?" Gem says, knowing the thing in her cargo hold can't answer. "Because if you eat them, this time, I really am going to sell you to the fishmonger. Or maybe I can figure out how to get fillets from you on my own? I've certainly eaten weirder fish..."

The thing in the cargo hold continues to stare. It has eyes that look like little moons, and brown hair, and it is smiling for some reason. Gem huffs.

"Don't give me that look! You are a fish. I am a fisherman. If mere human faces stopped me from doing my job, I would have gone mad a long time ago."

The thing in the cargo hold smiles wider. The lights flicker. Gem rolls her eyes and finishes putting salmon in the tank. As though to spite her, the thing in the cargo hold immediately lashes out, grabbing one in the claws on her otherwise-human hands and then tearing it apart with razor-sharp teeth. Blood rises on the water. Gem sighs.

"I have a harpoon in here somewhere, or at least a very sharp knife," she says to herself. She doesn't really want to use her nice knife, the one she always keeps on her belt, but she ought to have another knife around with which she can finish the job, right?

The lights flicker and go out. When she looks across at the tank, there are two silvery-moon eyes looking at her.

Gem pulls a wire. Gem turns the lights back on. She takes a deep breath.

"I really should have sold you by now, really. If the fishmonger won't take you, then the zookeeper would love you," Gem says.

The radio crackles. Gem startles. Very, very few people ever contact her on the shipboard radio, but if she's getting a signal, that's more important than a grudge match with a fish. She heads over to answer the call.

An amalgamation of voices responds:

YOU ARE FUNNY. I HAVE A MESSAGE. A DELIVERY. YOU'VE TRAPPED ME THOUGH.

Slowly, Gem turns around to the thing in the cargo hold.

"This won't stop me from treating you like a fish," she says. "If messages from the ocean stopped me--"

A terrible, crackling laugh sounds from the radio.

I AM THE MOON'S PEARL. YOU WILL NOT HOLD ME FOREVER. WE WILL SEE WHO EATS WHO.

Gem wags her finger. "We'll see, for sure, as long as you don't eat my salmon. That man in the fish-scaled suit was VERY insistent, you know."

TELL ME MORE.

"You're tying up my radio. What if there's another ship? What if there's something important?"

OH GEM. YOU KNOW THERE WON'T BE.

Gem swallows.

The thing in the cargo hold is staring at her.

"I need to sleep. I need to go to shore," she says.

YOU WON'T, the radio says.

She won't.

#hermitcraft #hermitfic #geminitay #pearlescentmoon #a bee fic #SO I STILL HAVEN'T PLAYED DREDGE. SO SORRY IF THE VIBES ARE WRONG.#but i figured. someone has to do a mermaid au. Why Not Write That Premise Myself #and then it become... spooky.#so uh. i guess pearl may not exactly be a MERMAID here. but.#horror #DO WITH THIS CONCEPT WHAT YOU WILL.#dehumanization #JUST REALIZED I PROBABLY NEED THAT ONE. yeah anyway

487 notes · View notes

ra-archives · 4 months

Text

Yes Yes, I see your Mermaid Legend this and Merman Legend that, however,

Might I offer up some Siren Legend

#THINK OF THE POSSIBILITIES #So much room for siren song fuckery in difficult situations. Like it'd be so fun #Think of legend getting too into it during a transformation and making the chain nervous when he steps a bit to close to 'monster'#THINK OF WIND #The sailor and the siren are bound to have beef with eachother #I think I have a new fic to go write #art #my art #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #mer legend #Every time I think of Siren Legend 'Poor Unfortunate Souls' starts looping in my head on repeat help #Also fun fact: Sirens were originally portrayed with bird like features and were later adapted to have the typical mermaid features :D

507 notes · View notes

em-mermaid · 2 months

Text

Gem wakes up during Secret Life and discovers something has changed (aka 1296 words of Gem/Pearl for @mcyt-yuri-week)

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

The first thing Gem hears are muffled voices outside. They seem to be angry about something, or perhaps distressed? She definitely knows they are louder than normal. She groans at the noise, but it brings her closer to consciousness, curiosity poking its way through the haze of sleep.

When she opens her eyes, the world spins and her head throbs. Everything is too bright, too much, and she’s quick to squeeze her eyes closed again, desperate for the feeling to go away.

She waits and ever so slowly, the voices fade back in as the overwhelm of feelings fades out.

“Impulse, you let me in right now or I’ll make you regret it.” There is a seriousness behind the threat that makes Gem sure that whatever is happening is far more important than she can comprehend right now.

“C’mon Pearl,” he placates, and Gem can imagine his hands held up in near surrender. “Give her a few more minutes, she’s not even awake yet!”

Are they talking about her? What would be so important that Pearl would threaten Impulse of all people. They were getting along earlier, weren’t they?

Earlier.

Flashes of memories finally surface to her conscious mind. The Game. The cherry forest where she built a home with her Scotts. Her tasks and a trip to the nether.

An angry enderman.

The end portal.

She’s a yellow in the death Game because They had instructed her to open up the end portal. And now her friends are arguing outside her house.

Surely, this will be fine. She takes a breath and slowly opens her eyes. The world spins again in a burst of too bright color. The pink of her walls is near blinding and it swirls into the mahogany of her ceiling. It hurts. It’s almost too much, but she squints, determined to hold out until the colors stop melding together.

Pearl’s voice sounds distant now, beyond the intensity of the light. “If you don’t let me past in the next five seconds—”

“Ok fine, you can go in!” Impulse finally agrees, panic lacing his words. “But, before you do, you should really know—”

The door opens. It’s a quiet action, calm after all the arguing, but with it comes the sunlight. The greens of the grass and blue of a sword mixing with the ever growing cacophony of color. It’s too much.

She shuts her eyes again with a wince, an action Pearl seems to notice immediately.

