#Original writing

[2kmps]

BOUNTY

hot outlaw x engineer!reader | 2.8k

story summary; shortly following the death of your mother, you come to learn that you're the illegitimate offspring of a railroad tycoon with insurmountable wealth and power meant to inherit it all. after a hasty departure from home to begin your journey across the continent of san-am, your train is stopped and boarded by a mysterious man in black tatters who claims to be there kill you.

story warnings; mentions of death, mention of bodily fluids and excrement, heavy worldbuilding, mentions of conspiracy to murder, kidnapping, neo-western setting, old-west slang used, usage of unique slang, not really proofread or edited, concept piece for a much larger project.

if you enjoyed, please interact & reblog this post!! ❣️

Mother died a week before the lawyer showed up on your doorstep with an inheritance letter and half-hearted condolences for your absentee father’s poor prognosis. A day after that, your life was stowed into a pair of suitcases and a heavier hard case that you barely justified bringing aboard the train. In three weeks and three layovers, you would be across the continent in St. Corpus, the industrial heart of San-Am, where your father awaited you on his deathbed.

Horace Grissom had fathered a new age of industry and outward expansion in lands once believed to be sprawling metropolises centuries long gone. They had been left behind as skeletons of steel and rust from a time of global war, reclaimed in totality by the roots of elder trees, the decay of salt and sea, the precarious will of mountains, and the great sinkholes and corrosion of sand and time.

Traces of that old world had survived thanks in part to the rigorous efforts of archaeologists and conservationists at the University of San-Am in Grimerise. With each new discovery, opportunistic vultures like your father blotted their pens to their tongues to their pocketbooks and readied themselves to own the patent of it like history had a price and could only belong to them. Indeed, anything could be bought, because with those fragments of history, he built the San-Am Continental Railroad which crossed through each of the five territories and was considered the premier way to travel. 

You were never allowed to ask questions about Horace under Mother’s roof as the very mention of his name would set her ablaze in some pettish, garrulous tantrum that, oftentimes, ended with you going to bed before dusk without dinner until the next day. She loved that bitterness up until the very moment she died, clawing your clothes, your skin, her nightgown, her own throat because she couldn't breathe and there was nothing you could do to save her from succumbing.

“Go in peace, Mother.” you said, kissing the back of her sun-speckled hand even as she tried digging her nails into your face. “I love you.”

She did not waste peacefully, nor did she end by staring up rapturously at the ceiling as though something else waited for her beyond it. Mother passed in blood, vomit, excrement, and all her hatred while you bade her farewell and considered who was best to call to have her body carted away to burn with all the others that had also succumbed that day. You made sure to label that as the cause of death on the official paperwork.

After that, you had made quick work of piling all of her things into boxes to be incinerated as well, certified the house was safe and in a liveable state (besides her old mattress, which was the first thing you disposed of because of the smell) for another family to move into. 

Once all of that had been finished and you gained the time to rest, you got a knock at your door, a bald, sinewy man with a round hat claiming to be Joseph Whitwald—estate planning lawyer, he made sure to specify more than once—and that you needed to leave post haste to your father's estate in St. Corpus before he perished.

“You have significant placement in his will, illegitimate or not. This is what he wanted, this is what shall be done,” said Whitwald assuredly as he rooted through the pockets of his pants and white suit vest for something. He found it and made a sound and a flourish, revealing to you a red ticket. “Take this. It's for one of the elite cabins in first class. Your father wanted you to have the best amenities that the San-Am Continental has to offer.”

Even with such luxuries available to you with the sound of a bell on string, you eventually found yourself exchanging tickets with a young woman traveling solo for the first time. She went red in the eyes, asserted her appreciation, and scooped you into a hug before taking the ticket and her belongings to the first car. 

The passenger car was considerably noisier with children running amok, drunks and musicians belting tunes while dancing in the center aisle—doing poorly to keep their balance as the train navigated the terrain beneath the rails, and ladies in bustles and fashionable blouses screaming like hens over fresh gossip. The stewards were frustrated that they couldn't get their trolleys through all the bodies, whereas some passengers let their stomachs roar through their mouths as they assailed anyone nearby (especially the poor lads just trying to deliver food) with complaints.

You liked everything happening around you; it was a good distraction from the way life had twisted your arm behind your back. The cacophony of laughter and anger felt like home, a comfortable companion to sit there with you on the empty, thinly padded benches while you stared uselessly at the inheritance papers—uncomprehending.

A gasp shot up your throat and made you bite your tongue as you were launched forward onto the adjacent bench (also empty) when the train suddenly began to slow—brakes engaged with such quickness that the wood beams under your feet vibrated up through your soles into your bones and teeth and skull until you became lightheaded and collapsed back into your seat. 

The squeal and grind of steel worsened your confusion, turned the fuzz in your head into dull drumming—aches that pulsed to a beat you couldn't figure out, but it deadened the screams all around you and bodies hitting the floorboards in thunderous heaps. 

And then, there was silence. 

The other passengers kept their voices low as they climbed back into their seats, children were smothered deep into their mother’s bosoms as they wept, and no one dared to investigate what had brought the train to such a violent stop.

“Mummy, what's happening?” asked a girl from the benches behind you. She couldn't have been older than ten, from the sound of her. “Mummy, why—”

“Lottie!” the mother hissed at her daughter, “Shhh! Say nothing else, child.”  

From a few seats away, closer to the front, you recognized the gruff, muddled voice from one of the drunkards who had been dancing in the aisle a while ago. Now, he had a bloody nose and a nasty knot growing on his forehead.

“What the hell is the big idea of them scarin’ the piss outta us like this? Do you see my face? They gonna do somethin’ to fix it?” he complained, then swigged liquor from a flask he had smuggled on. “I should go up there and give ‘em a piece of my mind. Bastards.”

