#RACE ROCK LIGHTHOUSE

[dailylighthouse]

Race Rock Lighthouse

Long Island, New York, United States

Source: Wikimedia Commons | Wikimedia Commons

Constructed: 1878

Automated: 1978

Have a favorite lighthouse? Curious about lighthouses in general? Send an ask!

[myhauntedsalem]

RACE ROCK LIGHTHOUSE

SOUTHOLD, NY

It seems that ghosts like to hang out in lighthouses. The violent deaths from these disasters could leave behind a spiritual residue or life force that lingers where it happened.

According to Native American lore, Race Rock Reef was once an island. Because of the swift currents running up to six knots in the Race and the sharp rocks that could tear out the bottom of their birch bark canoes the Indians avoided it. They believed the place was haunted and as sea levels have risen the island has disappeared beneath the waves.

Many members of the Coast Guard have claimed to hear disembodied whispers, laughing, voices and even yelling. Some have been touched, poked, or pushed by these phantoms and refuse to return to this property. Unexplainable footsteps and the sounds of running water have also been experienced. Many passing boats claimed they have witnessed a shadowy presence of a man in the tower as the light passed over them.

[nocturn-warrior]

Ne t'enfuis pas

Adrian Ţepeş x reader

Summary: You are his first love reincarnated and after 300 years, you finally meet again.

Rating: fluff, hurt, comfort

Warnings: mentions of death, grief, Nocturn season 2 spoilers!!!

Nmed after Kate Bush's Ne T'enfuis Pas. This is heavily inspired in Bram Stoker's Dracula by Coppola and mayyybe Nosferatu by Eggers <3 It's been so long since i've written, i am honestly rusty. Sorry for taking so long with this one.

The water in the pond behind the chateau reflects the light of the crescent pale moonlight above your head. It is the first time in weeks since you could go outside after the sunset without worrying about getting your neck attacked by a servant of the Bloody Countess or a night creature. Small tadpoles swim around, feeding on bugs that have the misfortune of falling in the pond and you watch them idly and with a childlike curiosity. You didn’t want to ruminate at that moment, you wanted to think that everything was going to be fine. 

Still, your unquiet mind couldn’t rest. The scene of the tadpole rapidly consuming the bug reminds you of your own thoughts consuming you. The dreams you’ve had before his arrival; a dark castle with infinite stairs, forests that you’ve never explored, and flashes of scenes flooding your mind every time he is near that feel so much more real than a mere dejavú. But how could you ever put this into words?

Smooth steps are heard padding against the grass and you softly gasp when you see the tall, pale man coming to the spot you are sitting on. His amber eyes glow like the ones of a cat in a dark night as he walks in the shadow announcing his not fully human nature. 

“They are beheading the last one of the day. Won’t you like to see the show?”

Alucard asks with sarcasm, sitting on the opposite side of the pond in a pompous swish. The city's in ruins, but the people are executioning the aristocrats who stood in the side of the vampires during the attack. You don’t answer his question. In fact, the two of you stay in silence for a while, but now and then you peek through the fountain to see if he is still in there and he is perfectly immobile like a beautiful statue in the garden, except for his flouncy hair tousled by the soft breeze. In one of those moments of curiosity, your gazes meet and it feels intense as a lightning hitting your body, Alucard could see your hair standing on end.

“Although I think they should pay for what they did, I don't see the point of gathering in the town to see bloodshed. I’ve seen enough of this in the last few days.”

You answer in an awkward way and twirl your finger around the water, making the tadpoles hide behind a rock to dismiss the feeling that goes beyond embarrassment. Alucard narrows his eyes, cautiously watching your expression, wondering if approaching you now was the right choice. But how long could he keep this to himself? If there is something Alucard learned during these wandering 300 years is that human life is feeble as a crystal, that he’ll see his pals one by one perish to the fog of time. Leaving it be, ignoring the signals would spare him from the very known feeling of grief. Still, there you are. With another appearance, voice and name, yet eyes are the windows of the soul, they say, and Alucard lived enough to know that this might be true. And since yours met during the Eclipse, he knew that calling coming from overseas was not only his duty of destroying Sekhmet’s mummy. He was drawn to your presence like a boat to a lighthouse.

“May i?”

He asks before sitting on the same side as you on the pond, so pale that he seems to emanate his own light and reflect in the pond along with the moon. You nod and he graciously settles himself some palms away not wanting to be invasive, minutely investigating the possibilities and to what paths would they guide him. Your mind is racing with thoughts, so many it could burst. A feeling of urgency that takes you completely and is shared with the man by your side. Gathering forces from an ancient feeling asleep for so too long, you finally speak:

“You have found me… how?”

He hums looking into the pond before answering your question that is so easy to answer yet difficult to put into words when he measures the consequences.

“I felt you calling me.”

You shortly breathe, reminding the nights where that feeling of emptiness would set in as if there was something missing and you would pray for a light, something that could give you a clue of what was the other part of the whole. The dreams that filled your sleep in the following nights left you even more puzzled, but when Alucard arrived, everything was starting to be put in place, for more unbelievable that sounded. 