“Gem?” She asks, urgent and confused. Why is Pearl confused? The door closes and there is a clatter of a sword, hastily set aside as Pearl rushes towards the bed. The mattress dips as she sits near her stomach. “Gem, are you alright? What happened?”

“‘s bright,” she manages to mumble before the headache spikes with the effort of the words. Pearl says something in acknowledgement and moves away, but Gem’s focus has already wandered towards taking stock of her body.

Her mouth is dry. Dry in a way she’s sure she has never experienced. It’s horrible the way her throat catches when she tries to swallow, but for some reason the thought of drinking water is incredibly unappealing. She licks her lips in an attempt to bring some moisture back. It doesn’t work.

The next thing she notices is that her body feels heavy, sluggish. One of her arms has gone numb, probably due to the way she was sleeping.

Pearl’s weight returns to the edge of the mattress and Gem groans, wrapping towards the warmth. There’s a small chuckle as Pearl begins tracing soothing circles along her not-numb arm. “Gem, you want to try and open your eyes again? I blocked off all the windows.”

This time she steadies herself, trying to mentally prepare for the spinning. She knows it might not work, but at least Pearl is here, grounding her with a gentle touch.

She opens her eyes.

Darkness, blacks and grays spiral in with the orange of a single torch. Faded denim pants and a familiar black sweater slowly take shape and lead her eyes upward towards Pearl’s face, her too-yellow eyes shining like beacons in the dark.

This time, though, it’s not too much.

Slowly, the overwhelm dims into the shadows, clearing her vision enough for Pearl’s expression to take shape. Her brows are pinched together in concern, lips pursed as her eyes flick back and forth, seemingly taking in the details of Gem’s face.

When their eyes finally meet, Pearl’s mouth twists into a hesitant, concerned smile. “There you are,” she sighs, and it sounds far too close to one of relief.

Gem wants to reach out, wants to soothe the lines from her forehead, wants to hold Pearl’s cheek and tell her that whatever is causing this stress can be solved, but she finds that her body is still too heavy from sleep to do so. Plus, whatever is worrying Pearl must be about her.

Sure, it’s not out of the ordinary for Pearl to fret over her when she’s not feeling well, but usually it looks like a bowl of soup and a silly story to keep her entertained while being stuck in bed. This though, this feels different. There is no silly glint in Pearl’s eyes, no teasing about how her hair looks like a bird's nest or how Pearl is awake before her for once. There is only an echo of an argument and urgency and a gentle hand on her arm.

So, she opens her still dry mouth and croaks out the only question she can put into words. “What’s wrong?”

Pearl lets out a hollow laugh and Gem can see the way it smooths down a small edge of her worry. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? I should be the one asking you that.”

“I’m just sick, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Just sick? Gem you were asleep for nearly a full day! I had no idea until Impulse messaged the entire chat!” Pearl exclaims, her eyes trail towards the left side of Gem’s face. “And now…”

“An entire day?”

“How does your arm feel?”

“Pearl, what?”

“Please, just trust me for a moment.” Pearl’s eyes are searching as she leans in to brush some hair from Gem’s face before cradling her cheek. The soothing circles return in the form of a thumb tracing along her cheekbone. “How does your left arm feel?”

“It’s…” She hesitates. There is a pulsing sort of pressure that runs down from her shoulder to her fingertips. It’s an odd sensation, not quite the usual feeling of sleeping wrong against a limb. She tries to wiggle her fingers to no avail. “…numb. How did you know?”

“Try not to panic, okay?”

“Panic?” Gem questions, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why would I panic?”

Pearl only gestures for her to look.

Gem tilts her head, finally looking towards her arm. It’s still dark in the room and her arm blends into the shadows. Flicks of blues and purples dance across her skin and it’s only when she sees it contrasted next to Pearl’s pale hand that she realizes, it’s not just the shadows.

Her arm is as black as the void.

A strangled sort of shout breaks free from her lips and she tries to scramble up, away from a sight so unfamiliar. Her body is still heavy, but she manages to sit up enough to get a good look at the arm laying limp beside her.

The arm, no matter how unfamiliar, is still undeniably her own. It is the same size as her arm used to be, same short fingers, attached to the same shoulder.

It has to be a dream. Or maybe it’s a cruel prank. Why would her arm look like the void?

#gempearl #mcytyuriweekvalentines #trafficshipping #body horror #nothing too descriptive but just to be safe #it's about her yellow life skin #this is part of a larger story that i might never finish #but i have so many thoughts about the secret life women and how they relate to the end #i would love to ramble about if if anyone is interested #mermaid writes #trafficfic

77 notes · View notes

space-mermaid-writing · 1 year

Text

The Path I Strayed From [Human!Cloak, IronStrange]

Summary: The Cloak of Levitation gets hurt in a fight and remains motionless. Desperate for a cure, Stephen tries every healing spell he can find. But nothing works. Until one morning he wakes up and looks straight into the face of a strange human in familiar red robes.

Tags: Human!Cloak, the cloak has no concept of personal space, IronStrange as a side dish with mutual pining, platonic Stephen/Cloak, it starts with angst, then it’s all fun and fluff

Ko-fi | Masterlist | Read it on AO3 | Word count: 7.3k

Chapter’s Note: I just really wanted to write a human cloak that loves Stephen. They are a great duo. 10/10 want more content with them as besties

The Path I Strayed From

Stephen stumbled through a portal into the Sanctum Sanctorum. Blood dripped from his forehead and from several wounds under his slashed clothes. But that was not the reason for the despair that was written on his face. It was the red fabric he clutched in his arms.

It was enough to make Wong, who was nearby, instantly concerned. "What happened?" he asked, but Strange merely shook his head, hugging the cloak tighter. Wong noticed it didn't move, which was weird enough. With a hand on his shoulder, he guided Strange to a couch and sat him down.

