#-want to hurl myself off a cliff and drag the person who said it down with me everytime i hear it

[beananium]

reminder that if you say the ableist r slur (and don't tag it) i'm blocking you

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Tick Tick Tick

Jason ‘J.D.’ Dean x Reader

Words: 2552

Part One of Two

Summary: After killing your perverted ex boyfriend, you finally learn to accept the dark feelings inside you. J.D. copes with real feelings as you pull him out of the numbnesses of his life. 

Notes: This imagine is not for the faint of heart guys. It’s gonna be dark and the reader is not going to be a good person. Murder is going to be depicted as an accepted part of her life and she is going to like it. Both parts of this imagine will be dark and bloody. I mean, it’s J.D. from Heathers. That’s the point. So please please please, if you are uncomfortable, just skip this. It won’t be for everybody.

Warnings: Murder (duh), sex (not smut, but definitly more than I’ve ever done before), language, the whole shabang. 

-

He was dead. Holy shit, he was actually dead. As far as the rest of the town was concerned, Tommy killed himself with a handgun. He’d rather die than spend a single day in prison for molestation and child porn- all of course he ‘admitted’ in his suicide note. Half of his brain was splatter against the concrete outside the football stadium. The other half covered your face. 

You could honestly say that you hadn’t expected to kill your ex boyfriend. But you couldn’t exactly say that you regretted it. Hell, you couldn’t get the grin off your face. You looked at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ew. You looked like shit. Not only were you covered in blood, sweat matted your hair down from running through the parking lot. You’d also have a bruise from where Tommy slapped you, but you didn’t care. He’d never touch you again. He’d never touch anybody again. You had to bite your lip to keep your smile from growing even more, tasting just a tiny bit of blood on your tongue. 

You stripped out of your clothes that you would probably be burning later and stepped into the shower. You turned the heat up until it was scalding. You listened to the water thunder against your skull, massaging the brain matter out of your hair. You didn’t hear the creaking bathroom door open or the click of it closing again. With your eyes closed, you didn’t see the shadow of the figure lurking on the other side of the curtain. You didn’t open them until you heard the curtain being pushed to the side. 

You felt your heart start to pound. His green eyes scanned you hungrily as he stepped into the shower, his t-shirt quickly adhering to his chest. Your breathing hitched, his finger tracing your jawline while his other hand snaked behind your back. You pushed down the nervous feelings stirring in your stomach and lifted your chin to confidently meet his gaze. J.D. smirked. 

“Hi.” He greeted, his hand slowly making its way up your spine. You didn’t waste a second before pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. J.D., spurred by your enthusiasm, pulled you closer, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping the back of your head. You pulled apart just enough to peel his soaked t-shirt off his chest, raking your fingers down his torso. Before long, his clothes were discarded beside yours on the floor. 

With your bodies pressed together, you could forget about everything. Tommy, your piece-of-shit house occupied by your piece-of-shit mother, and that fucking school that Tommy and his band of rapists disguised as the football team used to rule. With J.D. kissing you, you held the world in your hands. With J.D. fucking you, you threw the world into oblivion. 

A couple rounds in the shower lead to a couple rounds in his bed before you finally settled with a post-sex cigarette. With his arms wrapped around you, you took the cigarette from his lips and brought it to yours. He watched you blow out a puff of smoke, watching the grey haze linger in the air for just a moment before vanishing. 

That was his life. Briefly existing in a dark cloud of smoke before scattering into nothing. Smoke didn’t feel. It blinded and it choked and it only came when something was burned. Everything he touched went up in flames and he was all that was left behind. He knew that whatever the hell this was would end the same way. And that gave him a weird, stirring feeling in his chest. Shit. 

“Do you think they’ve found him yet?” You asked, flipping onto your stomach so you didn’t have to strain your neck to look at him. He shrugged, plucking the cigarette from your mouth and taking a drag. 

“It’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow, that’s for sure.” He clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes at you, trying to read your expression. If there is one thing the six high schools he’d gone to taught him, it was how to read people. “Do you regret it?” You almost laughed. 

“Are you kidding?” He raised a brow to tell you he wasn’t. You kept your eyes on his and kissed a freckled on his shoulder. “No. I don’t regret ridding the world of that sad excuse for a human. Besides,” You traced circles around the spot you kissed. “It was, like, self-defense anyway, right? Who knows what that asshole would have done if you didn’t blow his brains out?” 

The original plan was to knock him out and drive his car off a cliff. You lured him out by telling him you wanted to get back together with a little blowjob under the bleachers. When Tommy figured out he would be getting off, he got pissed and slapped you. That's when J.D. jumped out from his hiding spot and Tommy turned around to get a bullet between the eyes. 

“The only thing I regret is not pulling the trigger myself.” After everything that pig put you through, you would have loved to be the one to send him to hell. J.D. ran a hand from your thigh to the nape of your neck, the motion sending chills across your skin in its wake. You closed your eyes and laid your head against his shoulder. 

There it was again. That feeling in his chest that almost made it hard to breathe. What the fuck? Something was tearing through the numbness, making him feel shit that he hasn’t felt since, well, ever. He didn’t feel things. Feeling shit meant he was tied down to something or someone and that was never part of the plan. 

He sat up suddenly, letting your head fall onto the pillows. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked over to his dresser for a t-shirt and some flannel. After he got dressed, he clapped his hands together and faced you with his usual smug smile. 

“Who knew the combination of murder and fucking could work up such an apetite, but I, for one, am starving.” He grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt, tossing them at you. 

“What are these for?” He rolled his eyes. 

“Well, darling, we can’t have you wondering town in my bed sheets.” His little term of endearment was said with sarcasm, it still made you smile. You stood, letting the sheet fall around your feet. J.D. bit his lip, starting to regret his hurry to leave. You smirked and pulled his shirt over your head. It was a little big so you tucked it into the jeans and found a belt. J.D. tried to ignore how fucking good you looked in his clothes, but he couldn’t help it. He pulled you to him by the belt loops and caught your lips in his. 

“Slushies on me?” You offered, walking your fingers up his chest. He chuckled and nodded.

“Our love is god.” 

-

You didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. If what you felt for Tommy was a spark then this was a wildfire. After grabbing a bite to eat, you went back to his place to burn your clothes, watching the blood stained fabric shrivel into ash. J.D. dropped you off at your house on his motorcycle. It was almost midnight but you knew you wouldn’t be getting any sleep. You stopped at the fridge to grab a bottle of cola among the endless cases of beers. 

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Your mother stood in the doorway with a joint dangling from her lips and a half-empty bottle in her hand. You rolled your eyes. 

“Why the hell do you care?” She laughed, tossing the butt in your direction. You had to jerk away to keep from being burned. 

“You and I are the same, kid.” She took her lighter out of her pocket and flipped it open and shut. 

“Fuck you.” You scoffed, moving towards the stairs. Her hand latched onto your arm. 