Before you died, you made Alucard promise that he would find someone else. That he wouldn't have his eternity tied to your memory, that he would find other lovers to fulfill his heart and to give him the love he deserved. Your shaking cold hand held his as you collapsed to smallpox in your deathbed and finally the eyes of your mortal body closed forever. He did as promised. Tens of women and men crossed his path across those thirty decades, but no one of them were you. The same emptiness your oblivious, reborn self would experience now, the dhampir would drag along the mists of years; for you, what was an unknown spectrum, for him it was a very palpable feeling that seemed to almost materialize itself.

Your eyes fill up with tears, a rush of emotions suddenly rises as Alucard watches you break down, still hesitant. His slender hand reaches out to touch your shoulder and you shudder; like the sun coming out from the clouds, a myriad of memories start to bloom. Alucard’s eyes are wide open in shock, harm of fear is the last thing he wants to inflict on you. But how could he have been causing it when all you could see in front of your eyes was him and your life together? Piece by piece like a broken porcelain, you see snippets of the past. 

You suddenly wrap your arms around his shoulders, a hug so unpredictable and strong that Alucard had to hold onto the bricks of the pond otherwise you would fall directly into it. Once steady, He slowly retributes the hug, face resting on the crook of your neck as you sob tears of unbelievable happiness into his white hair. A small salty droplet roams his cheek too and when he realizes the emotional boy he used to be was here again. Slowly, you pull off from the embrace, drying your tears with the sleeves of your dress and say while cupping his angelical face in your hands, strands of white hair sticking onto his skin. You smile and say before pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips:

“And you came to me… from the sky like an angel.”

[elodieunderglass]

Your post about Ed Pratt the West Country Adventure Boy (65% posher than Dr Glass) got me sucked into his thames adventure and now I've finished it I'm watching him go on other silly adventures in his older videos. I don't generally watch this sort of thing but he's so... amiably unprepared? Like, who would do this without proper hiking sandals you can get wet? He just goes for it and asks strangers for help along the way and they do help him!

Do you have any stories of Dr Glass's adventures you'd care to share? The West Country Adventure Boy is a species I was previously unaware of.

(in reference to this post, where I was introduced to a taller thinner posher Dr Glass and he got upset about him and pinpointed him as being from sOmErSeT)

Ed Pratt sure can bumble. Bimble, even. He's certainly ambling and pottering. those are all natural gaits of the west country adventure boy. they are usually - but not always - quite definitively white.

they are typified by being from the West Country and having done something like the Devizes to Westminster canal race, Ten Tors, or Duke of Edinburgh. They might hike the Ridgeway. they often burble. they often do wear glasses.

They are often somewhat sillier than their Northern, Scottish and Welsh adventure boy cousins, who do more obvious feats of adventure, like munro bagging and actual wild camping. (here is a more northern variant.) however the amiable boys with glasses do GET everywhere and will also do those things, just a bit sillier. also: if you get enough of the other varieties in a place together, it materialises a scruffy pub for them. If you get enough of the West Country ones in a place together, a Cotswold Outdoor shop materialises for them to work in.

But the most important quality you have discovered for yourself (you are very perceptive!!!) is that they ATTRACT bits of startling plot, but nothing BAD ever really happens to them. and it is not entirely down to whiteness - or in Ed Pratt's case, his casual bimbling poshness. there is an entirely separate force of the universe at work. it's like Net Zero Luck. the bad luck is, like, not having food (self-inflicted, deranged), but the good luck is someone instantly appearing and inviting you to their home for a hot meal and a cup of tea. Bad luck: a great big cross Football Man randomly wants to fight you in a parking lot. Good luck: just as you amiably resolve yourself to a fight, a tall woman appears out of nowhere and attacks him on your behalf.

that is a good deal of how and why they get everywhere, and why they do such weird things. nothing bad ever happens!!

Dr Glass has merrily walked away from things he should NOT have lived from. he was once benighted while rock climbing on sea cliffs and completed the climb as the flashes from the lighthouse across the bay shone went past, and shone on the rocks so they could momentarily see what they were climbing. and that sort of thing. and he tells the story and you go "hwat," and then you go "what did you DO" and he goes. well. went to the pub and ate chips! 🥰 Bad luck AND good luck! none of this was necessary

[spiritslashrrsadie]

Can you please write a ReaderxSlasher where the reader saw a nightmare about slasher getting hurt/killed? And their reactions to it (Vincent Sinclair included)

Please and thank you. Love your work <3

Nightmares (GN!Reader)

Featuring Vincent Sinclair, Carrie White, and Lester Sinclair

Vincent Sinclair

TW: Stabbing, blood, and death

'Vincent, Vincent, Vincent...'

The name echoed in your head like a mantra you'd rather not hear right now. Feet pounded against the cool asphalt beneath your bare feet. The harsh night winds sent bits of dirt and rock flying at your face, beating at the tear stained skin. Your eyes stung with tears and the blood that dripped from your head. Your heart pounded with fear and a level of anger that you had never felt before.

The light from the house up the hill shone dimly like a lighthouse trying to warn the last ship before it collapses.

'Vincent, Vincent, Vincent...'