Stephen had been in another dimension. It should have been just an easy enough mission. Just a check in. But the way Stephen looked, something definitely went totally wrong.

When Wong tried to take the cloak, stubbornly holding onto it. "I'll find a way, my friend," he murmured into the fabric.

The cloak remained motionless. Stephen tried every spell he knew but nothing worked. He was currently searching in the library. Wong went to Kamar-Taj to look for a solution there. The problem was that there wasn‘t a lot of information about the cloak‘s origin, nor its magic. Stephen tried in the past to figure it out, but it was tedious work, because the Cloak of Levitation never held still long enough – and so he had finally given up on it. Now when he scanned the fabric, there were no traces of magic at all. And that was what worried him most.

Stephen felt a shift in the Sanctum as someone entered through the front door. A quick check told him it was a welcomed guest – usually. Usually he would send the cloak to bring Stark to the library.

Stephen sighed silently.

Tony knocked his knuckles on the door frame before he walked into the room. "I brought food," he announced, a bag with take out food in his hand. He looked at the sorcerer, who avoided his gaze, noting the deep circles under his eyes.

Stephen mumbled just a small greeting, not in the mood for company. „Do you want anything?“ he asked curtly. It was the grief talking. Normally he was happy to see Stark. Way more happy than he should be.

Today he didn‘t even try to banter, the gleam in his eyes missing.

Tony wasn’t put off by this. He had his own bad days and knew where they came from. And he was willing to be at least as stubborn as Strange, if he had to. He put the bag on the table next to Strange‘s books.

„I heard of your cloak.“

„Just a temporary inconvenience. I‘m currently working on a solution.“

„Of course,“ Tony offered way too casual. He sat down at the table and grabbed a book from the pile. „What are we looking for?“

Finally, Stephen looked at him, regarding Stark, who seemed serious about helping him. „Can you read Tamil?“ Tony opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Stephen scoffed with something that could be amusement. „Let me guess: Friday can?“

Tony smirked. „Correct. Ten points to Ravenclaw.“

Stephen rolled his eyes, then looked at the bag on the table. „That‘s from the Indian place on the eighth street?“

„Number five for you, number sixteen for Wong and extra naan bread.“

There was a shadow of a smile on Stephen‘s lips, as his heart took a leap. Food first, he decided, because he was starving – even though he wouldn‘t admit it – and then they would continue the research. Stark knew nothing about magic, but he was wicked smart and four eyes read faster than two.

„How did it happen anyway?“

„Witches,“ Stephen said with a frown.

He had been surprised by them. They must have settled recently and were not pleased about his visit. They attacked him with a lot of raw power. Normally they would just stand a minor problem for the Sorcerer Supreme, but he was also greatly outnumbered. So it turned out to be rather challenging.

There had been one specific nasty spell whirled at him. The cloak of levitation had caught the magic - as it often did. After that he had stopped moving. Stephen had used his anger to push down the shock and didn’t waste any more time with the witches.

"Nothing good ever came from witches," Tony agreed lowly, for he had had his own bad experiences with them.

Stephen tried every healing and magic storing spell he could find.

Nothing.

Angrily he threw the last book against the wall – just to catch it midair with magic. Wong would have his head, if he damaged a book from the library. With a flick of his hand it floated onto a nearby table.

He needed to sleep. No astral projecting but actual sleep.

Stephen took the cloak with him. He tried to wear it anyway, but it felt too much like a dead body hanging on his shoulder; creepy and wrong.

He put the red fabric neatly folded on a chair in his room, hit the shower and then his bed. He was out almost instantly.

Stephen was stirring awake, feeling surprisingly well rested. And there were hands on him. First he thought he was dreaming, maybe of Stark. They moved, brushing his hair out of his face. Stephen blinked sleepily and noticed a flash of red fabric. It looked awfully similar to… Stephen wrenched his eyes open and tried to sit up, but a weight on his chest prevented that second action. He was eye to eye with a foreign face.

„Stephen!~“

Instantly alarmed, the sorcerer tried to access the situation: dark eyes and longish hair fell into a round face. It was hard to guess a gender, they looked kinda androgynous. The red robes were in the typical style of Kamar-Taj. Stephen had never seen them before but something about them felt familiar.

The cloak stared at him with a wide grin. It was trying to hold back, and was successful for about eight seconds, before it didn't want to wait any longer. „Stephen, look! I‘ve got hands.“ It shoved them right into his face. „And I can talk. My voice sounds kinda weird, but isn‘t it great? Listen to it. Actual words coming from my mouth.“ It was chatting happily, while Stephen just stared at it.

His brain tried to understand what was going on here. The pattern of the robe, the hue of red, the gestures.…

“Cloak?“

The cloak beamed at him. “Hi.“

“Why are you… human?“ Stephen pushed it off his chest and finally sat up.

“I don‘t know. The last thing I remember is the fight with the witches. They were mean. You‘re fine, though? You look fine.“ It examined his face, poked and probed his cheeks and then down the shoulders of his naked upper body. Stephen pushed its hands away. “And then I woke up like this.“

“Must be one of the spells I tried on you,“ Stephen thought out loud. At the look of the cloak, he added, “You didn’t move. I thought I lost you…”

And because the cloak had always been great in reading Stephen’s feelings and what he needed, it hugged him tightly. Stephen took a deep breath and all the stress of the last week fell off him. The not-cloak was warm and still even smelled the same, despite its different appearance. It moved. Stephen had been successful.

“I’m always coming back to you,” the cloak said softly. It felt like a promise. “You’re my friend.”

Stephen just nodded, not being able to form actual words. Until the cloak shifted and climbed behind Stephen, putting its arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?” the sorcerer asked, irritated.