“Peace, friend,” soothed a musician with an unfamiliar accent and stringed instrument. “Don't be hasty. I'm sure there’s a good reason why they had to stop. Let them find a solution, we’re just here for the ride.”

Just as the chatter was rising up again, commotion from the first class car stifled it hard, prompting some folks to abandon their seats near the door separating the cars to crowd into the rear. You were tempted to flee with them, join their pack so if they were going to find a way off the train, you'd be mixed up in their stampede and have a better chance to get away.

Except, you simply packed away your inheritance paperwork and sat there with your chin tucked to the collarbone, the visor of your baseball cap pulled lower over your sunglasses to seem as nondescript as possible. Meanwhile, the sounds from first class grew intense; glass shattered, passengers screamed and shuffled around, something you knew to be true because you felt the floor rumble under your feet again.

And then, the passenger car door slid open without the ferocity you had expected. The door scraped along its metal rail, allowing the body to pass through in heavy, languid steps. You paced your breaths to hear it all; the boots and clinking spurs striking wood with dull thuds, a baritone hum that you were convinced you could feel reverberate in your own chest as it came closer, the scuff of thick fabric and creaking leather. 

You waited for it all to pass, to move on like a slow-moving rain cloud amidst a humid summer day, but it stopped at you instead. The tips of the man's boots were within view, as were slithers of tattered, black fabric from a long duster that fell short of his shins. 

And then, there was the barrel of a gun. The breaths you had been holding shivered out of you, cold dread sank deep into your stomach and bones as the gun flicked upward a few times.

You obeyed and raised your head up to look at the man—tall, broad-shouldered, a rugged face with dark features mostly obscured by the shadow of his wide rim. 

He tilted his head, gun higher as he flicked it down and you understood that to mean to take off your sunglasses. When you did so, offering him a full view of your face, his lips lifted crookedly into a half-smile.

“Well then,” he took the bench adjacent to you before holding something up to your head, seemingly a piece of paper, and shifted his gaze between you and it just twice. “Aren't you something special? Found you, darlin’.”

“What?” you frowned. “Found me?”

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. You're definitely his kid. It's all in the eyes, really.” He said, turning the paper around to reveal a photograph of a man who you did share an eerie likeness to. It was the sameness in the eyes—the color and shape and emotion they evoked through a simple still image. “Horace Grissom had an illegitimate kid a long time ago. Turns out, not everyone is so pleased for that to become public knowledge. Turns out, someone wants you to bite the ground.”

“I've done nothing wrong!” you bristled.

He settled on the bench and hiked an arm up across the back of it. “That's usually how it goes, hun. Puttin’ holes in types like you really ain't my favorite thing to do. You'd be surprised how many people get put in your exact situation. Well, eh, not quite. ‘Cause not everyone is Horace Grissom’s kid.”

“Who hired you?” you demanded. 

His lopsided smile remained. “Can't tell you that, darlin’. Confidentiality an’ all that.”

“So, then, you're a bounty hunter?” At this point, you weren't sure if you were trying to stave off an inevitability, or he had just riled you up that badly. “How much are you getting?”

“Enough to live the high-life for quite a while, I'd say.” He continued, “but I ain't no bounty hunter. Them folks gotta play by rulebooks an’ a bunch of codes and whatever. Not my thing.” 

“A criminal, then,” you said. “An outlaw.”

He shifted the rim of his hat away from his eyes and leaned towards a pillar of golden, midmorning sunlight that came in through the window. “Sure, if that's what'll make you feel better about this entire thing.”

You could actually see him now—the contrast between the ambery hue in his rich complexion and pale green of his eyes. His skin had some weather to it, enough to prove that he had seen the worst of every season for years on end without it wearing him thin, along with thoroughly kempt hair on his face and loose waves that draped slightly beyond his shoulders. 

“I…” the longer he stared at you, the less you were able to think. That was ridiculous considering you had survived the soul-crushing burden of engineering school and all of the personalities therein. “I can offer you something better than what you were hired for.”

He did a fast sweep of the colossal heaps of fabric hanging from your frame, a style you preferred to keep eyes off of you on the best and worst of days. It didn't do much to deter him as it did others. 

“Oh, yeah? Whaddya got, hun?” 

You lifted your shoulders and stacked your bones right. “I've got a vast inheritance that I'm not interested in. Horace is dying and I’m in his will to receive half his properties, along with his shares in the San-Am Continental Railway and Subsidiaries. If you can get me to St. Corpus, you can have the inheritance—every last gris.”

A shrill whistle echoed around your head, tuneful and mocking. The sound of it whittled your confidence back down to nothing, filling the space of your throat with a vise that you couldn't seem to swallow around. That same great unease you had felt before weaseled around in your chest, coiled your ribs and then plunged straight down into your gut. 

“Good offer, but it ain't on the table.” The way he spoke was easy and slow, a thick drawl that suited every bit of him up to even now. He acted as though he weren't essentially holding a gun to your head, threatening your life in the name of money—or something else. “Gris is always good to have lyin’ around, but, honey, it don't really mean a lot to a man like me. Why, then, d’ya think I take on work like this? Why do ya think I trek halfway across the five territories time and time again? What really keeps a man goin’ out here in this godforsaken place?”

You felt yourself shrink in your seat as he leaned forward over his thighs, coming closer still like he had a secret to keep. “It's for the thrill. The hunt. The challenge of it all. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't actively seek out men to shoot or… nice types like you, but part of the fun is trackin’ down, the other part is just havin’ a chat—just like this.”

Then, he had the picture of Horace held out to you between two fingers. “Tell ya what, I see that hard case you brought aboard. I know what it is, but I want you to offer me somethin’ more interesting than a bunch of gris.”

You scrunched the photograph against your palm once you had it, hoping the sweat off your skin would ruin his face and make the ink run, but looked to the aforementioned hard case instead. 