If it weren't for Bo's cocky attitude, this all would have been over sooner. But Bo needed a challenge, he wanted to properly hunt this out-of-towner. The one that was just a bit bigger than him and Vincent, Bo just needed to get those bragging rights. Now he was knocked out in the gas station, you were bleeding and disoriented and Vincent was alone in the house with that damn guy. Fear didn't even begin to describe how you felt right now, the worst ideas flooding your mind.

What if you were too late? What if Vincent is being beaten to death right now? What if he's being tortured like he did to the man's friends? What if it's too late? What if you lose him?

'Vincent, Vincent, Vincent...'

You shook your head, desperately trying to erase those fears from your mind. Your lungs burned and your legs ached but you couldn't stop running.

You can't lose him.

Reaching the house, you threw open the door and froze, listening close for anything that could tell you where he was. Then, from the bedroom upstairs, grunts and items hitting the floor. You turned on your heel and raced up the steps, the once comforting carpeting now wet and reeking of copper.

'Vincent, Vincent, Vincent...'

In the time that you had been with the Sinclairs, you'd learn to have a strong stomach. You had seen the aftermath of victims that Bo kept for himself. You've helped Lester with clearing out roadkill and tossing it in the pit. You cleaned up blood that had split in the streets and you had even witnessed what happens when one of Vincent's 'creations' had fallen.

You had been a witness to so much horror, horror that you yourself had lived before Vincent decided to keep you.

But to see your beloved, sensitive, and quiet Vincent laying on the ground at the end of the hallway with a knife plunged in his chest was a sight you couldn't stomach. His wax mask was cracked and bloody, his long hair stuck to his neck with a mix of sweat and blood matting it. Blood seeped into the carpet and filled your nose with a scent that overpowered your senses.

'Vincent!'

You hadn't even noticed the scream that was ripped from your throat until you felt the burn in your mouth. You were by his side in an instant, sobs filling the house. Vincent's chest heaved and he was clearly struggling to hold his head up.

"Vincent! Vinny, please! Get up, you can't- you can't leave me like this." You cried out, hands shaking as they're coated in blood.

His blood.

Vincent didn't respond with more than a tired gaze up at you.

"Goddamnit, Vincent!" You screamed as you shook your head.

"You can’t fucking do this to me! You can’t just leave me here!”

A horrible gurgling sound escaped from his lips, blood dripping down his chin. Your heart clenched at the sight and you gripped at his jacket tightly. You held him close and looked up, silently pleading for whatever God there was to save him.

‘Save him and take me. Damn it, just let him live,” you prayed to whoever would listen.

But just like the first time you begged to be released from Ambrose, your pleas fell on deaf ears.

With a painful choke, Vincent’s body went limp in your arms.

Your constant tossing and turning had pulled Vincent from his slumber with a frown. Looking to the side, he saw the distressed expression etched into your features. The way your chest heaved with subtly panicked breaths, the beads of sweat forming on your brow, every sign of distress that made its presence known caused him to tilt his head.

Sitting up, Vincent slowly shook you awake. His touch saved you from the hellscape in your mind. With a heavy exhale, your eyes shot open and looked around wildly. As they landed on the familiar frame of Vincent, your eyes widened and filled with tears of relief.

“V-Vincent?” You practically whimpered, launching yourself into his arms.

Albeit confused, he held you close as you sobbed. His dark hair brushed against your shoulders as he tilted his head down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of yours.

After a moment of silence, he pulled away. He tilted his head and his eyes held a questioning gaze.

“You… Bo, he- I… You died, Vince.” You choked out.

“In- In my dream, you got… someone stabbed you and I couldn’t- I didn’t make it in time.” Your body wracked with sobs, your grip on his shirt tightening.

Vincent sighed softly and patted your head.

‘I’m okay,’ he signed slowly.

‘We’re both okay. It was a dream, don’t worry. Just sleep.’

“Vincent?”

He nodded.

“Promise me that you won’t leave. Not ever, not even in death.”

From behind the mask, he smiled and held out his pinky.

Carrie

TW: Mentions of past abuse, blood, beatings

Standing beside the stage, you smiled brightly at Carrie. Her homemade pink gown seemed to float against her legs and gave her pale skin a glow that had once seemed impossible. After everything she had endured, the endless beatings at home, the cruel pranks and humiliating rituals done by her classmates, and the little in voice in the back of her mind that told her that she deserved it. After all of that, your sweet girl had finally gotten the prom night she deserved. She had won prom queen, everyone else had finally seen the beautiful and kind hearted Carrie that you loved so dearly.

You happened to glance up, a smile on your lips as you prepared to thank whatever higher power had finally shown Carrie the grace that she was so clearly owed. But when you spotted the bucket with a dried streak of red along the side, your heart dropped.

She had told you about this. The night that everything had come crashing down. Senior prom.

Following the trail, you spotted a cord tied to the handle being held by Billy goddamn Nolan. The anger you felt was immeasurable.

'Carrie!' You tried to yell out a warning but it sounded muffled, like you were speaking through a bubble.

Life seemed to slow down. Chris' sadistic smile sent chills down your spine. Her voice was muted but you could see her yell out some demand to her boyfriend before he yanked hard on the cord.