“It’s morning. Time for breakfast, silly. Let’s get you out of bed.” With these words, it suddenly lifted Stephen out of bed and set him to his feet. Apparently it still had the ability to levitate and also still had the same strength to move him with it. Even though he was used to it from the cloak of levitation, it felt strange with the human version.

Although Stephen was glad to see the return of the cloak, he refused to give it a piggyback ride to the kitchen.

The human cloak pouted - it had always been good at it, but its human face took it to a whole new level. It followed him anyway, floating beside him.

On their way to the kitchen, they saw Wong, who first glanced at Stephen and then at the not-cloak. It waved at him. "Hey Wong."

"Good to have you back, Cloak." The hint of a smile played around Wong's lips.

"Well, technically I'm not a cloak right now. More like a human of levitation." Thinking about this, it put a hand to its chin, swaying slightly left and right as it hovered. It was iconic how much its movements resembled that of its cloak form. Even if one did not know who it was, it would be recognizable by its behavioral quirks. “Oh, I know!” The not-cloak beamed. “You can call me Levi for now. Like Tony always does.”

“Sure, Levi.”

It was weird to see Levi in this form, but it was no longer still. So it was not an actual problem. Stephen nevertheless rummaged through all the books of spells he had used, to find out what caused this.

Levi was happy and didn't complain about its new body, so Stephen was in no hurry to reverse it – and perhaps risk turning it back into a lifeless and very much not moving piece of cloth.

Even as a cloak, Levi had always had a curious nature. Now it was fascinated by being able to touch things with hands, to see things with eyes. And it seems to have made it a challenge to try every single food existing. It quickly found out that it didn't actually need to eat. A quick magic scan by Stephen had shown that it was run by magic.

That didn’t stop it from stealing food off Stephen’s plate. Once it even tried to take a slice of Wong’s pizza, while Stephen was visiting one of the other Sanctum. When he came back, he found Levi trapped in a prison mirror and Wong lectured Stephen about teaching it some manners.

The not-cloak disappeared somewhere in the Sanctum after Stephen got him out, sulking and not talking a word to anyone.

Of course it was back a few hours later, cuddling with Stephen.

Due to its former form of a piece of clothing, it had no concept of personal space. It was also very handsy and liked to drape itself around Stephen no matter where he was. It also still followed him around, even if it was no longer allowed to hang on his shoulder while he walked. Stephen made it clear that he wasn’t part of a conga line. Levi only pouted only for five minutes after that.

Stephen sat in the library, watched by the pile of red fabric and dark hair next to him. “You should go to sleep. It’s late,” it stated.

The sorcerer didn’t even look up. “I need to find something to prevent those riffs that appear all over New Jersey. Remember them? They started even before we met the witches.”

“I remember the beasts that jumped through the first riff.” Levi tilted its head. “It would have eaten your face, if it wasn’t for me.”

“And my face is really thankful for that.”

“It’s a good face,” Levi nodded. “A face that needs sleep.”

Stephen huffed amused. He conjured a pen and paper and used magic to write something down. “How about this: you find me these books and I’ll take them with me to read them in my astral form, while my face sleeps.”

Levi nodded again and grabbed the paper out of the air. It looked at it and then at Stephen, not moving an inch.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “What? Can’t read anymore?”

“I can, but not whatever this is.” It held up the paper with the illegible text. Some clichés about doctors were actually true.

Stephen rolled his eyes and told him the titles, whereupon Levi went to the shelves. It still preferred to float instead of walking, finding it unnecessarily and boring to use legs.

Stephen flipped through the book in front of him, when he noticed a shift in the air and a second later Wong appeared in the library. “Strange! We have hellhounds downtown.” As he spoke he already created a portal.

Stephen jumped to his feet. It looked like sleep would have to wait a little longer. Levi came rushing back, looking grim and ready to fight.

“You stay here,” Stephen told it sternly.

“What? No! Why? I always come with you.”

“Yes, as a cloak. We don’t know how vulnerable you’re in this form. And you can’t stay on my shoulders like this during a fight.”

Levi looked like it wanted to protest some more, but was interrupted by Wong, who had already jumped through the portal. "Strange!" he shouted impatiently.

“Just do as I say. I can’t lose you again.” Stephen was adamant about it. Before Levi could even think about following him anyway, the sorcerer had stepped through the portal and closed it from the other side.

A sting went through its heart as it stood in the empty library. Stephen had never left it behind. They were a duo from the first day the sorcerer fell through its glass case.

Levi slumped its shoulders and lowered itself onto the armchair where Stephen had just been sitting minutes ago. Hearing nothing but silence, it felt awful. Sure, Stephen was a capable sorcerer, but he always relied on the cloak. And the cloak always had his back. The thought that he was now fighting alone…

A restlessness came over Levi. So many emotions swirled inside it that it was difficult to separate them all. Levi was hurt, offended, worried. Humans felt much more strongly than cloaks, and experiencing it overwhelmed Levi a little.

It seemed like an eternity to Levi - though not much more than an hour could have passed - when noises came from the entrance hall. Stephen and Wong were back. They were seemingly unharmed, only their robes were slightly burned in some spots.

Levi approached slowly, not fully over its sulking, but the urge to make sure Stephen was okay was stronger.

Wong disappeared toward the kitchen, presumably making himself some well-deserved tea. Before Stephen could decide to follow him, Levi's fingers were in his face, prodding, turning it to the left and right in inspection.

“I’m fine, Levi.” Stephen pushed its fingers away. He was so, so tired. The adrenaline of the fight was already out of his system, leaving a deep exhaustion. “I’m going to bed.” He passed Levi, who stayed where it was.

“Alone?”

It was spoken so softly that Stephen almost missed it. "That's never stopped you from tagging along before." And it should be weird, because Levi was a human being, but it was also still his cloak. Someone familiar. A strange friend – pun fully intended.