“He’s gonna leave you just like your daddy left me, sweetheart and do you know why?” She shoved you against the wall, keeping an arm on your neck while her other hand brought the lighter up to your face. “Because you are a pathetic whore.”  

“Get the hell off of me!” You shrieked, trying to break away. Her arm started to press against your windpipe, making it harder to breathe. 

“Say it.” She spat, flicking the lighter on. The flame danced menacingly, inching closer and closer to your left eye. You stared at her with as much malice as you could. “Fucking say it!” 

“Go to hell.” She clicked the fire off and pressed the burning metal against the skin of your shoulder. You tried to hold back your scream, but you couldn’t help it. Your mother brought the flame back up to your eye, slamming your head against the wall again. 

“Say it!” The heat made your eyes sting, already watering from the searing pain in your shoulder. You leaned towards it. 

“I’m a pathetic whore.” You submitted, gritting your teeth. 

And just like that, she dropped her arm and walked into the living room like nothing had happened. You broke into a sprint, running up to the upstairs bathroom and hurling up the french fries and coke slushie you had less than an hour ago. Your shoulder was screaming at you, the smell of burned flesh stinging your nose. You felt empty and stupid and worthless. Most of all, you felt weak. You felt the tears stream down your cheeks before you could even think to stop them. You collapsed onto your bed, screaming as your shoulder hit the mattress. 

J.D. carefully climbed in your window, silently moving in front of your bed. The gun felt heavier in his hand than it did before. He had to do this. You were breaking through the ice that kept him numb and he couldn’t let that happen. But as he raised his weapon to fire, he heard your sob, muffled by a pillow, but still loud enough to send his mind reeling. There was that damn feeling in his chest again. The feeling that wanted to hold you and never let go, taking down anybody who stood in his way. This couldn’t be what love was. Another cry filled the room and he turned the safety of the pistol back on and tucked it in his waistband. You heard a strange click and looked up. 

“J.D.?” You wondered, seeing his figure looming over you.  Please, not now. He couldn’t see you like this. Pathetic. Just like she said you were. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I wanted my clothes back.” He lied. He didn’t give a shit whether or not you kept them. In fact, he thought it would be fitting. Watching your blood stain his shirt. Come on, just kill her. 

“Oh, right.” You felt your body shrink a little as you slid off of the bed, walking towards your dresser. “Just let me grab something to change into.” You hoped that in the dark room, he couldn’t see the tears on your face. As you brushed passed him, J.D. grabbed your arm, making you cry out as your shoulder jerked back. He roughly pulled you back to him and examined the hole singed into his shirt and the bloody and blackened skin underneath. “I’m sorry about the shirt, I-”

“Did that bitch do this?” He snapped. Seeing your eyes filled with tears set something off inside him. A feeling that was familiar to him. Rage. 

“J.D. it’s fine, I can handle her.” You couldn’t let him think you were weak. His jaw clenched and he stormed out of your room, his booming footsteps thundering down the stairs. You quickly followed, figuring he was just running out after seeing how fragile and pitiful you were. 

Luckily, your mother was fully passed out on the couch so J.D. wouldn’t have to deal with her intoxicated criticism. Instead of running for the door, he stopped in front of her, pacing back and forth. He had hoped she would be awake. He wanted to see her face as she paid for what she did to you. But he would just have to settle for this. 

He rummaged through the drawers until her found her stash of heroin and a syringe. He filled it as much as he could.

“J.D., what are you doing?” You asked, watching him hold out her arm.

“It’ll look like an accident, right? An overdose.” The needle punctured her skin and he injected the drugs into your mother’s bloodstream. She stirred slightly so you had to act fast. You grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it over her face, holding it there firmly until she stopped moving. And just like that, your mother was dead. Similar to the feeling you had when J.D. shot Tommy, any weakness you felt was gone, replaced by pure power. 

“She’s dead.” You gasped. J.D. couldn’t read your expression. Were you upset? 

“Look, I know that there’s that whole mother/daughter bond thing, but-”

“She’s finally dead.” You laughed, throwing your arms around him. You’d been waiting your whole life to be free of her and now you finally were. “We can get out of here. Run away. Together.” You ran back upstairs to your room to grab a bag. J.D. followed hesitantly. Hearing you say you wanted to run away with him brought back that stupid grip around his chest, squeezing and suffocating until he faced what he feared. 

“Y/N, I need to tell you something.” He said softly. You paused. You’d never heard him talk like that before. Almost like he was… nervous. You wrapped your arms around his waist and gave him a smile. 

“What’s gotten into-” You froze, your hands brushing against the cold metal tucked into his jeans. You lifted the gun into your hand and backed away. “Why did you bring this?” The look in his eyes told you before any words left his mouth. Then you remembered. The click right before you saw him. It was a fucking gun. You scoffed. “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?” 

“Y/N-”

“No, no. Don’t let me stop you.” You put the pistol in his hand and wrapped his finger around the trigger. You sat on the edge of the bed and aimed his arm up at your face. “Do it. You’re afraid that you feel something for me. I saw it when we were in your room. So go ahead, J.D.” You leaned forward so that your forehead was touching the barrel. “Do it.” 

There it was. The aching in his chest. The reason he came here to shoot you. Your eyes stared into his and he decided that he wasn’t going to be afraid of this anymore. He controlled it. He tossed the gun aside and crashed his lips into yours, climbing on top of you and lifted his t-shirt over your head. Is this what love was? 

Who the fuck knows?

-

Christian Slater Tag list: @staxryskxes; @adeliness​

[ace-in-a-shopping-cart]

Jewel of the Sea: Chapter 2: Pirates

Chapter 1

Little Mermaid AU Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @5-falsehoods-phonated, @vindicatedvirgil, @starlocked01, @viva-la-pluto-dam-you, @pan-immortal-jefferson-starships, @acetatertot, @silvarraven, @logan-positivity, @virgil-positivity, @sandersidesblog24, @luella-the-homosexual

Main Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @starlocked01​​​ @spoopy-turtle​​​ @lizluvscupcakes​​ @more-fandon-than-friends​, @i-cant-find-a-good-username, @vindicatedvirgil, @star-crossed-shipper

Word Count: 1,125

Virgil heard the search party before he saw them. The storm had calmed down and his scales had been dried out but he’d still sat there with the human. He saw the lights from the other humans getting closer. Once they were within a dangerous distance, Virgil had to pry his hand out of the human’s and drag himself down to the water. 

When he got back into the ocean, his tail felt instantly better and he was able to twirl, washing all the sand off while getting his fins as wet as possible. He popped back up behind a rock, somewhere he could watch and make sure the human got saved before he went on his way.

“Logan! There you are!” A shout was heard from the search party as someone finally reached the unconscious human- Logan. Logan stirred but didn’t react. The person shook him as another came up behind him.

“Patton, is he alright?”

“Yes, he seems to be fine. He’s not awake but he doesn’t seem to be injured either.”