You turned and tried to run towards Carrie, desperate to stop the worst moment of her life from happening. But your feet were rooted to the floor and try as you might, you couldn't reach her.

All you could do was watch in horror and fury as the bucket tipped over and blood splashed all over Carrie.

"Carrie!" Your voice finally found it's footing and Carrie's head whipped in your direction.

Her eyes were wide and tearful, her hands shaking. You took off running towards her, practically leaping onto the stage to her side. You moved to grab hold of her but she staggered back, humiliation and pain on her face.

"Carrie?"

"Mama was right. How could you?" Her voice was laced in hurt and sounded distorted, echoey.

Her eyes seemed to look right through you and you shook your head vigorously.

"Wha-? No! No, Carrie, sweetheart! I- I would never, it wasn't-"

"Why wouldn't we?" A voice said from behind you.

Turning around, you spotted Chris and her friends suddenly behind you. Mocking smirks and cruel laughs painted each face.

The group of tormentors advanced on her, shoving past you like nothing.

"What's the matter Scary White? I thought you'd be used to a little blood by now." Norma sneered, earning heartless laughs from the others.

Carrie shook her head and began to stammer, something that was met with ridiculing stutters. Chris took to the helm of the group once more and eyed her in disgust before shoving her to the floor, blood splashing as she did so.

You watched in horror as the group became more ruthless, spitting on and hurling insults at her in a swirling tornado of torment. Your heart shattered when you saw Carrie curl up into a ball and let out the most heart wrenching sobs. They were cries that you hadn't heard since she told you about the abuse she suffered from at the hands of her religious nut of a mother.

Chris had lifted her foot up by this point and brought it down with a sickening crunch against Carrie's hand. But once again, no matter how hard you fought to, you just couldn't reach out to stop it.

"Sweetheart?" A familiar gentle voice called.

"Are you... are you okay? Please wake up." Carrie's melodic voice pulled you from the nightmare.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly and your thoughts muddled. You turned to see an anxious frown on her face.

"You were having a nightmare, I think. You kept saying my name." She told you.

Overwhelmed by the painful sight, you reached forward and pulled Carrie into a tight embrace. You buried your head into her shoulder and sniffled when the anger tears began to flow.

"You didn't... You didn't deserve any of it, Carrie. You didn't deserve to be hurt and humiliated." You whispered.

You'd heard the story enough to know that your dream was just that, a dream. That wasn't how that terrible night went down but it was still enough to fill you with a deep hatred for Carrie's classmates.

Carrie had gone still for a moment but the words hit her in a way that she would have never expected. She wrapped her arms around your shoulders and smiled softly.

"I'm... okay. Now. I have you now so I'm alright."

"I won't let anyone hurt you again, honey."

Carrie chuckled shyly.

"I won't let anyone hurt you either. Not even a silly dream."

You pulled away from the hug and smiled lovingly at her. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Carrie had spent the rest of the night tucked away in your arms. At one point in the night, she extended her arm and with a twist, the radio came on with a low volume, playing a song that she had always found comfort in.

She’s suffered so much in her life. But right now she has you and she vows to herself to not let you go.

Lester Sinclair

TW: Car crash, descriptions of intense bodily harm, blood, mentions of dead animals

Roadkill.

You had been inside one of the houses near the edge of town when you heard it. A metallic screech that shook your bones and made your teeth ache. The rag you were using to wipe down the windows was dropped to the floor as you peered out to see what the noise had come from.

Roadkill.

Wrapped around the tree next to the washed out road was his truck. Glass scattered across the road like raindrops and the carcasses from Lester's last pick up were tossed haphazardly to the floor.

Roadkill.

"Lester!' You yelled his name as you raced down the stairs.

The hot August sun beat down on you in an instant, filling the air with the stench of blood and rotting meat. You sprinted to the driver's side of the car and your blood ran cold at the sight.

Lester's nose was twisted at an unnatural angle, glass stuck out from his face like thorns, and blood poured from his forehead and nose. His Bowie knife was embedded into his hand, pinning it to the seat cushion.

Your stomach churned and you began to yell out for Bo and Vincent to come and help.

The stench of blood was strong, impossibly pungent. But you couldn't tell if the metallic smell was from the animals that had been ripped open by tires on the road or if it was from the awkward and chuckling country boy you'd fallen so madly in love with.

Roadkill.

Your mouth filled with saliva and the back of your throat burned with the threat of vomit when you noticed more details. The right side of Lester's face seemed crunched flat with a tooth poking through just beneath his lip. His chin hung over the steering wheel as if his neck was bending in a perfect curve over it.

But it was his eyes. Those eyes that were so often filled with light, humor, and love for you. They were dull and glassy. They stared up at you with a devastating hopelessness that you had only ever seen in two other places.

Stuck in a casing of wax, permanently fixed on every face of every unlucky tourist that would make a good edition to the collection.

And roadkill.

Lester, who had so often taken the dead animals out of the baking sun. Lester, who could rant and ramble about the different breeds of different cattle. Lester, who always had a knowing smirk when it came to picking up hitchhikers and deer. Your Lester had become the very thing he had spent so much time with.

Roadkill.