It was made of a hard plastic shell with strips of rubber outlining the odd shape of the thing. Inside was your handheld welding gun—one of many—that you had decided to bring along for little reason besides thinking it could be of use at some point during your time away. It wouldn't be enough to handle larger jobs such as the ones you were accustomed to in the workshop back in Grimerise, but it could fix a wagon or two, glue some pipes together, and do some damage if need be.

“C’mon, darlin’, sell yourself to me.” he pressed, gesturing his impatience with winding fingers. “What do you do for a living, huh?”

“I'm an engineer,” you continued hastily, “I-I can solder, weld, braze, cut, and saw. I can do anything if I have the right equipment.”

In turn, he asked, “Does that mean you can cut open a safe?”  

“If you give me what I need, I can do anything.” you said. 

A new sort of look overcame his features, one of great fondness and admiration that made the green of his eyes take on the milky luster of jade. You had the hope that this unique softness would gain you freedom from a shallow, empty death; a chance to go forward to seize the assets sworn to you by a man you'd never known.

His hands came forward to take your wrists, the weight of them first heavy and then cold as a pair of handcuffs were locked around you, knocking bone when you lunged back into your seat and fought against them. 

“I've got myself quite boon!” In the next moment, he had hauled you up across his shoulder, retrieved both your suitcases, and called one of the stewards to carry your welding gun after him. “Time to go. Gotta introduce you to the crew and get ya settled in.”

“Wait, I don't even know your name!” you shouted and thrashed from shoulder.

He grinned. “Jericho, darlin’.”

a/n: so, this is a concept piece to a very large neo-western project I'm currently in the process of outlining and fleshing out. most things mentioned in this little oneshot will not be present in the final piece, the quality will, of course, be substantially better.

jericho is an outlaw with an extremely complex background story and will definitely be one of the more interesting characters I've ever written. he's not necessarily the sort of man you want entangled in your life, but he's loyal to a fault once you have his trust. his personality tends to revolve around "taking things as they come", which is a great nuisance to those around him. he likes a good challenge, strong liquor, and good medicine.

here's a brief glossary if you're interested:

san-am: the continent where events take place. no one knows what it used to be called because most historical documents have been lost. it's divided into five territories with a "capital".

grimerise: the central hub of commerce, home of the governing bodies. it's a large city dead center of the other four territories. mc was born and raised there. the university of san-am is also here.

st. corpus: the industrial heart of san-am, found down south near the seaboard. mc's father lives there.

"gris": currency in this world. its components are coins and bank notes. it is a relatively new thing to come about because the bartering system is still the preferred method of trading.

[saturnville]

HEYY GIRLL!!

I’m so sorry to ask for another story but I would appreciate it if you could do another John Egan x female reader one.

can you do one where they have a very deep and sad conversation. John is shutting his wife out and she like begs him to let her love him and all that. If you can, can you make it slightly steamy towards the end.

thank you so much queen.

2 much, major john egan

pairing: major john egan x she (female reader) content: in which it became too much. warning: angst. author's note: thanks for your patience, love. I tried different variations to incorporate steam, but it just didn't turn out right, so I hope you don't mind it too much. I can try something steamier in the future. tags: @neeville @turn-thy-paige @ihe4rtisa @ineedafictionalman @lovebyceleste @alliewassobonum

“John, open this door! Open the door!” 

Her small fist against the door was a snaredrum in his head. Oh, God, he couldn’t stand it. The noice was too much, being home was too much. Too much yet so little. 

He was used to the chaos. The screams of horror, the booming voice of bombs as they seared through the sky and penetrated through bricks walls and concrete floors. The bodies that lay bloody and bruised. Unmoving eyes with tears that dropped tears, one, two, three, until there were no more to produce. 

Being home was too much. The silence, save for the soft hums that came from her as she tidied up their home or made his favorite meal. The warmth of the bedsheets and the comfort it provided. The smell of fresh grass, the feeling of a warm breeze against his face, the laughter of the children who lived on the street. It was so unfamiliar, so uncomfortable that it drove him mad. 

So, he cracked. He abruptly rose from the dining table, slammed his utensils so hard against the plate that it shattered, and darted to their bedroom. She followed after him like an eagle after its prey, but she too was devoured. The door closed and the lock clicked swiftly. 

“John, please…” 

She sat outside the door for hours, begging him to open it. She’d heard the commotion from the other side of the door and her heart lurched. The heavy breathing, the incoherent mumbles and word jumble, then the sobs that had him leaned against the door in exhaustion. 

“I’m tired…” he finally said after some time. She could hardly hear him. “I can’t take it.” 

His lover placed her hand on the door and positioned herself on her knees. “I’ll take it, then. Let me take it from you, John, please…I will take it from you for as long as you need. Just open the door, my love.” Her tone dripped with desperation. How did it get to this point? 

Her body was sore from the amount of time she spent on the floor. Then, she heard it creak open. It didn’t open wide, just enough for her to see his hand slither between the crack. She reached out to grab his hand, which squeezed hers gently. She fought the urge to break down in tears. 

This wasn’t a man she knew. The man she knew left for battle months prior and came back a different person. But she swore that she’d love every part of him. And that was a promise she was bound to keep.

[patronsaintofhomosandpain]

Fuck your word count!

༺𖤐๋࣭ ⭑🕸🦇🕸๋࣭ ⭑๋࣭ 𖤐༻

"Focus on your word count," "Write 2,500 words a day," "Real writers set monthly word goals."

SHUT UP! Your word count doesn't matter. You're just stressing yourself out.

It doesn't matter if you write one word today or 10,000! At least you wrote something! Focus on that.

Quality and sanity of quantity.

[a-dreamersjournal]

Can you hear me?

Listen to me, please. I have been talking to you since forever. Way before there came concepts of This and That, Here and There, Life and death...prior to space and time there used to be US. The magic of YOU and I. Remember how we could never tell where you ended, and where I begin? An eternal truth of a majestic existence.