Virgil sighed in relief as they picked Logan up on fabric stretched between two poles and carried him away. Virgil sank into the water, needing a good swim and to scrape some barnacles to relieve the stress of the past few hours.

The next few days passed in relative quiet. He knew the human would still be recovering so didn’t bother to visit the cliff for about a week or so. When he grew curious as to how Logan was doing, he visited the cliff. He hoped Logan would be there, hoped he would have a new stand and be back at it. Hoped he would be watching the clouds roll by and just enjoying the day. Virgil would soon learn how naive he was to think that.

The cliff and its surrounding area wasn’t exactly as he remembered it. The cliff was still there, as was the beach he’d sat on for hours. However, the most significant change was a ship had arrived. Virgil didn’t recognize the flag it was flying but that didn’t stop him from getting close to it. He should have been paying more attention but he was so fascinated by the novelty of a new thing that he didn’t notice the net until he was caught in it.

He struggled, but that only served to get him even more tangled as he tried to figure out what was going on. His fight or flight response kicked in and he tried flight but when his fins were so tangled the net was cutting off blood flow, he wished he were back on the beach with dry scales. 

His fight kicked in but before he could call to the water, the net was lifted by a machine and he was left dangling in the air. His scales scraped against the rope, leaving his skin with nasty red marks that were sure to scar in one way or another. He hissed at the people standing on the ship he was dangling over. “What do you want with me?!” He yelled, his fins flaring in anger.

They laughed. “Hey, Remus, get a look at the latest catch!”

A man came out of the room at the back of the ship, the door slamming against the wall. Virgil had heard tales of Captain Hook but he was always told he had a red coat. This man looked just like the legends and horror stories but he was dressed in green. He smacked the nearest man in the head with the hook that replaced his left hand. “What have I said about using my real name?!”

The man rubbed the back of his head, sulking. “Not to, Cap’n.”

Remus nodded. “Good. Now, what do we have here?”

“A male mer, seems to be in good health.”

Virgil spit. “Let me go and maybe you’ll survive until sundown.”

Remus just laughed. “Awwww, look at the little fishy.”

Virgil ignored him, continuing to hurl insults and threats like spears in the hopes it would do something. It didn’t. Instead, he was lowered into a container of water and left there as the crew went about their day. Virgil reached for the top of the tank, trying to at least flop onto the floor and maybe crawl to the edge of the boat but the side of the tank was made in such a way that he kept slipping off it. As it was, the water only filled the lower half of the tank, his tail having contact with the bottom at all times. There was a ledge in the tank but it was submerged in the water to the point that it was only slightly better than if there were no ledge at all.

This didn’t stop him from keeping up his threats and taunts, hoping someone would get annoyed enough to throw him overboard. No one ever did. Instead, they spoke of him as if he weren’t three tail lengths away, as if he weren’t a living being who understood every word they said.

“How much do you think we’ll get for him?”

Remus shrugged. “I’d like to get at least thirty for him.”

“Only thirty bucks?” One man said, as if it were the least amount of money in the world. 

Remus smacked him over the head.”No, you dolt. Thirty grand. Thirty thousand. Not a measly thirty dollars. Do I look like an idiot to you?”

The man shook his head, his expression cowed. “No, Captain, not at all.”

Remus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go do something productive.”

The man nodded and wandered off. Remus turned to look at the tank Virgil was in, a smile on his face and hands on his hips. “Now, what should we do with the merchandise in the meantime?”

“Throw me back. I’m all skin and bones, no meat to eat. I won’t work for you and you can’t keep me as a pet. The only thing you can do is put me back where I belong.” He bared his teeth and hissed again.

Remus laughed. “A feisty one! I just might keep him for myself. For now, cover him with a tarp and let’s hope he goes to sleep.“

Virgil did not, in fact, go to sleep. Instead, he got louder and more annoying. When he had the time to finally examine himself, he noticed many deep cuts on his tail and torso, most likely from the harsh net cutting into him. The stale water did nothing for him, unable to heal him but not bothering to hurt him. He eventually settled down for the night and got some sleep, but it was fitful and not at all restful. 

Chapter 3

[unfolded73]

Take Me Away with You (1/2) - millian ff

My take on Milah and Killian’s early days. This part ~5k words. Rated Explicit.

This fic includes descriptions of alcohol abuse, depression, and suicidal thoughts. It arose out of a desire to write about Milah's state of mind when she left Rumple and Bae, so she's in a very dark place. I’m also picturing Killian as the young man he would have been at this point and not quite the way Colin looked in flashbacks.