"We're here. C'mon, honey." The comforting lull of Lester's accent caught your attention.

He's okay. He's okay and alive and you're in his truck and he isn't hurt.

You breathed a heavy sigh of relief which earned you a strange look from Lester.

"You okay?" He asked.

You swallowed hard and despite the way your shoulders had relaxed significantly at your realization, you just couldn't bring yourself to say yes.

"I... I had a nightmare." You admitted.

You detailed the visions to Lester, from the sound of the crash to the way the blood had assaulted your senses to the devastation you felt when you thought you had lost him forever.

Chuckling lightly, Lester shook his head.

"You ain't gotta worry about me none. I've been drivin' since I was old enough to see over the dash." He replied.

"It's not that, Lester. It's... I don't want to see you get hurt, dream or otherwise."

Lester's smile soften and he blushed a bit.

"Don't you worry. I've made it this long, right? But I'll try and be extra careful behind the wheel. For you. Now c'mon. Bo will be pissed off with us if we let this food get cold 'cause of a bad dream."

He took your hand in his and the sincere look in his eyes told you all that you needed to know. He was safe and that's how he planned to stay. Which seemed to be enough for you.

Thank you sm for the request, lovely! I really appreciate it and I hope I did it at least some justice :) (Can you tell that Vincent was the easiest to write for this?)

[fangbangerghoul]

Rook As Companion Template

(Template stolen from @bearlytolerant here)

The Basics

Name: Ghoul Gender: Nonbinary (she/they) Faction: Shadow Dragons Lineage: Elf Class: Rogue Personality: Laissez Faire Firecracker Preferred Weapon: Jagged Daggers Preferred Trinket: 2 small smooth rocks to roll between their fingers Preferred Style of Clothing: Loose, skin breathing causal Rivian style Hero Special Ability: The Dastardly Bastard (Headbutt that stuns an enemy completely and vertebrates through the surrounding 4, weakening them) or Death’s Songbird (Draws all enemies, once surrounded cuts through them) Favorite Gift: Handmade plushies Pet: Calico Cat- Dahlia Acquaintance Bond Level Status: Tolerable Fiend Friend Bond Level Status: The Cleaners Good Friend Bond Level Status: Righthand Dagger Hero Bond Level Status: Shadowed Accomplice/The Grim Reaper Romance Bond Level Status: Ghastly Lover

Lighthouse Living

Room Type: Attic Room Decor: cluttered collected knives/randomly acquired items (rocks, pockets of dirt/leaves) Favorite Food: Rabbit stew Favorite Drink: Mead Favorite Hobby: drawing/reading Favorite Hangout Spot: Highest point of the lighthouse leaning over the balcony Interactions with Pet: Lounging on couch, reading Interactions with Assan: races in a circle Interactions with Manfred: pretends to find gold coins behind his ear

Relationships

Greetings: - Acquaintance: “what are you looking at?” - Good Friend: “trying to escape everyone?” - HOV: “With the both of us, victory is always certain.” - Romance: “Welcome, lovely” Thoughts on Companions: Neve: Secretly wants to be a princess, prefers to have her as a companion in a fight Bellara: Too cheerful but appreciates her lack of filter Harding: Stubborn and her cooking scares Ghoul Emmrich: Enjoys admiring bone structure and hearing his interesting lectures Davrin: Too noble but a good time Lucanis: Silent but intriguing, a bit of a comedian Taash: Her favorite arm-wrestling opponent and favorite spar partner, Ghoul also has gained an interest in Dragons Comments About Biggest Rival/s: If related to companion quest: - “I don’t care if we share blood, I won’t concede to his whims.” - “Sometimes I wonder what things would look like if our lives played out differently, but then I realize I don’t actually give a fuck and cannot wait to stab the bastard.” If in battle: - “C’mon motherfucker!” - “A shame you met me today.” - “I can afford another concussion just to knock you out.”

Banter Subject with Neve: If a Shadow Dragon should sleep with a Threads/Is a case ever really solved Banter Subject with Lace: How do plants stay alive/Archery tips Banter Subject with Bellara: Exchange of smutty romance recs/Dalish History Banter Subject with Davrin: Creatures and pet-ability/drinking stories Banter Subject with Taash: How to look like a Dragon/Exercise routines Banter Subject with Emmrich: Philosophy of serving Death/Can I have a skull for my room Banter Subject with Lucanis: Who has been awake the longest/Best kill moves Bonus Spite: ‘Yes and’ games/sharing vengeance stories

Unlock Personal Quest:

under construction and tied to Elgara Vallas

Romance

Flirt/s: "You wear things well.", "I admire how you hold your stance in battle.", "Think you can cut out someone's heart? .... Would you like to try mine sometime?" Date Location: Top of an abandoned tower in Mirathous Date Activity: Watching the sun set and the stars come out or being chased by Venatori Term of Endearment: Lovely, Beloved, My Heart Show of Affection: Hidden notes in their items, random sketches left in their room when not around, more physical proximity

[sunblockbabe]

Lighthouse keeper!John x mermaid reader

4k words

Contents: nudity (nonsexual), semi-graphic descriptions of injury, description of a kinda graphic transformation you undergo but it's not painful i swear, softie john

Lighthouse keeper!John that has been taking care of an aging lighthouse.