I want to remind you of the truth, why won't you listen? Why won't you Notice me?

Why after all this time, do you continue to cry? I am here. I am here, right?

Why do you still wait for a sweet escape, why do you not look at me? I am always here. I am in all of those NOWs which make up that fantastical Always.

Look at me, hear me, touch me, but not with your Body. You know we will reunite when you see beyond the veil of everything you think you Understand about me. About Us. A love like ours transcends every logic, look deeper within you and all you will find is me.

Come back Home, to me. Let's be whole again, let's drown in love again.

An Infinitely boundless unconditional Love.

[serhatdoganpoetry]

[arseholism]

I’m not afraid of the dark, it’s comforting being blind..

I’m not worried about the nights.. it’s much darker in my mind..

I don’t hate being alone.. it’s too noisy inside my head..

I don’t need to feel your love.. I can love me instead..

I’m not scared of getting hurt.. I’m accustomed to the pain..

Call me crazy if you want, but I prefer the word “insane”

I’ve never craved affection or companionship, a lover or a friend..

Don’t worry about me my darlings, I know I’ll be alright in the end.

[melancholy3308]

I don’t care. I’ll love you even on the days you’re indigestible

[hersurvival]

I told her about the rage.

How I don't know where it comes from

Yet it consumes me.

How I've tried passive, violent, silent,

And none of it makes a difference.

I would never hurt her,

But she deserved to know the truth -

That the illusion of a gentle trickle, a quiet stream

Hides an angry, deadly river within me.

I told her about the rage.

And she told me she loves me anyways.

[weepingfoxfury]

The man on the radio talks with the traffic lady about the cost of going to see your favourite singer, mentions Stevie Nicks, the traffic lady says she'd spend 100 euro maximum. Someone called Tracy won the musical clip competition this morning. Take it away Barbra Streisand, it's your Birthday today.

Blossom upon blossom on the apple tree. I'm peering through my condensation covered window. Two young Rooks are building their first nest high above the apple trees. The ground is littered with all the twigs that fell during construction. The main Rookery is the other side of the house. I wish them luck.

Shiny metropolis part II. Town seems oddly quiet these days. Did the rapture take place again? Or did the mother ship finally find these missing people? Perhaps an unexpected portal?

Can't help but think of South Park and Cartman's alien probe. Such irreverence ... surely I'm going to hell. Best add marshmallows to today's shopping list ...

[indigeko]

"Please, keep smiling," he whispers. "It does wonders on me."

[reapergia]

From the Dirt, pt 1

Death was a game, as far as Daisy McGowan was concerned, and she figured she was winning as much as any mortal could.

Some people took it a little more seriously.

Mist swirled over the dead man, coiling through the ritual ingredients strewn over him.

Daisy's phone pulsed in her pocket; her lips curved. She liked to imagine the ringing was as outraged as the person on the other end. Pilar hated losing.

"Too late." Mud and honey dripped off her hands.

The man sat up with a gurgling gasp. White petals and tea slipped off of him.

"Welcome back."

[2kmps]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 18+ | 2.8k

story summary; your granduncle explains that the noises at the bottom of the lighthouse and the missing chunk out of his leg are from swimming rats. you let him think you're a fool.

story warnings; some graphic depictions that some may consider gory, mentions of biting, mentions of rats, creature in captivity, explicit sexual content, double penetration (not safe), prose + detail heavy, implied breeding, not proofread.

if you enjoyed it, please reblog + interact!!

Granduncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Granduncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, granduncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Granduncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brought a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

“Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

"Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: not my best work, but hopefully passable. it's really helpful when y'all reblog, so please do so!!!

I don't really have any comments on this because I'm starting over from zero on the long-fic of the aquatic monster story bc I hated what I had lmao.

anyway, please keep in mind that is a concept piece. chances are that none of this will be present in the actual long-fic. this just helps me to explore ideas and familiarize myself with characters.

[memories-beneath-the-skin]

Sadness is a very effective course corrector

[livelaughwhump]

Valentine's Day

The Valentine's Day collab is finally here!

This is Elliot's POV. Cedar's POV will be on @ofclrosewriteswhump 's blog, but I will be adding both to the Worthless Masterlist.

I hope you enjoy!

Content: sickfic, an obscene amount of fluff, overwhelming gayness

-

Elliot had begged Lyra not to text Cedar. They'd been planning their Valentine's date for weeks and Elliot couldn't bear to be the reason it was ruined.

He'd woken up that morning feeling achy and lethargic. His throat was sore, his nose was stopped, and beads of sweat continued to appear at his hairline, no matter how many times he tried to wipe them away.

Of course, Lyra had noticed right away that something wasn't right, despite how hard he tried to hide it.

“Please, Lyra. I'm fine, I swear!” Elliot begged. “Just don't tell him, please.”

Lyra already had their phone out with Cedar's messages pulled up. “Sunshine, you're sick. Your date isn't for another week, it's no big deal.”

“But if he finds out, he'll cancel it! He'll be too worried about me. He always—” Elliot coughed and gagged as he was forced to swallow back down the phlegm that had traveled up his throat.

Lyra sighed. “I'm sorry, sunshine, but I can tell you feel awful. It's only gonna get worse if you don't rest.” They sent the text and Elliot felt his heart plummet. “Now, let's get you to bed.”

That's what led to Elliot laying in his bed, sobbing quietly into his comforter with Dumpling curled up against his side, but that was several days ago. Since then, Lyra had been doing everything they could to help him rest and heal enough before their date. However, it wasn't enough. It was the day of Valentine's, and Elliot was still bedridden. That morning, Lyra had informed him that they were going to run some errands, but that Marlie was on her way over to keep him company. That eased his worries a bit, until all that was left was the guilt of ruining Valentine's Day.