If you’re reading this on mobile, I apologize for the wacky line spacing. Feel free to go read on ao3 and then come back and reblog here. :)

~~~~~~~~~

“Take me away with you.” All it took were five simple words to change her life forever. Five words she spoke on impulse with no foresight, no planning. Five words that tilted the whole world on its axis, although no one knew that then. Least of all her.

~*~

Sometimes Milah tried to tell herself that she had loved Rumpelstiltskin once: that her love had died on the vine because of the shame he brought down on them and the financial hardship that followed. But in her more honest moments, even before Killian Jones awoke her frozen heart, she knew that wasn’t true. The fact was, she had probably never loved him. Liked him, yes. Thought he’d be a decent father, yes. Thought he’d provide an exit from the home where her father drank too much and hit her, well, that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? A woman desperate for escape can’t always be choosy about the mechanism of that escape. Rumpelstiltskin was her escape.

She’d never been someone who could keep her feelings from being written clearly across her face. She could barely keep them from spilling out of her mouth most of the time. Alone in their tiny hut, Rumpelstiltskin out trying to sell his wool or begging for scraps to keep them fed, she would put the baby down for a nap and then collapse on her own bed, her teeth clenched tight as if to try to trap in the words. But it wasn’t invective against her husband that she muttered into her pillow, tears leaking from her eyes.

“I hate myself,” she’d whisper in those moments, wishing she could wail it at the top of her lungs. Imagining finding a high cliff and hurling herself from the edge of it. “I hate myself.”

Then Rumple would come home with a meager few coins or a loaf of stale bread, and the self-loathing monster she carried would wheel around and lash out in his direction, perhaps just for a change of pace. “How can we go on living like this?” she’d ask. “How can you be so useless?”

Milah’s days dragged on as her baby grew into a boy, her box of paints and charcoals shoved in a corner for longer and longer stretches. Most of the time she felt like she was wading through treacle, constantly tired, returning to bed at even the slightest hint of illness. She had traced the wood grain of the wall next to her bed so many times with her fingernail that the softer wood was eroding. It left a slight indentation, giving the natural grain a three-dimensional structure. The artist in her appreciated it, even if it was evidence of her boredom and discontent.

Bae had the limitless energy of the young, and only his childlike innocence and wonder were capable of raising her from her mental stupor during that time. She would walk down to the pond with Baelfire’s small hand clutching her own and sit on the bank, watching as he stood in the shallows and tried to catch darting minnows in his fists. Those were the good days, when warm sunshine burned away the cobwebs from her brain, and she could recognize that she’d done at least one good thing in her life, bringing this child into the world. On days like those, she thought she might even want another baby, if only they could manage to scrape enough money together that another mouth to feed wouldn’t be too burdensome.

That was before Rumple sold away their potential second child, which was the beginning of the end. That was before she met Killian.

Even in the midst of her desperate worry about Baelfire’s illness, she felt a pull toward that charming man in black and red who defended her honor so easily, who gracefully took a seat next to her as he offered her a drink. He smelled of leather and rum, the warm tavern causing sweat to gather in the depression at the base of his throat. She didn’t think she’d seen anyone in her entire life, man or woman, who was as… beautiful as he was, for lack of a better word, and she found it genuinely startling. Perhaps she couldn’t forget her worries (and shouldn’t, not when her son’s life hung in the balance), but she was momentarily distracted from them by this man. This man who kissed the back of her hand for just a moment too long but politely withdrew when she told him she was married. When she closed her eyes that night, it was his blue eyes she saw as she drifted off to sleep.

It was weeks before saw him a second time.

Milah’s ears would perk up whenever there was a whisper in the market about pirates in port, but the men she saw in town were grizzled and dirty, missing teeth and limbs, a far cry from the handsome Captain Jones. Then the day came when she was carrying a load of washing -- menial work for a meager few pennies, but at least it would put some food on the table -- and she spotted him across the street. She dreaded that he would turn and look her way and see her laboring under her heavy burden of laundry: sweaty, disheveled, her hair a mess. Not that he should want to look upon her under the best of circumstances; she was too old and too plain for a man like that. Milah put her head down and walked faster. She resolved to stop looking for him and stop thinking about him.

Her resolve lasted about five hours.

Knowing he was probably still in port, that night she put on her nicest blouse and tamed her hair and walked down to the tavern, if for no other reason than to see his face again.  There he was, laughing and drinking with his crew, but he continually scanned the room and he noticed her within a few minutes of her arrival. Clapping a crew member on the back, he approached with a wide smile. Milah’s heart galloped.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said, standing just a bit closer to her than was proper, swaying from side to side on his booted feet.

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

He seemed genuinely surprised at that, and as the flirtatious smirk fell away she was struck by how young he was. Younger than her, to be sure.

“Of course I remember, how could I not?”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She felt so plain next to him, the embroidery on his vest finer than anything she had ever owned, the dark lines under his eyes dramatic and sexy. Why did he notice her at all?

He swayed closer still. “I’ve thought of you often during my lonely nights at sea.” An eyebrow waggle completed the innuendo, and she found herself laughing. Milah couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Milah shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

~*~

They met a few more times in the tavern after that, but there was nothing but a harmless flirtation between them at first. He taught her to cheat at dice and cards and to drink rum, always with a smile on his lips that made her think about what kissing him would feel like. When she was in the tavern with him, she felt like a different person. She felt like someone who was adept at holding the attention of a man. She almost felt happy.

But Killian’s visits to their port were separated by absences of days or weeks, and during those times the monster on her shoulder became bolder. Telling her how worthless she was every time she couldn’t muster the energy to play with Bae. Telling her that her drawings were a waste of time and energy and money, canvases an extravagance that she didn’t deserve. Converting her self-loathing into a fuel to feed the flames of her antipathy toward her husband, and then berating her when their arguments made Bae cry or shout at them to stop.

Liquor made the monster quiet down, she had learned. And it wasn’t like she had to spend any of her own meager coin in the tavern, not when a certain pirate was in port. A few drinks and she could feel the monster coiled around her shoulders drift off to sleep. The release was a kind of euphoria. She would gamble with the boys -- Killian always spotted her a stake and covered her debts if she lost, but let her keep her winnings if she didn’t -- until the table began to swim in her vision and she leaned too heavily against the Killian’s shoulder, unable to hold her head up any longer. Her memories of him seeing her home (not all the way to her door, of course, but close enough that he could ensure she got inside safely) were jagged and fractured with drunkenness, but she knew he never took any liberties, even when she stumbled and let her hand drag across the back of his leather pants.

She would pay for her behavior the next day, often too sick to get out of bed. Rumple would take Bae with him into town, perhaps to give her some peace but more likely so he wouldn’t see his mother retching into a bucket. And of course her monster would awaken, refreshed from its sleep, and tear into her for being a drunk and a layabout. The old images of jumping from a cliff would return, and Milah would lie still in her sweat-soaked bed, too empty to even weep.

~*~

“May I walk you home, Milah?” Killian’s elbow pointed in her direction. The tavern was closing, but somehow she was less inebriated than usual. Killian himself had filled up her senses, distracted her so completely with his charm and his flirting that for once she forgot to drink herself into senselessness.