The lighthouse is cast out on a lonely, scraggly islet, a mile or two off the coast. Shrouded by constant fog and sharp rocks that break the waves into shards of salt water, the island is dreary and near-abandoned.

It was the perfect fit for John, at least at first. Long years of brutal work in the military had aged him to the point of exhaustion. Seeking complete isolation from the world, he took his pension and retreated to the isolated post that felt banished to a far-off corner of the world.

The islet, covered in thick grass and patches of stout shrubs, was unable to support any life besides a few chickens and a rooster. Every month, John was sent a small boat stocked with rations and supplies, always unloaded in the dead of night and without his presence.

His days blurred together in an endless haze of reading, pacing the island, and tending to the lighthouse and chickens. Every morning, John would trace the rocky shores and small sandy pocket beaches that dotted the island, a monocular in hand as he’d survey the endless seascape in search of any wayward vessels that had gotten caught on the deceptively unimposing rocks below the dark water. In his two years manning the island, John has never seen any wreckage. 

In passing moments he missed having company but found he valued his solitude more. However, over time, the gnawing loneliness inside of him grew the longer his isolation lasted, until he had at last found himself settled into a chilling depression. Like the absence of an old friend, it clung to him, never hard enough to stall him, but an everlasting presence, a phantom hand clasped on his shoulder. 

Still, years of warring and conflict had made thoughts of returning to the mainland apathetic, and he was hesitant to rejoin society. He didn't know where he would go besides back to the military, but his bones would ache whenever he thought of returning to that life. So he stayed.

Storms frequently wracked the island, and this time seemed no different, as brutal as it was. John lies in bed, awake, listening to the harsh winds and rain, watching the light from the beacon cast his room in a yellow glow every half minute.

Despite the lighthouse operating electrically, John usually opted to stay awake until the early hours of the morning, even when the vessel schedule delivered every month alongside the rations indicated another period of scarce passage. 

One arm rests across his broad torso, scratching at his side absently, idly, he ponders if he should bother dragging himself out of bed to make himself a tea.

Out of the blue, a bright flare of lightning followed by an impossibly loud crack of thunder erupts overhead, shaking the room.

Sitting suddenly upright his heart can’t help but race at the shock before he quickly schools himself into a calmer state. Pulling himself out of bed his feet touch the cold wood of the ground. He paces over to his bedroom window, needing to survey if the lightning caused any damage to the islet, close as it struck.

Squinting into the darkness, another round of lightning, this time further away, illuminates the land and the sea, and John swears he sees a body-shaped lump on the rocky shore.

John’s eyebrows raise and he briefly stutters in place, unsure of what he really saw. Another flash of lightning, and there truly is a body cast upon the shore.

Backing away quickly from the window, a noise of disbelief escapes him, and John is out of his bedroom and making his way down the staircase in seconds. He yanks his coat from a hook as he barrels out the front door, the wind snatching the door from his hand and slamming it open against the frame.

Fighting through freezing rain and painfully sharp wind, John makes his way to the shore where he saw you.

In the darkness and rain, John makes out your limp form in the coarse sand, surrounded by debris and seaweed washed up by violent waves. Waves crash over you, and pink foam froths to frame you as seawater mingles with blood. As you lay unresponsive, John fears you may already be dead.

John drops his coat onto the sand. Bare feet and ankles in the waves, he rushes into the water until he reaches you. He bends his knees and hooks his arms under yours, rearing you up halfway until your upper body meets his, your head lolling against his chest. He immediately can feel how cold your skin is, even compared to the frigid waters and through his now-soaked nightshirt.

John begins to pull you out of the water, wind whipping around you both. The waves recess for a moment of respite and your shrouded lower half is revealed.

In the darkness, Joel is unsure of what he sees. His first thoughts are that your legs have been injured or marred to a point of strange form that's unrecognizable in the night sky. John stops and reaches to pick you up fully, instead.

A crack of thunder and lightning overhead unveils your true nature, and John stops, would drop you in astonishment if he had any less self-control. You have a tail. A powerful, gorgeously glittering tail, reflecting the light thrown by the storm’s lightning. The lightning ends and the light again wanes, leaving John to blink helplessly in the dark, pulse racketing higher despite his will.

Another crack of lightning, and Joel this time the damage to your tail is revealed. The symmetrical, beautiful pattern of your scales was damaged in swathes on your tail, where chunks of scale were extensively damaged or missing completely. The flesh beneath was exposed and pale and blood-drained, pieces of scale still flaking off and washing ashore. Another injury spanned half of your torso, forming a jagged crescent of puncture wounds across your navel. A messier tear of flesh was impressed along your shoulder.

Carefully, Joel regains his nerves and reaches for you, with one arm secured under your tail, and picks you up bridal style to carry you from the waves.

Balancing you in his arms, Joel bends to scoop up the jacket he had deposited on the shore, blanketing it over you to shield you from the freezing gusts and rain.

The wind now billows at his back, trying to sweep up under his legs as if Mother Nature herself were trying to force him to relinquish his hold on you, his broad back shielding you from her wrath. 