“You never faced a fight alone before so I don’t know.”

That made Stephen turn around, facing Levi fully, and he looked at it. Like really looked.

The cloak, who had never been afraid to slap him with the corner of its hem if it didn’t agree with Stephen’s action, now looked like a cat in the rain. Insecure, rejected. Shoulder slumped. It was that moment that it hit Stephen: the situation of this cloak-turned-human might be feeling weird for him, suddenly having this person as a companion instead of a piece of fabric. But under this whole sunshine and babbling demeanor it had to be much more difficult for Levi. All its… life? consciousness?… awareness, it had always been a cloak. Yes, sure, it was able to change into whatever piece of clothes its wearer needed it to be, but there had been limits.

It was hard enough to be a human by birth. Being suddenly turned into one was beyond Stephen’s comprehension.

Its whole life, existence, destiny had changed together with its form. It tried to find a place in this world, at Stephen's side. And he had just rejected it. His friend.

Stephen's voice softened, “I’m just trying to keep you safe for now. Just like you did before. It doesn’t change anything else between us.” He nodded to the door. “C’mon.”

Levi followed him with a forced smile.

Levi didn’t need to sleep. Usually it spent the nights either hanging over the back of a chair – rather uncomfortable in its current form - or as an additional blanket on top of Stephen. It didn’t restrain from the second option just because it was human.

These days Stephen woke up with Levi sprawled all over him, sometimes even entangled in the blanket. He was fine with that and didn’t complain.

In the past the cloak had often enough done its own thing in the Sanctum, only appearing at Stephen’s side when he needed it. But ever since it shape changed, it followed him almost like a lost puppy. Stephen didn’t mind most of the time. Even if Levi didn’t know where to draw the line.

Stephen brushed his teeth in the bathroom, rinsed out and turned around, just to find himself face to face with Levi.

“Do you need to shave?” it asked. It had often helped him with that in the past when his own hands were shaking too badly.

“No. I’m just going to shower.” It nodded but didn’t leave. Stephen sighted. “Levi, we talked about this. Personal space.”

It was still a strange concept for Levi, but it backed off without complaining. Not without making funny faces, though, just because it could. Some things it would never understand. But it didn’t dwell on it, because someone was entering the Sanctum.

Stephen was the master of the Sanctum Sanctorum and some of that specific magic also applied to Levi. He instantly knew who was visiting, and was excited to greet another friend.

For Tony, it was not unusual to find the entrance hall empty. If no one was home, the doors would not open for him. The magic of the sanctum was a bit like Friday, just without a voice output and less predictable. He would just walk to the library, where either Stephen or Wong usually hung out. He was by now used to the peculiarities of the sorcerers.

What he was not used to, was to be pounced on by someone on his way upstairs.

“Tony!” Levi chirped happily, greeting the Avenger by wrapping its arms around him.

Tony was startled and pushed it away from him. "Jesus fucking Christ! Way to give me a heart attack." He drew his brows together. "Do I know you?" Usually Tony was good with faces, but he couldn't remember ever seeing this one.

Levi hovered in front of him. "It's me, your buddy."

Tony adjusted his sunglasses – Levi knew Friday was connected to them – but then took them off and tucked them into his breast pocket. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Also, for the protocol, I don’t like being jumped on. Is Strange available?”

Levi pouted and crossed its arms. “You’re no fun. Stephen is taking a shower. He threw me out, but I don’t like getting wet anyway. Makes the fabric smell funny.”

Tony stared at Levi, trying to figure out who the hell this person was and why they were so close to Strange. They seemed familiar but Friday didn’t find a match in the data bank. No facial recognition whatsoever. “You know what, I’ll come back later.” He was about to turn away when a voice from down the hall called his name.

“Stark.”

It was Stephen, who had realized they had a guest and came to greet him. He was back in his blue robes and nothing indicated that he was in the shower like 45 seconds ago. Levi knew that he had used magic for a spotless appearance; he would never face Tony with anything less.

Tony's eyes brightened. “Strange.”

Levi flew to Stephen's side. It would have preferred to be behind him, its hands on his shoulders, looking over them. Old habits died hard.

"What are you doing here? We didn't have an appointment, did we?" Stephen asked. He was oblivious to Tony's mixed feelings as he regarded the two sorcerers thoughtfully.

After what happened to the Cloak of Levitation Strange had been in a mood. Understandably. Tony never fully understood the bond between the sorcerer and his loyal companion, but he knew what it was like losing a close friend. Someone as close as family. Strange hadn’t looked good the last time Tony saw him. And he hadn’t heard from him for a while.

Tony didn’t know if he was just busy doing wizard stuff or if he wasn’t coping well. But looking at him now, he seemed more than fine with that other sorcerer nudging his side. Strange wasn’t known for being an open and affectionate person. So seeing someone occupying his personal space without getting so much as a scowl in return was at least unusual.

Tony buried his hands in his pants pockets as he suppressed some feelings he didn't want to think about. He opted for a tactical retreat instead.

“No, I was just checking in to see how you are doing, after… you know, never mind. Seems like you’re doing just fine and you are obviously busy.” He turned around before he embarrassed himself even more with his rambling.

Levi whispered something in Stephen's ear and the sorcerer nodded. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Tony turned around, opening his mouth to decline, but Levi was faster.

“We can order from that french bakery you love.”

Tony’s mouth became a thin line. He stepped towards Levi, raising his finger to point at it. “Okay, for real, who the fuck are you?”

Stephen looked from Tony to the smirking Levi, who waited for the shoe to drop. “Wait, you haven’t told him?”, Stephen asked.

“Told me what?” Tony asked exasperated.

“That’s the Cloak of Levitation.”

There was a sequence of various emotions on Tony’s face: Disbelief, surprise and... relief? It was gone as fast. “Really? I thought you kinda died?” Was the first thing that came out of his mouth. Then, “You don’t look like a cloak. But that levitation part you got down.”