“You can walk me anywhere else but home.”

He arched an eyebrow at her as if he was trying to parse her meaning.

“Take me to see your ship. I’ve never even seen your ship,” she said, desperate not to return to the dirty hovel where she lived. Not really thinking about the implications of her request.

He did as she asked, but she could sense the tension rolling off of him as they walked through the night to the harbor. The first thing she spotted were the masts with their furled sails against the backdrop of the night sky, a full moon impossibly bright behind them.

As they walked up the gangplank, she could make out brightly colored paint along the gunwale and on the hull, yellow and red and blue. “It’s beautiful,” Milah remarked.

“Aye, that she is.”

“Sorry, ‘she’s’ beautiful.”

He smiled at her, leading her up some stairs to the large wheel which she presumed he used to steer. She could imagine him out on the open ocean, his dark hair tousled by the wind as he gave orders to his crew and bore down on another vessel. She dragged her fingers over the wooden knobs of the wheel, picturing his long fingers gripping them. “Is it difficult, sailing?”

Killian shrugged. “There’s a lot to learn, I suppose. How to deploy each sail to get the most out of the prevailing winds, navigating using the stars, reading the weather… but I grew up on ships.”

He had never spoken to her of his childhood before, and she was suddenly desperate to learn more about his beginnings. “Was your father a… a pirate?”

“My father was too much of a coward to be a pirate,” he muttered, turning and lifting a hatch. “Come below, darling, and let’s have a nightcap.” He descended the steep steps before her, turning and reaching a hand up to assist her. Milah paused. She knew what nightcap was often code for. Milah might be a lot of things -- a drunk and a gambler and a poor excuse for a wife and mother -- but she wasn’t an adulterer. She could go now, and perhaps Killian would be disappointed, but she didn’t think he would hold it against her. He wasn’t that kind of man. She could go home where she belonged, with her husband and her son.

Taking his hand, she allowed Killian to help her down the stairs.

The chamber was dark but he quickly lit a lantern, revealing a fairly spacious room. There were cabinets filled with books and trinkets, a large table, and a bunk in the corner. The white walls reflected the lamp light in shades of yellow, giving the space a homey feel.

“This is nice. Larger than I imagined,” she said as he pulled a decanter of wine from a shelf.

“Well, I am the captain.”

Milah flinched. He was the captain, and a man like him could have his pick of women in every port. Likely did have his pick of women in every port. She flushed with embarrassment at her notion that he wanted to bed her. Perhaps he merely wanted to drink with her, his matronly friend whom he felt sorry for because she was destitute and lonely. Perhaps he was at a loss for what to do with her now that she was in his chamber, and was trying to figure out how to get rid of her without hurting her feelings.

Killian handed her a cup of wine and clinked his own cup against it. She sipped from the cup, feeling awkward, regretting that she’d come here. Regretting that she’d ever met Killian Jones. Killian was the only thing in her life that made her feel anything, but she wasn’t sure if her current discomfort was worth it.

“I’d best be getting home,” she said, and she watched Killian’s face fall.

“To your husband,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

He walked over to the windows, looking out into the night. “Do you love him?”

“Does it matter?”

Killian turned and met her gaze. “Aye, it matters a great deal to me, love.”

She tried to ignore her pounding heart. “Why?”

Approaching her slowly, his lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Do you not wonder why I can’t seem to stop myself from returning to this port, Milah?”

She didn’t know how to answer, and she swallowed on a suddenly dry mouth.

He put his large hand on her arm. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop dreaming about you.” His eyelashes fluttered as he dropped his eyes to the floor. “If there’s no chance for me, then please just put me out of my misery now, love.”

She wasn’t sure who initiated the kiss. At first it was just an imperceptible lean toward him, a sway into close orbit, and then suddenly his mouth was on hers. It was a tiny thing, the touch of one human’s flesh to another’s, and it was everything, an explosion of sensation and emotion the likes of which she had never experienced.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered against her lips, and she was so fuzzy with desire that she couldn’t quite process what he was saying. Without even realizing how it happened she found herself seated on the edge of his bunk, her skirts bunched up as he stood between her legs, his mouth everywhere on her neck as his hands cupped her breasts.

Even as they undressed frantically between heated kisses, she was certain this couldn’t really be happening. It felt like a daydream. Surely this worldly young man couldn’t want her this way. And if he somehow had convinced himself that he did, the sight of her body with its blemishes and stretch marks would put him off.

Milah kept thinking this even as his naked body covered hers, his desire evident in the thrust of his cock against her. Only when he was inside her did it click in her head with sudden clarity. She was fucking another man.

He was beautiful above her, dark hair on sun-kissed skin, his toned muscles flexing and voice breaking on each push into her. It felt good, a gentle, diffuse pleasure, the not-quite-enough pleasure that sex had always been for her. She clung to his shoulders and watched as Killian lost himself in his body’s demands.

“Gods… Milah,” he gasped.

“Don’t come inside me,” she said. “You can’t--”

“Aye,” he grunted, seeming to understand. She brought one hand up above her head and braced herself on the wall as his hips pistoned into her again and again until the last possible moment when he pulled out quickly. Two pumps of his fist and he groaned, his seed landing harmlessly on her stomach.

The gentle kisses he pressed to her shoulder after he’d cleaned them up and settled at her side should have been comforting, but they just made her feel worse. She didn’t deserve such tenderness, not after breaking her marriage vows so completely.

“I need to go home,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” Killian said, his voice husky, his hand trailing over her skin and making her shiver. “Don’t go just yet.”

The simple affection made tears well behind her eyes, something that in and of itself was remarkable; she’d started to think herself incapable of the genuine emotion that could bring about tears.

Shaking her head, Milah rose from the bed and began to quickly pull her clothes back on. “I’m sorry.”

~*~

By the time Milah returned to town the next day, the masts of the Jolly Roger were gone from the harbor. As she moved through the streets, she felt as if everyone’s eyes were on her, that they all must be whispering that she’d become a pirate’s whore. Never mind that the fact that she drank and gambled with pirates was enough to make people whisper -- now that she was guilty of the crime she had likely been accused of some time ago, now she felt the full weight of their stares. A part of her wanted to turn and scream at anyone within earshot that yes, she’d fucked the pirate captain. And that being his whore was preferable to the life she’d been consigned to.

It was weeks before Killian returned, empty, grey weeks through which she sleep-walked. Milah would lie awake at night, closing her eyes only to find her thoughts plagued with what his mouth had tasted like, what the drag of his skin had felt like against hers. She started to believe that once he’d bedded her, Killian didn’t plan to return. Perhaps he only cared for her as much as a she had been a conquest, a wife and mother seduced away from her home and into his bed. Now he had no further use of her.

She became so convinced of this that when she heard whispers that his ship had returned, Milah didn’t bother to go to the tavern. The next morning, however, his cabin boy approached her on the street as she made her way to the market.

“Captain wants you to come to his cabin, missus.”

Milah’s heartbeat sped up, but at the same time she felt a flare of anger for being summoned as if she had nothing better to do than wait upon Captain Jones.

“I have errands to tend to,” she responded.

“Then come as soon as you are able, if it please you.”

She waited until dusk, late enough that she wouldn’t be seen boarding a pirate ship in broad daylight, but early enough that he wouldn’t be out carousing yet. The pirate standing watch at the gangplank allowed her to board with a nod and a relieved smile. Another escorted her below.

Killian swept her into his arms immediately. “Milah, my love, I missed you.”