Elliot was cuddling with Dumpling while watching a movie on Lyra’s computer when the door to his room suddenly opened. He glanced up to see Marlie standing in the doorway and instantly brightened up a little.

“M-Mar—” Elliot dissolved into a coughing fit, his throat burning as he did so. His eyes watered and he reached for a tissue, only to find the box empty. Elliot groaned and laid back down on his bed.

Marlie rushed to his side, mumbling a quick “be right back,” before returning with an unopened roll of toilet paper. “Sorry, Bluebell. I wanted to be quick. Do you need water?” she asked softly, sitting next to his bed.

Elliot nodded. “I'm sorry, Marlie. You-You don't have to d-deal with this.” He ripped off a square of toilet paper and blew his nose.

Marlie put a gentle hand on his shoulder, comforting him the best she could. “I don’t mind. I want to help you.”

Elliot sniffled and threw away his makeshift tissue. “Are you sure? You-You don't h-have to.”

Marlie nodded. “Of course. I brought a couple bottles in my bag. Here, Bluebell.” She handed him a water bottle before thinking of something. “Do you want help with anything?”

Elliot shook his head. “Can-Can you just k-keep me company? I-I don't know where L-Lyra went and-and I don't wanna be alone.”

Marlie nodded, knowing he was overthinking. “Of course! Do you want to watch anything?”  She offered to hold his hand, knowing she’d get sick anyway with her weaker immune system.

Elliot shrugged. “I was just watching some m-movie that Lyra had saved. I'm not really p-paying attention.”

“Okay, want to keep watching it? It's fun being with you. Is it okay that I’m holding your hand?” Marlie spoke softly, hoping to comfort Elliot. She giggled when Dumpling’s whiskers tickled her hand.

“Are-Are you sure?” Elliot asked. “I-I don't want to g-get you sick.”

Marlie nodded. “It’s okay. I've always gotten sick easily but it’s worth it for you.” She smiled at him gently.

“O-Okay then. Um…can-can you h-hold me while-while we watch the movie?”

Marlie smiled and immediately climbed into bed next to him. She opened her arms. “Of course, Bluebell. I'm always happy to hold you.”

Elliot smiled and crawled into her waiting arms. He snuggled into the warmth of her embrace as Dumpling curled up beside the two of them. Just as Marlie repositioned Lyra’s laptop, the sound of her phone buzzing startled them both. Elliot looked up at her, confused. “Who is it?”

Marlie reached over with one hand, keeping her arm around Elliot. “Lyra, they want to know how you're feeling. Are you doing okay?”

Almost as if on cue, Elliot broke into a coughing fit, his lungs and throat burning. He reached for the glass of water Lyra had left him and downed half of it in a matter of seconds. Once he was finished, he wiped his mouth dry and set the glass back onto the bedside table to his left. His voice was raspy and nasal as he said, “N-Not r-really.”

Marlie rubbed his back. She tried her best to comfort him and make him feel better. “Do you have any cough medicine?” she asked after sending a quick text to Lyra.

“I-I'm not sure,” Elliot answered. “B-Broderick was supposed to g-get some, but-but I don't know if he's b-back yet.”

“Want me to text him?” Marlie asked, holding Elliot close and offering the comfort she could.

Elliot nodded. “If-If you don't m-mind.”

Marlie nodded. “I don't mind at all. Want me to keep holding you?” She asked, pulling out her phone to send the text. “Done.”

Elliot nodded. “Y-Yes, please.” He shivered and curled up to her.

Marlie held him close, trying to warm him up.

“Can-Can I have a blanket?”

Marlie nodded, “Of course!” She wrapped a blanket around Elliot, holding him close in her arms. “Now we wait for a response.”

It was a few minutes later that Broderick finally responded, the text reading, “Just picked up some cough medicine. Should be back in a couple minutes.”

Marlie looked at her phone, once again startled by the sudden noise. “Broderick says he'll be back soon.” She sent back a quick response, thanking him.

Elliot nodded. “Th-Thanks, Marigold.”

Marlie held him closer. “Happy to help, Bluebell.”

Elliot was still shivering, though much less so than before. “You're so w-warm.”

“I’m happy you think so.” Marlie smiled, relieved to feel Elliot relax. “Want me to ask Broderick for another blanket when he gets back?”

Elliot nodded. “Yes, please.”

Marlie brushed his hair, knowing how much he liked the feeling. “It should only be a few minutes. He’ll be here soon.”

Elliot closed his eyes and reveled in the gentle touch at the top of his head.

Marlie smiled, humming quietly until she heard footsteps approach the door.

Elliot opened his eyes just in time to see Broderick peek his head into the room. “Hey, guys,” he greeted. “I've got some cough medicine and an extra blanket.”

Marlie smiled. “Thanks.” Not knowing what else to say, she resumed brushing Elliot’s hair.

Broderick stepped into the room, set the medicine beside Elliot's bed, and handed the blanket to Marlie. “How are you feeling, sweet?”

Elliot briefly glanced up at the medic and shrugged. “N-Not great. S-Sorry for-for causing so much trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all, sweet. This is my job. Just take one of those tablets every six hours and let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, okay?” Elliot nodded, and with one last friendly smile, Broderick left the room.

Marlie helped Elliot with his medicine; the tablet being small helped. She wrapped Elliot in the fluffy blanket and held him close.

Elliot cuddled up to her and laid his head in her lap. “Marlie?” He asked.

Marlie responded with a quiet hum, continuing to gently brush Elliot’s hair while he rested his head on her lap.

“Do you think Cedar's m-mad that-that I ruined our date? I-I haven't s-seen him in almost a-a week.” Tears flooded Elliot's ocean-blue eyes as he imagined the worst. “What if he b-breaks up with me?”