“Magic,” Stephen simply stated and of course that was the explanation. It was Tony’s fault for not counting that factor in before.

“That’s definitely a story I want to hear. So, breakfast?” Tony no longer had the urge to run away.

“Sure.”

They walked to the kitchen and Levi floated next to Tony, leaning in as if he was about to share a secret. “You know, Stephen always says he doesn’t like that French place because their stuff is too sweet, but he secretly loves their chocolate croissants.”

Stephen scoffed, but the facts were already spilled. And if his ear tips became the faintest of red, that was nobody’s but his business. Especially when Tony chuckled.

“You know all the good stuff, don’t you?” The Avenger grinned. “This just became great. You have to tell me more like this.”

“Only if I can visit DUM-E and U later.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but sure. If Dumbledore doesn’t need you here, you can leave with me for your playdate.” He turned his head to Strange, who rolled his eyes affectionately. His voice was fond when he answered, “Can’t separate the kids, can I?” And shit, he shouldn’t say things like that, because now he had this image in his head. If the robots and the cloak were kids, who else could be their parents but Tony and Stephen. Warmth rose in his heart that had no business being there. It was dangerous.

Like promised Levi left with Tony. Stephen opened a portal for the both of them right into Tony’s lab. Levi rushes to its friends, showing off his new form. Tony lingered briefly next to the orange sparks. “I’m glad Levi’s back.”

Stephen's smile reflected in his eyes. “Yeah, me too.

“Will you turn it back into a piece of fabric?”

“Eventually. It seems to enjoy its body for now. Especially its mouth and ability to speak.”

“I noticed,” Tony chuckled. Levi was some serious competition for his own chattiness. “I’ll text you later to collect it. See you, don’t be a stranger.” He winked at the sorcerer, before finally walking through the portal.

Stephen was glad Tony had turned his back on him, because there was a slight blush in his face. He quickly closed the portal.

Back in his lab, Tony heard the beeping of DUM-E and U. Levi hovered in front of them, using its hands in flourishing gestures. He smiled, its antics were really unmistakable. He got himself a cup of coffee and then sat down at his latest project.

It wasn't long before Levi approached him. Tony looked up and their eyes met. "What? Done playing already?"

“You like Stephen.“

Tony looked at it sharply. “Do I now?“, he deflected but didn‘t deny it. He was way past this point.

Levi nodded. “It is kinda obvious.“

“So, you‘re an expert in human relationships now?

Levi crossed its arms, his face serious. “I have been with humans for centuries, sharing their lives. Don’t assume I’m simple minded just because of my former appearance.”

Tony raised his hands in defense. “Alright, sorry. You’re right.”

“I usually am.” Levi smirked. “And just so you know: Stephen likes you too.”

Tony glared at it, but Levi had already turned around and floated back to his friends as if it hadn't just dropped the most important piece of information of the decade.

A talking cloak had many advantages. Above all, it made communication easier. At least on Stephen's end.

"Why did you choose to stay with me?" His voice was quiet, even in the silence in which they had sat before. He hadn't dared ask the question for a long time, not knowing if he wanted to hear the answer. It could change things.

Stephen wasn't afraid of change. But the question was very personal and Stephen handled personal matters with uttermost care.

Levi, sitting next to him as so often, tugged thoughtfully at Stephen's robe. It had its hands often on Stephen these days. As cloak of levitation, it was used to resting on the sorcerer’s shoulders, and even now it seldom kept his fingers to himself, especially when they were alone. When others were around - others besides Wong and Tony - it tried to keep it to a minimum.

“You piqued my interest,” it finally said. “I saw what you could be. And let’s be honest, you really needed my help with Dormammu’s zealots that first time around.” It grinned grimly at the memory. Stephen had not even been a Master of the Mystic Arts back then. But he had fought viciously, determined and headstrong, not fully understanding what he did. He had come a long way to become Sorcerer Supreme and the cloak had always had his back since then – quite literally.

Levi smiled at Stephen. “I still see it.”

They were such simple words, the plain truth. Stephen looked at it in awe, his heart clenching, tearing up. Because he remembered it too. The cloak hadn’t left him when they faced Dormammu, dying again and again. It had saved his life several times since Stephen became Master of the Sanctum Sanctorum and later Sorcerer Supreme. He wouldn’t be here without Levi.

He pulled it on his lap and hugged it tightly. Levi was his emotional support cloak, whether in a fight or just on a bad day of his hands – Levi was there.

I was said that the cloak of levitation was a fickle thing, but loyal as hell once… Stephen didn’t know what once. He didn’t know what he did to deserve its affection. What Levi saw in him.

Freedom of will was something fascinating.

Levi hugged him back, draping its limbs around Stephen’s body as if it was still a cloak. Hugging in this form felt different, but still familiar. They had formed a bond – dying side by side over and over again for the sake of the world does that – and this whole shape changing matter would only strengthen it.

“Thank you,” Stephen muttered in the crook of its shoulder. If there were tears in his eyes, they were dried by red fabric. He didn’t need to hide them, because Levi had seen it all, his highs and lows.

Levi understood why he hid them anyway.

“You too. For keeping me.”

And aren’t there always two sides of a coin? After being alone for so long, on full display, Levi had finally found someone again he could companion. With all its antics, ticks and otherness – being so different from any other relic; not a thing but also not fully a being. With Stephen it had found a place where it could just be the cloak of levitation. And be loved for it.

Levi really tried to give Stephen and Tony a nudge in the right direction. And Tony really tried to hint his intentions at Stephen. After his conversation with Levi in the lab the other day, he had obviously taken its words to heart. Levi increasingly caught Tony looking at Stephen, really just watching him, and he made innuendos that weren't actually that hard to understand.