She held herself tense, uncertain how to feel. “You did?”

“Aye.” He pulled away a fraction but continued to hold her. “We had to sail many leagues to find a worthy target this time. Finally I was able to run down a royal galleon. It took us days to follow it into the straits so that we could overtake them without being outmaneuvered. I wanted to return right away, but the winds were against us.” Shooting her a sheepish smile, he added, “Still, at least my ship’s coffers are full now. I’ve been returning to this port so often lately, I knew I had to find a rich prize on this outing or risk a mutiny.”

“Why have you? Been returning to this port so often lately?”

He reached up and stroked her cheek. “I think you know the answer to that, love.” Then his eyes widened. “Ah, I just remembered!” He let go of her and turned back to his shelves, unlocking a safe with a key he’d pulled from his pocket. He removed a small bundle with some reverence, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a pair of large, turquoise earrings. He held them out to her. “A gift for you.”

Milah gaped at them. “Those are worth more than everything else I own put together.”

“All the more reason I want you to have them. Wear them, or sell them if the money would do you more good than the jewelry.”

“Killian, I can’t accept a gift like this from you.”

“Of course you can.” He took her hand and turned it palm up, putting the earrings in her hand. “Take them. I want you to.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I thought you deserved something nice.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Because I saw them and thought of you. Because I’m very fond of you, Milah.”

Closing her fist, she tucked the earrings into the pocket of her skirt. “Thank you.”

He took her in his arms again. “Can you stay a while?” he murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

The sex was much like before, and though she wanted it, wanted him, she found it no more satisfying than the first time. Milah knew there were women who claimed to enjoy sex as much as men, and she’d always thought that Rumple was the reason that she got more enjoyment from her own hand than she ever did from their coupling. Now she had to face the fact that she was the problem, that this was one more way that she was deficient. Either that or her pirate lover was no more adept than her husband.

Killian trailed a hand over her abdomen and Milah twitched, still keyed up and sensitive. He seemed oblivious to the way her body was still aching for release. “Can you stay the night this time?” he asked.

Milah imagined Bae waking up for a cup of water in the wee hours of the morning and finding her gone. She shook her head. “I can’t. My son…”

Giving her a sad smile, Killian murmured, “You’re a good mother.”

Pulling away, Milah shot him a look of disbelief. “Is that a joke? I’m a terrible mother. You can tell on account of the fact that I’m having an affair with a pirate.”

A quick, inappropriate grin flashed across his face before he could suppress it. “So that makes you a bad wife, perhaps, but I can tell you love your son.”

“Love isn’t enough.” She chuckled darkly. “My son would be better off if I were dead and gone, anyway.”

Now it was Killian’s turn to pull away. “Why would you say that?”

“Because, Killian! I’m worthless! I drink too much and I don’t--” She sat up and began to pull her clothes back on with hurried, jerky motions. “I don’t have the energy to do the most basic things for my family. And at least if I were gone, my son wouldn’t have to see Rumple and me fighting all the time. He’d be happier in the long run.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Milah.”

She sighed heavily. “I assure you, it is.”

~*~

Milah followed Rumple and Bae back home from the tavern like a recalcitrant child. It had been a low blow by her husband, bringing Bae to the tavern to guilt her into coming home. She squeezed her eyes shut as a flood of shame coursed through her, stumbling slightly in the doorway of their pitiful, one-room hut. While Rumple put the boy to bed in his cot behind a simple partition, Milah flopped down on her bed. Misery and drink weighed her down like twin stones tied to her ankles. The room was too hot, the fire stoked too high, and sweat broke out on her face as she lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Milah reached up and touched the turquoise earrings that dangled from her earlobes. Any other husband would have asked her where she got them. Any other husband would have demanded to know what she’d done in exchange for such a gift. Any other husband, faced with evidence of a wife’s infidelity, would have struck her, but Rumple would never do that, even if it was what she deserved. That’s what her father had often told her.

When Rumple emerged from putting Bae to bed he brought up the ogre war again, asking in a soft voice if she truly wished he’d died. She felt a sudden surge of pity and something almost like affection for him. It wasn’t him that should have died, this sad, cowardly man who was so kind and patient with their son. She was the one who didn’t deserve to live in this world. She begged, not for the first time, for them to leave the village and start over. Perhaps the monster who plagued her wouldn’t follow her to a new place. She could remake herself into a better person, she thought desperately. Other people would respect them, and she could become the wife and mother she’d once imagined she could be. More importantly, the temptation of a certain pirate’s bed would be removed from her life.

Rumple refused her, as he had many times before, and said they could be a family here, in their home.

“At least try. If not for me… then for Bae,” he said.

As always, Rumple seemed to find the idea of venturing outside their village so terrifying that he’d rather they spend the rest of their lives as pariahs, as outcasts, barely able to scrape together enough coin to survive. Milah closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

When Rumple had finally fallen asleep at her side, his soft snores filling her ears, Milah stole out of bed. She crept over to Baelfire’s cot, watching his small chest rise and fall in slumber, his innocent face relaxed. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Bae. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother you need.”

By the time she got down to the docks, the moon had set but dawn had yet to hint at its arrival, and the water in the harbor looked black as pitch. Milah took another swig from the bottle of cheap corn mash liquor she’d swiped on her way from a man passed out in an alley, continuing to stare down into the depths. She wondered how far it was to the bottom. She wondered if it would be better to step off the dock or to jump. She wondered if she could drink enough to dampen any instinct toward self preservation that might kick in once she was actually drowning.

She wondered if her body would float to the surface after, to be dragged out by the townsfolk and gossiped over.

“Milah?”

Swinging around at the sound of her name, she stumbled, her foot slipping on the wet boards.

“Whoa, love,” Killian said, darting forward and grabbing her arm. He pulled away from the edge of the water. “Take care before you fall in.”

“That was the idea,” she mumbled, jerking out of his grasp.

“What was the idea?”

She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him what she’d been contemplating. Instead what she said was, “Take me away with you.”

“What?”

Milah clicked her teeth together, shocked at her own utterance. Any doubts she had about Killian’s feelings for her were subsumed by her desperation in the moment. “I said… I said, take me away with you. On your ship.”

“What about your son? Your husband?”

She laughed bitterly. “Do you really care about my husband?”

“Not particularly, but I thought you did.”

“I told you, they’re better off without me.” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

“Your son will miss you terribly, love.”

“Killian, if you don’t want me, just--”

“Of course I want you,” he said, frustration evident in the lines of his brow. “I’ve hardly wanted anything else since we first met. But love…” Conflicting emotions performed an impromptu battle across his face. “I lost my mother when I was very young. It was the first loss of many in my life, but in many ways it cuts the deepest. I don’t want to be responsible for another boy being left with a failure for a father, as much as a part of me is desperate to steal you away and have you all to myself.”

“My husband has a lot of flaws, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that he loves our son. He’ll look after him. They’ll look after each other.” She felt tears well up and fall, and she swiped angrily at her cheeks. “If I stay, I’ll drag Bae down into the depths with me. My son will be forced to watch me wither away and die. How is that better?”

He studied her face for a moment and then nodded. “Come on, then. We’ll cast off tomorrow.”

Milah looked down at the black water once more. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the bottle of cheap liquor into the harbor, watching as it sank out of view.