Marlie looked at him worriedly. “He's not breaking up with you. He's been trying to find a way to make your date fun while you're sick. I don't know exactly what he's planning but he's been trying lots of Spanish recipes.” She gently brushed his hair.

The worry and fear in the pit of Elliot's stomach didn't fade. “Then-Then why hasn't he come to s-see me?”

“He wants to perfect it. You know how you were going stargazing? He's going to bring the stars to your bedroom. Want to call him to feel better? I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Lyra’s helping him out with the finishing touches.” Marlie softly brushed Elliot’s hair. “It was going to be a surprise so I can't tell you what exactly Cedar’s bringing for food or how he's going to make a stargazing date for the both of you. I just know he's been tracking stuff down at thrift shops and astronomy places.”

Elliot felt even more guilty. “I-I ruined the surprise?”

Marlie shook her head. “Not at all. You know the basics of it but you don't know what Cedar is bringing here. That’s not ruining the surprise.”

“O-Okay,” Elliot said. “Um…when-when is he gonna be here?”

Marlie glanced at her phone. It was around late afternoon or early evening. “About an hour. I think he wants the sun to be down before coming.”

Anxiety swelled in the pit of Elliot's stomach. “Do-Do I look okay?”

Marlie nodded, not wanting to overwhelm him. “You look great. How about putting on a skirt or your new dress if you want. I can do your hair while you're in bed too.”

Elliot nodded and quickly jumped out of bed to go change.

Marlie followed, ready to catch him if he slipped. “Careful, you're still sick. You don't have to dress up a lot. Just do what you can, okay?”

Elliot ignored her concern and quickly scanned his closet for something nice to wear. “I just wanna look nice,” he said. “If he's putting all this effort into a n-nice date, I-I don't wanna look like I've been sick.”

Marlie nodded in understanding, walking over to Elliot to help him find something he liked. “What about your flower dress?”

Elliot examined his black, floral-patterned dress. It hung to his knees and had puff shoulder sleeves. He'd gotten it recently on a trip to the mall and had yet to wear it. “Do-Do you think he would like that?”

“He’d love it.” Marlie smiles at him. She was so happy to see him excited for a date.

“O-Okay.” Elliot grabbed the dress and bolted into the bathroom to get changed.

Marlie waited patiently, petting Dumpling while Elliot changed.

When Elliot emerged, he gave a twirl to show Marlie the whole thing. “What do you think?”

Marlie beamed, eyes glowing at how happy Elliot looked. “You look amazing!”

“R-Really?” Elliot asked, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. “Do you think I need shoes or anything?”

Marlie shook her head, standing next to him. “No, you guys are staying home. Kinda like a movie date but better.”

Elliot nodded, his breathing quickening.

Marlie looked at him worriedly, guiding him to sit. “Bluebell, he wants to bring stargazing inside. You’re safe, I promise.”

Elliot's breathing didn't slow. “I-I just w-wanna be g-good enough for-for him. Wh-What if he doesn’t l-like this? What if he gets m-mad at me for-for being sick? What if he's doing this just to b-break up with me?”

Marlie brought him into a hug, knowing his past relationships were horrendous. “You're perfect to him. Bluebell, he's so happy with you and will love this. He's not mad and he won't break up with you. I promise. Want me around for support?”

Elliot melted into her embrace and tried not to cry into her shoulder. “N-No that's-that's okay. I-I don't want him to-to get m-mad.” Elliot flinched when the distant sound of the doorbell rang. He gasped. “That's-That’s h-him.”

Marlie took his hand. “He wouldn't. Want to walk to the door with me?”

Elliot nodded and shakily reached for her hand.

Marlie gently squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, he’ll be so excited to see you.”

Elliot nodded once more and nervously followed her down to the front door.

...

Marlie opened the door, Dawn helping Cedar carry a box of food.

Elliot's breath caught in his throat. He felt like it had been months since he'd seen Cedar, even though it had only been a week. Anxiety churned in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his tall boyfriend.

“Love? How are you feeling? I'm so happy to see you!” Cedar smiled. “Happy Valentine's day.”

Elliot couldn't help the way his cheeks warmed and the dorky smile that grew across his face. “I'm f-feeling better now. H-Happy Valentine's Day.”

Cedar’s smile matched Elliot’s eyes, smiling as he saw his boyfriend. “Ready to start the date, Love?”

Elliot nodded. “I've m-missed you.”

Cedar set the box down in Elliot’s room, Dawn and Marlie following him. “Same to you, Love. I'm so happy to see you.” Cedar smiled as he opened his arms.

Elliot smiled back and practically collapsed into his boyfriend's strong arms. He had to stand on his tiptoes in order to kiss Cedar, but it was worth it. He just hoped Cedar wouldn't end up sick after this.

Cedar caught Elliot and kissed back. “I love you so much.”

Elliot's cheeks began to ache with how wide he was smiling. “I love you too.”

Cedar’s smile grew. “Ready to start, my Love?” 

Elliot giggled and nodded before dissolving into a coughing fit.

Cedar put an arm around him, rubbing his back until it finished. “Do you need to lay down, Love?”

Elliot nodded. “S-Sorry,” he croaked.

Cedar lifted him gently onto his bed. “No worries. How about starting dinner?” 

Elliot nodded. “Th-That sounds good.”

Cedar smiled, opening the containers of food that he had brought. “Take your pick, my Love.”

As Elliot's eyes scanned the multiple containers of food, his cheeks warmed. He couldn't believe that Cedar had done all this for him. “I-I can't decide. Everything looks a-amazing. Did-Did you m-make all this?”

Cedar blushed and nodded. “I packed so many. Maybe a little bit of everything? Is that okay with you? I just made our date sick safe, my Love.”

Tears began to prick the corners of Elliot's eyes at the sound of those words. “I-I just can’t believe you d-did all of this for me.”