But Stephen's IQ lowered as soon as Tony entered the room, It was maddening. Levi was a good wing-cloak: it mentioned places where the two men could go on a date, activities it knew Stephen liked. Tony jumped on it every time, sort of served it up to the sorcerer on a silver platter. But it bounced off Stephen like water off a raincoat.

One time it went so far that Levi slapped Stephen right across the face after Tony left – unsuccessful in wooing Stephen once again.

Stephen looked at it, puzzled. "What was that for?"

"You are so stupid it's exhausting!" Annoyed, it floated out of the room.

"I have a PhD," he called after it, before looking longingly to where Tony left.

“Can we invite Peter?” Levi asked. “He hasn’t seen me yet.”

“Sure,” Stephen replied.

A few days later, he regretted it after Levi stole his phone and flooded it with selfies of it and Peter. They were ridiculous.

Stephen, Tony and Levi were walking the streets of New York. Tony offered to buy coffee for all and Levi tagged along for funsies.

Stephen had been tempted to open a portal to the coffee shop just because he could and maybe to show off, but after a hint from Levi he dropped that thought. He liked spending time with Tony anyway and now he was walking beside him, engrossed in his usual banter with the inventor.

Levi was on his other side and for once it was mostly silence, as if it wanted to give the two men some space. It was busy using Stephen’s phone – how in the fifth dimension did it get its hands on that? - for what seemed to be Candy Crush.

The coffee shop was two blocks east, but before they reached it, they all suddenly heard a loud crash nearby. Then the shrill alarm of a building sounded. Tony and Stephen exchanged a look. The sorcerer changed his shirt and jeans into his robes and the inventor tapped the house unit on his chest. Nanobots bled all over his body.

They followed the sound, Levi hot on their heels.

The alarm came from a skyscraper in the financial district. People on the street were stopping and watching, while even more people spilled from the front entrance of the building, following the emergency protocol.

“Doom Bots!”

They were hovering in the air near a broken window somewhere around the tenth floor.

Ever since the cloak's transformation Stephen had played with fly spells. They weren’t as good but did the job. Now he used such a spell to go straight after the bots – because under his stoic and sarcastic behavior the sorcerer had no drive for self-preservation and often went head first into a fight. But it was fine, because Tony and Levi were at his side – even if he told Levi to stay at the sidelines.

More bots came out of the window and one of them had a whole safe in his hands that looked like it had been ripped right out of a wall. Whatever Victor’s plan was, it couldn’t be anything good.

His bots combined technology and magic, and Tony and Stephen were clearly outnumbered. Nevertheless, they did well in battle. Stephen was a bit wobbly on his feet. It was far more difficult to concentrate on the fly spell while fighting. But Tony was home in the air. He blasted and kicked one bot after another.

Stephen used his Crimson Bands of Cyttorak to get a hold on the safe and pulled it out of the bot's hands. Suddenly, something hit his unprotected back with full force. He couldn't even let out a noise of pain before his body went limp and he fell from the sky.

Tony was busy fighting and only noticed it when he heard a cry from Levi. He watched in horror as Levi dove for the crashing sorcerer.

Levi went as fast as it could, but ten stories was not high for a chase and Stephen had quite a head start. Physics was against them. Levi used all the magic it could possibly muster. Just seconds before impact, it managed to grab the sorcerer by the waist, wrapping itself around him and breaking the fall. Levi couldn't quite prevent them both from hitting the asphalt and rolling over the ground. Their robes tore and skin scraped.

It hurt.

As a cloak, Levi was immune to pain and now it hit all the harder. It took a moment to remember how to breathe. Human bodies were so complex and fragile. But its main concern was not for himself, but for Stephen.

Levi sat up and examined the sorcerer. He breathed, thank the Vishanti. But he didn’t move. There was no reaction from him altogether, even when Levi called his name, crying it over and over again.

Stephen's eyes stayed closed.

A Doom Bot had followed them to the ground, either because its protocol tried to ensure that the threat was neutralized, or maybe because Victor was connected to them and still insisted on his personal feud with the Sorcerer Supreme. Either way, it stepped close, right into their personal space, and Levi saw red. It jumped to its feet and then right onto the foe, who dared to harm his sorcerer.

Levi was strong – strong enough to carry Stephen, a full grown man, without breaking a sweat. The bot was no challenge for it. It brought it down and knelt on its back

Levi grabbed his head and hit it on the ground, again and again. Until it no longer looked like a head and more like a mash of circuits, wires and crumple metal. It didn’t even notice when the bot stopped resisting and went offline. Levi stopped no sooner as it was sure the bot could no longer hurt Stephen.

It rushed back to the sorcerer, cradling him in its arms, his head and shoulders pulled onto its lap.

Stephen needed a hospital.

Christine!

She could help. Stephen trusted her. Even if she lectured him every time he stumbled injured into her ER.

It would be much easier if Levi was still a cloak. It could wrap itself around him, stabilize him. Stephen always told, not to move an injured person for it could do more harm than good. Especially when they had hit their heads. But Stephen can’t keep lying here.

Suddenly it noticed a movement nearby and tensed, ready to attack.

“It’s just me, buddy.” Tony held hands up in a non-threatening way, approaching slowly. He was still in his suit, but his face was revealed and his eyes flickered worried between Levi and Stephen.

Levi relaxed. It trusted Tony. Tony was safe. So it made no objections as the inventor approached. It also noticed that the fight seemed to be over. There were no more Doom Bots in the air. Only the alarm was still ringing in its ears.

Levi whimpered as Tony knelt and gently touched Strange’s cheek, not sure how badly the sorcerer’s injuries really were - he had never seen Levi this feral – and he was glad to see that he was still alive.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Help is on the way,” he tried to calm Levi down, just when the first paramedics arrived on the scene.

It was that moment when Stephen stirred. Levi was instantly all over him. “Stephen!”