Part 2

[180abroad]

Day 23: The Desert Tour, Part I

“I think I have a fever.”

This was it--the most adventurous, exciting, exotic part of the whole trip that we had planned. We were going to get in a 4x4 and drive hundreds of miles to the desert, ride camels into the desert, watch the stars come out over the dunes, then sleep in a tent.

And that was just day one of three.

And I was sick. Head-spinningly, joint-achingly, undeniably sick. As I lurched out of my room, Jessica gave me one look and immediately asked how I was feeling. “I think I have a fever,” was all I said.

Luckily, I was already mostly packed, so getting ready wasn’t too hard. Marching ten minutes uphill to the rendezvous with my pack on was another matter. I made it, but barely. We had used up our bottled water for breakfast, and I had none left in my bottle to quench my rapidly growing thirst. According to Jessica, I was wheezing badly, and my glasses were fogged up. I don’t really remember, but that sounds about right.

Blessedly, Jessica realized my distress and asked Steve to grab me a water from the nearby convenience store while she helped our guide Brahim load up the car. Chugging the water along with a pair of Advils helped. So did the cushy leather seats of our Toyota.

As you might infer, my experience of the next few days was colored by my unique perspective. So, I will be relying on Jessica’s generously provided notes to fill in the gaps. And just to be safe, let me assure you now that I don’t die in the desert--even though I still had a nagging cough as I began to edit this post nearly a month later.

The first day was spent mostly in the car. We had about 300 miles to cover by mid-afternoon, many of them over little more than a ribbon of gravel scattered on the ground.

Along the way, we saw an incredible variety of landscapes: green rolling farmland, misty mountains, a European-style alpine city called the Morrocan Switzerland, dominating snow-capped ranges, vast empty wastelands, lush oasis cities surrounded by craggy cliffs on all sides, rocky outcroppings painted with a thin veneer of grass, and a stunning river that seemed to glow bright cyan.

We saw rich modern homes and poor crumbling shacks, medieval fortresses converted into farmhouses, old stone walls leading from nothing to nowhere, and abandoned mud brick structures half-disintegrated back into the earth.

We saw huge and numerous military bases--and even more huge and more numerous royal palaces. While driving through the mountains, Brahim noted that one of the gates was to a palace. About 20 minutes later, he pointed out another royal gate. “The king has two palaces so close together?” we asked. No, Brahim corrected, that was the still the same palace. Apparently, the king has his own mountain ski resort all to himself.

As my uncle Steve said, it’s good to be king.

At one point, we had to stop while a Moroccan military unit blocked the road for an exercise. Military presence seems to be huge in Morocco. Brahim explained that this is especially true when the King is out of the country like he was then.

Finally, we reached the desert in mid-afternoon. Somehow, despite being literally in the Sahara Desert, we were still surprised at just how scorching it was. It only took us a minute or two to buy bottled water from a convenience store and get back in the car, but even that left us feeling roasted. We were sure to reapply our sunscreen before venturing out again.

We stopped at the hotel that would store our belongings for the night, then rested up for the hour or so before the true adventure began. It was around this point that I took some more Advil, since my whole body was starting to hurt again.

Steve and Jessica had brought elastic headbands to cover their necks and mouths against the desert sand. I saw that most of the other tourists preparing for the camel ride either had similar headbands, a scarf, or a turban. I decided to fashion a last-minute scarf/headband/turban-thing out of my linen travel towel. Steve said I looked like Lawrence of Arabia. I’m pretty sure I looked more like Larry of Palm Springs. Anyway...

The time finally upon us, we gathered together with the other tourists and were guided to the back of the hotel for our camel ride. It turned out that the Sahara was right in the hotel’s backyard. Literally.

We were lead a few dozen yards out to where the camels sat hobbled in the sand. As we walked, we all realized on our own that the little black pebbles littering the sand weren’t pebbles. I think you can guess what they were.

Somehow, in my hazy state, I managed to lock eyes with one of the camels. I’m not sure if it was a nice look he was giving me, but it was definitely a look. Even before we were told which group of camels to go to, I knew that we were meant to be. I asked one of the Berber’s what my camel’s name was. He told me, then I immediately forgot it.

Getting onto a camel is easy. Staying on is harder. First the back half stands up, then the front half. It’s like trying to ride one of those mechanical bulls.

Once my camel was standing, it immediately took off and started walking while our Berber guide was getting my uncle situated on his own mount. It wasn’t walking into the desert--just wherever it had decided it wanted to go right then. Eventually, our guide noticed, ran out, dragged my camel back, and tied it back into the caravan.

Jessica’s camel howled bloody murder when she got on and never stopped complaining throughout the trip. Halfway through, our guide stopped the caravan to try and readjust Jessica’s saddle since it seemed to be leaning to one side, but that didn’t really help. 

Later, I read that camels have very long memories and will seek out opportunities to injure people who have hurt or insulted them. I’m glad they didn’t keep the camels too close to where we were sleeping.

I joke, but the camel ride really was spectacular. Even though it was basically just an exotic pony ride with us being lead around on a rope, no amount of training wheels can fully mask the stark magnificence of the dunes.

And as for the camels, I enjoyed the ride, but I have to say that camels are some of the ugliest, surliest, most ungraceful creatures I’ve ever seen. But they are pretty much perfectly adapted to their environment. Like their feet. When the three of us compared notes later, we found that we had all spent some time watching the camels’ feet. They look like hooves, but they’re actually squishy--spreading out like sandshoes when they step down and keeping them from sinking into the soft sand.

After about 45 minutes, we arrived at the Berber camp. Staying on the camel as it sat down proved no easier than staying on while it stood up, even if the Advil had kicked in during the journey.

The camp itself consisted of a ring of thick woolen tents filled with pre-made western-style beds. Each tourist group got their own tent with a bed for each person. On one side of the camp was a large “tent” with a dining room and kitchen inside.

Everything seemed very comfortable and permanent for a nomadic settlement. You could tell it probably hasn’t moved in a very long time. There was even a concrete outhouse with a flushing toilet. But no women or children. 

The whole thing had a strong Disneyland, made-for-tourists feel--which is understandable since that’s exactly what it was. Still, a Disneyland in the Sahara is one heck of an adventure.

Once we had dropped off our daypacks in our tent, it was time to scale the dune and watch the sunset. Steve and Jessica went up without seeming to have too much trouble, so I figured I just had to take it slow and steady. But I could tell that my cold was getting worse behind the scenes. Every time I exhaled, a symphony of whistles, rattles, and crackles escaped from my chest. At the time, I found the sounds more amusing than disconcerting. I even played them up for comedic effect, to Jessica’s great unamusement.

The slow-and-steady strategy worked--up to the last 10 yards or so, where the dune got much steeper. As I tried to trudge up it, the sand under my feet steadily slid back down. And it wouldn’t stop until I was back at the start of the steep bit. Slow and steady wouldn’t work. Like being on a Stairmaster, if you don’t go fast enough, you will never make it to the top no matter how long you climb. After what seemed like several minutes of increasingly desperate flailing on all fours, I finally hurled myself up onto the ridge of the dune.

Once I had taken several minutes to catch my breath and stop sweating quite so badly, I was able to start appreciating the fantastic scenery that surrounded us.

And the sand--compared to the California beach sand we’re used to, the Sahara sand is amazingly fine and smooth.

And then I got that feeling. The one that starts somewhere between the pit of your stomach and the back of your throat and says, “I’m not sure, but I think you're about to throw up very soon.”