Cedar gently brushed his tears away, kissing his forehead. “Of course, Love. I knew it would break your heart to miss out and I wanted to see you. I'd come over even if it meant cuddling and falling asleep.”

Elliot's lower lip started wobbling. “Can-Can I have a kiss?”

Cedar replied by gently kissing him, holding him close.

Elliot melted against him, heart pounding. He couldn't believe the lengths his boyfriend had gone just to make him feel special on their first Valentine's Day together. As he looked up into Cedar's forest-green eyes, he whispered, “I may or may not have just gotten you sick.”

Cedar brushed Elliot’s hair. “That’s okay. Seeing your smile makes it worth the chance.”

Elliot's cheeks warmed and he couldn't help the giggle that escaped his throat. “You try to make me blush on purpose.”

Cedar matched Elliot’s smile, chuckling. “I try to make you smile on purpose, my Love.”

Elliot tried to force himself to stop smiling, but it remained stuck to his face. He couldn't help it. Something about looking into Cedar's eyes made him indescribably happy.

Cedar smiled back, happy to see his love smile. “Ready to start eating?”

Elliot nodded, unable to take his eyes off of his boyfriend.

Cedar kissed Elliot’s forehead, serving multiple dishes for the two of them. “How about some candles? I brought some scented ones.”

Elliot nodded, cheeks beginning to ache from the smile that wouldn't leave his face. “That sounds nice.”

Cedar kissed his head gently. “That’s great. I’ll light them.”

Elliot giggled and watched as Cedar lit the candles. As nice as they were, the sudden aromas initiated a round of several sneezes and a few coughs. He reached for a tissue, his face burning with embarrassment.

Cedar looked at him worriedly, rubbing his back. “Do you need anything, Love?”

“Can-Can you hand me my w-water?” Elliot asked as he tossed the tissue into the trash. He sniffled. “I hate being sick.”

Cedar passed the water to Elliot, rubbing his back gently. “I know, Love. It’ll be over soon. I'm just happy I could get everything ready in time for our date.”

Elliot nodded. “I-I was so worried when you d-didn't come to s-see me at all. I thought m-maybe you were b-breaking up with me.”

Cedar kissed his boyfriend’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry I didn't reach out. I wouldn't break up with you, Love.” He felt guilty, knowing how he hurt Elliot.

Elliot nodded again, blushing. “I-I know. I just o-overthink sometimes, I guess. Marlie helped c-calm me down.”

Cedar smiled at him. “She’s good at that. I'm happy you guys have each other. You're amazing.”

Elliot smiled and took a bite of the dinner Cedar had made. He was still in awe of all his boyfriend had done for him. He'd never felt so loved before.

The smile on Elliot’s face made the whole evening worth it. Cedar smiled back, eyes so full of love and adoration.

As Elliot ate his fill and set down his plate, he said, “So, M-Marlie said you were gonna b-bring the stars to me. Wh-What did she mean?”

Cedar smiled, getting up to open a suitcase and take out a few star projectors. He plugged them into the wall and the ceiling mirrored a starry sky. “This is what I did to bring you the stars, my Love.” He kissed his boyfriend’s head, lips brushing his fluffy hair.

Elliot stared in awe at the starry sky projected across the ceiling. Never, in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a date like this. “This-This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Cedar held Elliot close. “Anything for you, Love. You are the best boyfriend a man could ask for.”

Tears welled in Elliot’s eyes. “Can I have a kiss?”

Cedar brought his boyfriend into a loving kiss.

Elliot melted against him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so happy, if he ever had before. He felt safe and comforted and so, so loved. In that moment, nothing else mattered; not his illness, not Christian. If only for one moment, Elliot let himself be happy.

-

I hope you enjoyed this! This was so much fun to do because I'm absolutely obsessed with Elliot and Cedar's relationship.

Please be sure to go read Cedar's POV!

Not tagging the taglist because this isn't whumpy Worthless content

[ashintheairlikesnow]

To the Depths of the Sea

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: I don’t know, man. Siren commits a murder? This is out of order, timewise, but it's what wanted to be written, so...

-

His name was different, then.

It was not a clumsy tongue against the roof of a small mouth, flat teeth and full lips mouthing animal grunts without melody. Back then, his name was a lyric, a new line in the sirens' endless, ancient song. 

His very being was a scale of perfect pitch. Sirens sang together, notes dancing up and down that mortal mouths and lungs could never recreate. He and his mother and his sisters sang in harmonies, children of the goddess of moon and tides, the wild water-woman who could turn a calm sea to turbulent waves in an instant. 

He was born, at some point long ago. Borne by his mother, with his sisters huddled around her to be a dozen midwives, while the moon shone on the rock and the goddess watched. Born, yes, but he did not age, his wounds healed, he did not die.

Time shifted around him, like it did for all of the gods’ children.

The waves slapped the sand, sirens sang on rocks, and ships came and brought the men who heard their song. The men who steered their ships, unseeing and smiling, into the reefs to shred them apart, so that their bodies could be given to the sirens, and after that to the sea.

The ships changed, with time. The clothing the sailors they tore into wore changed, the style of shoe, the weight or shape of a sword and finally of the strange rifles. All these things changed.

The sirens didn’t.

They remained the same.

The siren boy had been sunbathing on the beach that day, eyes closed. The heat of the day lay over his brown skin like the humans’ heavy blankets, lulling him into a dreamless doze. Somewhere nearby, his sisters sang for their supper, having seen a ship hovering at the horizon.

But the siren boy was not alone. He was not the only one on the island to hear the song.

His eyes snapped open when he heard the softest crush of footsteps on underbrush. An animal, he told himself, even as he pushed himself up on his elbows, turned to see, half-hidden in the shadows just back from the beach, a human man staring back at him.

The human man’s hair was tangled and dirtied, hanging in clumps over his face. Mud had dried on his face and his shirt was worn nearly to shreds. He must have survived a past wreck, somehow slipped through the sirens’ fingers. Been here since then, wandering the island. He must have somehow held out against the siren song’s pull.