The sorcerer groaned. “…’s loud.”

Levi didn’t seem to care. “Stephen, you have to turn me back. You can’t go into fights without me. Do you hear me?” Its eyes were wet with tears.

Tony put his hand on its shoulder. “Easy there, buddy. He hit his head pretty hard.”

More and more people appeared around them and in Levi's field of vision. It was on guard, trying to shield Stephen from everyone. Tony had to talk it down after it actually growled at one of the paramedics.

“They are here to help him.”

Only reluctantly Levi let them get to the sorcerer and refused to move away from Stephen. It watched over him, and closely observed every movement of the humans.

Stephen was lucky he didn’t have to be brought into the hospital.

He wasn’t sure how he got back home, but when he woke up he was in his bed at the Sanctum. Groaning, he closed his eyes again immediately. The light was way too bright. His back and his head ached and the past hours seemed to be a blur. He remembered being in and out of consciousness.

Something on top of his blanket moved away. Instinctively, Stephen reached out and grabbed Levi’s wrist. He tried to open his eyes again.

“How long have I been out?”

“A day. They gave you something to sleep.” Levi kept its voice low.

Stephen hummed in acknowledgement and let it go. He didn't notice Levi leave the room without another word, too busy examining his head and making his own diagnosis about his well-being.

Shortly after, Wong entered and brought him a glass of water. He also gave Stephen a rundown of what had happened. Stephen had been more than lucky that he didn’t break his neck. Levi had saved his life; without it, the impact would have been much more devastating.

The paramedics had ordered him on bed rest for at least a few days. Stephen took the professional liberty of extending that bed rest to the couch of the library.

He was sitting there reading, when Levi came floating in. The sorcerer had not seen it all day. It said nothing, just sprawled its body over him to be near him.

It wasn't long before Stephen put his book aside and noticed Levi's gaze was on him. He raised his eyebrow in question.

Levi nervously kneaded its fingers, which would have been a nervous tic in a normal human. But Levi did not possess such tics. Levi did not get nervous.

“I need you to change me back.”

It had been fun being a human, but it was time to resume his responsibilities. Too long Levi had neglected them. The reason for its existence as a cloak was to accompany a sorcerer. It had strayed from this path and caused pain to its owner, the one he swore to protect. It was his duty.

The incident with the Doom Bots had woken Levi up, like a bubble that burst.

Stephen nodded slowly. With a flick of his hand, a book came flying to them. He had found a promising spell in his research before. He would triple check it anyway, just to be safe.

Stephen let the book float in the air next to him, hesitating to open it.

“You know I love you no matter which form you chose.”

Levi tilted its head and grinned sheepishly. “Of course. There’s nothing not to love about me.”

“The jury is still out on that thing you do when you don’t want to get washed.” Offended, Levi pulled a pout, but it couldn't hide a smirk from Stephen. “Also, whenever you use your collar to wipe my face? I don’t like that.”

“Yeah, because keeping dried blood on your face is so much better.”

“I definitely liked you better without your mouth.” Stephen smiled affectionately.

“Thank the Vishanti, you don’t have to suffer much longer.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Stephen asked again, because while it would turn Levi back to its original shape, it was nevertheless a big change to its current life.

“Yes.” There wasn’t the shadow of a doubt left in its voice. “I’m glad I had this opportunity, but it is time.” Levi cupped Stephen's face and pressed a kiss on his forehead with all the love and devotion it felt for the sorcerer. This was the only time left he could do it.

Stephen closed his eyes for a moment. He knew it wasn’t a goodbye. He wouldn’t lose a friend. The cloak would stay at his side for as long as it deemed him worthy and the bond between them felt stronger than ever.

He took a deep breath in and out before opening his eyes again. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

With a stack of pizza boxes in his hands, Tony was on his way to the Sanctum, to see how Strange was doing. The sorcerer actually texted him and invited him over, so he seemed to be back on his feet. Still, Tony was happy to stop by and see for himself.

After a short knock on the door, it opened. Behind it, a portal brizzled, taking him directly into the library. Tony had to admit that this was kinda handy.

Stephen had his legs crossed, hovering several feet in the air over a couch. Several books were around him and a very familiar cloak on his shoulders.

“Hey Levi. Looking good.” Tony grinned broadly, when a corner of its hem waved at him, but the cloak didn’t leave the sorcerer’s side.

Stephen descended and ended sitting on the couch – you know, like a normal human being. The books flew on a nearby shelf, sorting themselves alphabetically.

“Thanks for stopping by, Stark.”

“Of course! Gotta feed my favorite wizard.” He placed the boxes on the table. “I guess that means we split Levi’s pizza between us?”

“We can leave it for the fridge.

“For Wong?”

“For the fridge.”

Tony tilted his head but knew better than to question Strange’s phrasing. “Scoop over,” he said instead, sliding next to him.

He was just about to sit down when the cloak reached out and pulled his arm. Tony yelped, losing his balance and fell right into Stephen’s lap.

“Ugh, sorry. Are you alright?” Stephen helped Tony to sit up.

“Yeah, yeah… no harm done.” Tony waved it off. “Good to see that Levi is still a menace.” He sat next right next to the sorcerer, their legs brushing. Glancing up they shared a look and noticed that both of them were slightly blushing.

Tony felt the fabric of the cloak in his back and suspected it would not let him go so quickly. He cleared his throat. “So… pizza?”

“Yeah, pizza.”

If the cloak of levitation still had a mouth, it would smirk. It really was the best wing-cloak ever.

#IronStrange #Doctor Strange #Tony Stark #Stephen Strange #cloak of levitation #Human cloak of levitation #human cloak #oneshot #Marvel #it starts with angst #and then comes fluff #shenanigans #Mermaid writes #SpaceMermaid

57 notes · View notes