Dutifully, John trudges across the small grassy plain to the cabin, knocking the door open with a foot. He stands a moment in the doorway, water cascading off you both, and eyes the couch for a moment.

Readjusting his grip from where your body begins to slip from his hands, he climbs the creaky wooden staircase, each step protesting louder than normal at the extra weight. He warily eyes the weak fluttering of the gills on your neck, but the rise and fall of your chest, even shallow as it was, abated some of his concern. Still, if you live in water, John doesn’t want to risk leaving you to dry out on his couch.

Bare feet padding across the upstairs hallway, he nudges open the bathroom door. Moving carefully in the cramped space, he lowers you gently into a clawfoot bath. While the thing was almost obnoxiously oversized in the small bathroom, John is now grateful that a previous owner had enough taste for luxury and overpriced items to bother to haul such a thing and have it installed on the island. 

He adjusts your head where it lulls forward to instead lean back against the lip of the tub, mouth pursing as the injuries to your human form are still dripping blood, thin rivulets already trickling towards the drain. 

John crouches further down, old knees creaking their protests loudly, and reaches to the side to tug on the faucets. John hears the clicking and moaning as the water heater engages from a place deep in the house, pilot light igniting the main burner to warm the water. 

Sparing a few seconds to twist the faucets so that lukewarm water poured from the spigot, John cups the water in his hands, reaching up to trickle the water over your gills before he gives pause.

If you’re similar to other ocean-dwelling creatures, feeding tap water through your gills would do more harm than good. While not a man of extensive academic pursuits, he possesses enough worldly knowledge to fill a library. Freshwater through your gills would kill you rather than resuscitate you.

Dropping the rest of the water that hasn’t already drained from his hands, John can’t help but let out a groan at his oversight as he scrubs a wet hand over his eyes, feeling stupid in a way he hasn’t felt for decades. 

Getting to his feet, he hurries from the bathroom, yanking two rusty buckets from the coat closet at the base of the stairs, trekking outside.

Through your closed eyelids, a bright light shines through, and briefly, through a barely lucid haze, you think you’re facing the sun. But you know that’s not right, water doesn’t flow around you and over your gills as they should, the cold and lively sea water that is so persistent it feels like it’s constantly melding with your skin is absent, replaced by warmer, sterile water that laps gently at your ribs. If you remain still enough, you can almost ignore the pain that pulses through your body like a second heartbeat. Wherever you are, you can’t bring yourself to care and fall back asleep.

Seconds later, consciousness insistent, you’re snapped back to awareness, head jolting slightly from where it rests against something hard and uncomfortable, an unwelcome pressure at the base of your neck.

Eyes begrudgingly peeling open, you experience a short moment of confusion before it explodes into fear like your synapses have been electrocuted. You’re not in the ocean at all. Your hands shoot up, claws gripping the lip of the tub. You have no clue where you are, no clue what you're in, but you know you’re on land, and you know whatever space you occupy is manmade.

Head whipping around and eyes fervent, you see no sign of human life, but have no intention of waiting around. The reputations of humans preceded itself, and you had no interactions with humans to be bold enough to permit an encounter.

Ignoring the ache that ripples up and down your body at the movement, you lean up further in the tub. Using the hand opposite your mangled shoulder, you reach a webbed hand along the length of your tail. Patches of scale are missing, with your more delicate scales towards the base of your tail fairing the worst. You pick out an already half-removed deciduous scale that had managed to survive your escape. Trapping it between two sharp claws, you pluck it free, the sensation barely twinging.

Despite possessing the instinctual knowledge, you had never put yourself through the transfiguration. You clutch the scale in your fingers, keeping it for later. You wait a few moments before the moments turn into an anxious minute. Was it supposed to take this long? Was it possible you messed up? 

You grow antsier with every second that passes, paranoid the human was only a half a breath returning to where you wait. Then, suddenly, a shiver washes over you. Instantly feverish, you swear you feel your scales ripple. With a strange disassociation, you hold up your hands and you watch as the membrane between your digits tingle and slough and melt off as they turn almost gelatinous in quality, the single, thin ray between each finger detaching and falling to the floor of the tub with a plink, plink, plink.

You feel your gills flatten and press into your neck, an uncomfortable stitching sensation as they mend together and close, and you take a deeper breath through your mouth as what minimal oxygen being supplied through your gills in the cold air vanishes. 

The strange sensation is pushed to the back of your mind as you watch your bottom half in horror. Your scales tightened impossibly for a moment, like they were suddenly shrinking, and you were certain that the pressure would make them pop off, leaving your vulnerable dermis exposed. But before the tightness becomes so immense your eyes roll back, the scales suddenly sink down and into your dermis. The corpse-white skin makes you pause as your tail becomes scaleless, and you think you may puke. 

The transition pauses, and for a moment you fear you will be stuck at a horrifying in-between.

Suddenly, the exposed skin distends briefly before concaving through the center of your tail, cleaving through the white muscle and tendons. Thin, watery, blood seeps out from the fissure and overflows, spilling warm over your dermis, and you feel a sudden pop and pressure release as your tail is fully separated in two, and you gasp in shock. You feel the skin wrap closed under each of your thighs and calves, fully encasing each human leg. The skin remains a bloodless white a few seconds longer before you feel your heart start hammering and blood flooding to your legs, color slowly blooming across the surface of your skin as it thickens from the thin epidermis of your tail to a tone the same color and durability as your torso. 