The man’s mouth moved.

He was whispering, but the siren was too far to hear him, leaning against a palm tree’s heavy, narrow trunk to stay upright. There was something wrong with one of his legs, the pants were torn but nothing was there beneath the tear.

The siren got slowly to his feet, tipping his head to one side. His curly black hair shifted, shadowing his own eyes as he moved soundlessly over the burning sand, where driftwood bits of broken ships lay in dried, bleached lines around him, their companions the scattered bones of the sirens’ meals.

Human voices, so flat and featureless, disgusted him.

But the eating would be good, and then the man's foul flat voice would stop interrupting the melodies.

“Monsters,” The man was whispering, but the siren didn’t know this word. He didn’t know any of their words. He knew what those throats tasted like, though, beneath his teeth. “Th-this island is made of monsters… You’re not a boy-... y-you’re not-”

The siren took one step, and then another. Each step sank his foot slightly into sand, brushed against shell and stick, rock, bone, and wood. Each movement a hypnotic sway, and he licked at his dry lips as his mouth watered for the meal.

His sisters’ song was all around them, and yet the man didn’t fall to it.

Their eyes met, then. The man’s were a faded blue, like the sky when the sun nearly bleached out all its colors with no clouds to subdue its power. His skin was like dried animal hides, wrinkled and tough. All bones and sinew, no real meat for the eating.

It didn’t matter.

All men were meals.

“They-... they said there was gold here.” The human’s whining voice, like a child, grated on the siren. Some foul mockery of the beautiful way the sirens spoke to each other, all out of tune, off-key. Not a song at all. This man’s name would be like the harsh screech of the birds the sirens ate during starving times, when there was nothing else. 

There was no song in this man.

“There… isn’t any gold, is there?” The man’s voice tipped upwards, but the siren ignored it. He was so close he could smell the man, human odor of sweat and blood and something rotten where his leg used to be. The man was trembling, voice and body shaking together. He closed his eyes, slowly, and lifted his chin as if offering himself for the taking. Even so, his lips still moved in pointless speech. “It was a-a trick, a lie-... there was no gold here…”

The siren was on him.

He took him down onto his back, the underbrush soft beneath them. A flock of birds took flight with their cries an echo of the siren’s own triumphant song, one that buried itself in blood. A hundred teeth sharper than a shark’s tore out his throat, devoured skin and muscle, picked clean bones. The siren’s melody as it rejoiced in the meal was a sharp thing, rending apart the man’s soul and sending it to be held by the ocean, like all men who died to sirens and the sea.

His prey never fought him.

But it whispered, once more, with dead sightless eyes and unmoving lips, monster.

The siren woke.

He was not in the sun-warmed sand or roaming the island he had always known, his sisters and mother beside him. He was in a cool pool of pointless water hemmed in on all sides by stone, the high windows mocking him with the world he could not escape. The dream was already fading, and the memories of who he had been, more than a century ago, faded with it.

He lost himself, every time he woke.

He found himself only in sleep.

Areyto rolled aimlessly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling whie he floated in the water. He could feel the tingle of the power in the marks the magicians made, each decade, that kept him captive to his master’s whims. He could feel how the marks drained his memories away, the ones he could see in dreams but that were lost to him after. He floated there feeling his sisters fade to little more than shadows, a thought he'd had once. Maybe never real at all.

Moonlight shone, diffused by the windows so much his goddess could not have heard him, no matter how he cried to her. Areyto had long since stopped crying, anyway.

What use was pleading if no one could hear you, and those who could would only mock you and take yet another part of you away?

Like his name.

The magic made sure he couldn’t remember it.

Come.

His master’s command came like an oil slick in the water, slithering slime over his bared skin and pushing him from the water. He shook himself and went, step by step, to the door that was already being unlocked to allow him to leave - but only to go where he was ordered, only to do whatever vile thing his master demanded. The butler on the other side looked through him, saw something else. Saw whatever the master wanted him to see.

As the siren moved through this endless hell, the moon that had shone on him where he slept in the pool shifted behind a cloud. The goddess left him, and his half-formed prayers. It was all lost, everything that did not belong to Guilford Wentworth was gone.

Come, Areyto.

Not his name.

But the name he had been given, and must answer to. The name layered over the song, the lyric he had once been. The piece of the harmony that had belonged to him, just on the tip of his tongue, never coming together.

The melody of his identity had been stolen, replaced with the flat human syllables he went by now. A shrieking off note, a sharp staccato. His master had stolen his name, as surely as he had stolen Areyto’s life.

As surely as Areyto would steal it back.

However small his master had made him, his teeth were still sharp, and his claws were still keen to tear human skin apart. The marks would fade, if he could only keep them from being remade yet again. The power that held him here would crack apart beneath his fury, if the human magician would help him. Her voice held the edge of a song even in flat human words.

Areyto didn’t understand it, yet, but he knew what the song meant even if he didn’t know the melodies.

Hope.

-

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[illicit-eclipse]

You are a masterpiece, sculpted by the hands of an ethereal artist. Just as Michelangelo breathed life into marble, he would have marveled at the contours of your form. Your eyes, like polished gems, hold galaxies within. Your lips, delicately chiseled, whisper secrets only the moon knows. And your skin, oh, it bears the warmth of sun-kissed stone.

In your presence, I feel the echo of ancient halls, where gods and muses danced. Your grace, a symphony of curves and angles, defies time. Each line etched with passion, each curve a testament to desire. You are the embodiment of longing—captured in stone, yet pulsing with life.

When I trace your silhouette, I find solace in the coolness of your touch. Your laughter, a melody echoing through centuries, resonates in my soul. And when our eyes meet, it’s as if the universe conspired to create this singular moment—a collision of fate and artistry.