I tried controlled breathing. It didn’t help. I saw someone lying down on the side of the dune, and I figured I’d slide back down a bit and give that a try. It didn’t help either. Finally, I turned over and tried lying on my front. And that definitely didn’t help.

Accepting that defeat was inevitable, I tried to scramble back up the dune and dispose of my lunch down the other side. Except, remember what I said about climbing up the last stretch of the dune? According to Jessica, who didn’t understand what I was doing this whole time, she was principally reminded of a cartoon character running on a patch of ice without moving anywhere.

Left with no other options, I did the last thing I could think of to preserve my dignity. I dug a hole in the side of the dune. I can remember thinking that maybe if I was quiet enough and kept my head low enough, none of the other people would notice. That might have worked on a crowded, noisy beach. But this was the middle of a desert. And Jessica assures me that everyone on the dune was very well aware of what I did next.

After it was done, I very gently brushed sand over to fill the hole. But a few seconds later, I learned that my work was not yet done. So I slid a few feet further down the dune and repeated.

And then I repeated the maneuver one last time for good measure.

Feeling much better, I scrambled back up the dune (after shuffling a few feet to the left) and enjoyed the sunset while Jessica continued to laugh hysterically. I didn’t mind, though. As I told her then, if it wasn’t funny, it would just be sad.

A group of young women next to us offered me the rest of their water and some Dramamine. I sheepishly declined, but they insisted that I at least take the water. It turned out they were nurses, which made me a lot less self-conscious about having just puked in front of them. (Jessica kindly waited until after to inform me that everyone on the whole dune had heard me quite clearly.)

It was too hazy to see the sun make it all the way to the horizon, but it was still amazing to see it disappear into the atmosphere above the desert floor.

Dinner was great. It was tagine, but real tagine like what we had at Akchour--not the mass-produced stuff you get at tourist restaurants. This one had a spicy red sauce with fried eggs mixed in. It was like Berber huevos rancheros. Jessica and Steve especially loved it; I loved the few bites I felt up to eating.

Outside, the stars were now fully out and brilliant in the sky untainted by light pollution. I enjoyed it for about a minute before going to lie down. So Jessica and Steve got to enjoy some quality father-daughter time under the glory of the cosmos.

As our fellow tourists began to return from the stargazing on the dunes and congregate in the middle of the tents, the Berber guides began to play their drums and castanet-like “krakebs.” Steve and Jessica claim it was a good show, but I could only hear a monstrous clamor through my pounding headache. And despite being in the desert--famously cold at night--the inside of the tent was broiling thanks to the thick layers of wool and camel-hair tenting.

It was not going to be an easy night.

(To be continued...)

Next Post: The Desert Tour, Conclusion

Last Post: Rest (Mostly)

[ace-in-a-shopping-cart]

Director’s Cut Chapter 2: Pirates

Director’s Cut Chapter 1

Virgil heard the search party before he saw them. The storm had calmed down and his scales had been dried out but he’d still sat there with the human. He saw the lights from the other humans getting closer. Once they were within a dangerous distance, Virgil had to pry his hand out of the human’s and drag himself down to the water.

When he got back into the ocean, his tail felt instantly better and he was able to twirl, washing all the sand off while getting his fins as wet as possible. He popped back up behind a rock, somewhere he could watch and make sure the human got saved before he went on his way. Twirling is one of his favorite stims.

“Logan! There you are!” A shout was heard from the search party as someone finally reached the unconscious human- Logan. Logan stirred but didn’t react. The person shook him as another came up behind him.

“Patton, is he alright?”

“Yes, he seems to be fine. He’s not awake but he doesn’t seem to be injured either.”

Virgil sighed in relief as they picked Logan up on fabric stretched between two poles and carried him away. Virgil sank into the water, needing a good swim and to scrape some barnacles to relieve the stress of the past few hours.

The next few days passed in relative quiet. He knew the human would still be recovering so didn’t bother to visit the cliff for about a week or so. When he grew curious as to how Logan was doing, he visited the cliff. He hoped Logan would be there, hoped he would have a new stand and be back at it. Hoped he would be watching the clouds roll by and just enjoying the day. Virgil would soon learn how naive he was to think that.

The cliff and its surrounding area wasn’t exactly as he remembered it. The cliff was still there, as was the beach he’d sat on for hours. However, the most significant change was a ship had arrived. Virgil didn’t recognize the flag it was flying but that didn’t stop him from getting close to it. He should have been paying more attention but he was so fascinated by the novelty of a new thing that he didn’t notice the net until he was caught in it.

He struggled, but that only served to get him even more tangled as he tried to figure out what was going on. His fight or flight response kicked in and he tried flight but when his fins were so tangled the net was cutting off blood flow, he wished he were back on the beach with dry scales.

His fight kicked in but before he could call to the water, the net was lifted by a machine and he was left dangling in the air. His scales scraped against the rope, leaving his skin with nasty red marks that were sure to scar in one way or another. He hissed at the people standing on the ship he was dangling over. “What do you want with me?!” He yelled, his fins flaring in anger.

They laughed. “Hey, Remus, get a look at the latest catch!”

A man came out of the room at the back of the ship, the door slamming against the wall. Virgil had heard tales of Captain Hook but he was always told he had a red coat. This man looked just like the legends and horror stories but he was dressed in green. He smacked the nearest man in the head with the hook that replaced his left hand. “What have I said about using my real name?!”

The man rubbed the back of his head, sulking. “Not to, Cap’n.”

Remus nodded. “Good. Now, what do we have here?”

“A male mer, seems to be in good health.”

Virgil spit. “Let me go and maybe you’ll survive until sundown.”

Remus just laughed. “Awwww, look at the little fishy.”

Virgil ignored him, continuing to hurl insults and threats like spears in the hopes it would do something. It didn’t. Instead, he was lowered into a container of water and left there as the crew went about their day. Virgil reached for the top of the tank, trying to at least flop onto the floor and maybe crawl to the edge of the boat but the side of the tank was made in such a way that he kept slipping off it. As it was, the water only filled the lower half of the tank, his tail having contact with the bottom at all times. There was a ledge in the tank but it was submerged in the water to the point that it was only slightly better than if there were no ledge at all.

This didn’t stop him from keeping up his threats and taunts, hoping someone would get annoyed enough to throw him overboard. No one ever did. Instead, they spoke of him as if he weren’t three tail lengths away, as if he weren’t a living being who understood every word they said.

“How much do you think we’ll get for him?”

Remus shrugged. “I’d like to get at least thirty for him.”

“Only thirty bucks?” One man said, as if it were the least amount of money in the world.

Remus smacked him over the head. ”No, you dolt. Thirty grand. Thirty thousand. Not a measly thirty dollars. Do I look like an idiot to you?”

The man shook his head, his expression cowed. “No, Captain, not at all.”

Remus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go do something productive.”

The man nodded and wandered off. Remus turned to look at the tank Virgil was in, a smile on his face and hands on his hips. “Now, what should we do with the merchandise in the meantime?”

“Throw me back. I’m all skin and bones, no meat to eat. I won’t work for you and you can’t keep me as a pet. The only thing you can do is put me back where I belong.” He bared his teeth and hissed again.

Remus laughed. “A feisty one! I just might keep him for myself. For now, cover him with a tarp and let’s hope he goes to sleep.“

Virgil did not, in fact, go to sleep. Instead, he got louder and more annoying. When he had the time to finally examine himself, he noticed many deep cuts on his tail and torso, most likely from the harsh net cutting into him. The stale water did nothing for him, unable to heal him but not bothering to hurt him. He eventually settled down for the night and got some sleep, but it was fitful and not at all restful.

Director’s Cut Chapter 3