Finally, you watch the now halved thicker spines and scales of your tail crinkle and mold, painlessly snapping and reforming to wrap around bony ankles and delicate toes, the emergence of human feet marking the finale of your transition.

Eyes wide, you wiggle your toes the same way you’d flex your tail, watching in fascination as they move.

The transition, jarring as it was, had been shockingly painless. It felt no more uncomfortable than how it felt when you’d reach out an arm deep into the pore of a coral, trying to stretch your limb a few inches further than it could naturally reach to try to snatch a fish hiding within.

Wasting no more time, you brace your arms once again against the sides of the tub. It’s a struggle to draw your knees up, fighting to get your feet under you. Your thighs tingle as you hoist yourself to a crouch, nearly keeling forward as your center of balance has been plucked from you. 

You take a deep breath. 

Taking a few attempts, you manage to throw a thigh over the side of the tub and lift yourself. You rest your stomach precariously on the lip of the tub as you straddle the side. Your foot presses against the cold tile of the floor, and you briefly test your weight on it, your foot giving out and sliding out from under you. You struggle to right yourself, hands clutching the side. Instead, you bring your other leg up to bring over the tub. The shift in weight twists and slides you off the tub, and the sudden weight causes your first-moved leg to give out and slide out from under you, and you land on your side with a huff as the air is knocked from your lungs. 

Recovering, you roll onto your side and prop yourself on your hands and knees. You begin a mad-crawl towards the door. Crawl through the frame, tile transitioning to wood, you move towards the staircase at the end of the hall. You peer down the steps as you near, the steepness intimidating you, but from beyond where the steps end you see where the front door is swung open, rain splattering the wood from outside, and recognition lights up your brain.

Gripping the wooden banister with both hands, you manage to hoist yourself to your feet, wobbling slightly and gripping tighter. You eye the stairs warily, and take one cautious step down, followed by another, and then another, blood fleeing your knuckles from how tight you handle the banister with both hands. 

You make it halfway down the stairs before your next step leads to disaster. A foot placed too far forward, it slips and your legs fall out from under you, the banister ripped from your grasp. You twist and roll down the stairs, hitting each step with a resounding thump.

By the time you reach the bottom, coming to a rest on your stomach, your head is spinning.  You’ve never been subjected to such gravity-fueled disorientation. The pain of the fall ripples through you, rattling your spine and echoing in your injuries. 

You lift your head from where it rests on your forearms, blinking blearily. Your heart lurches at how close your escape now is, the crashing of waves sounding out over the storm, beckoning you home. 

You get back on your hands and knees to crawl out of the door and to your freedom. The hope soaring in your chest is struck dead as you catch a glimpse of a figure struggling through the storm and toward the house. The silhouette is imposing, strong, and big, and a primordial warning flares inside of you. You’re an imposing predator in the water, outmatched by few, but a hissing warning in your head tells you that being spotted by the human would be a deadly mistake, and you’re urged to hide. To find a dark and secluded space in the rocks and hide.

Your head whips around, big rocks or coral outcroppings in sight, and instead find the small coat closet nearby. Crawling and nearly throwing yourself into the closet with the urgency your legs move with, you nestle yourself between long coats and atop rubber boots, motionless.

The closet smells like mothballs and old blankets, the kind of nostalgic familiarity many would associate with childhood comforts, but instead it just has you crinkling your nose to avoid sneezing.

Heavy footsteps near, and your breathing goes silent, ears perked. You run a tongue over your teeth, feeling where they’ve dulled only slightly with your human transformation, and your claws, surviving the change, flex slightly.

You hear the footsteps pass you, unaware of your presence, and instead climb the stairs. The steps grow distant with each passing second, you risk a glance outside of the closet and spot no one near. 

Your chance, fleeting, is taken. You quietly remove yourself from the closet, crawling and making it to the doorframe. 

Freedom is close now, and you feel yourself shiver with adrenaline, wind howling around you.

Quick and heavy footsteps rush from above you, and you nearly puke your heart out.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?”

A scream of fright escapes you, foreign to your ears, as you begin to hear a fast descent down the stairs, and you don’t waste time looking back.

Slipping on the grass, instinct takes over as you manage to rise to your feet and break out into a sprint. It’s unsightly, an awkward gait that has you lurching forward like a woman possessed, arms pumping painfully as your shoulder sings, barely managing to keep yourself upright as feet pound against sodden grass. The man is in hot pursuit, and you hear the pounding of his feet behind you, getting louder and quicker like the blood rushing through your ears.

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your waist, stopping you in place as you’re hauled back against a chest, feet slipping out from under you. The vice is above the gory wound on your side, you think the man must be an idiot for not taking advantage of your obvious vulnerability.

Your eyes roll back as you attack, claws blindly swiping through the rain. You gnash your teeth and throw your head backward, hoping to close around flesh. Your teeth only bite air, and your claws miss until you swing them again, this time catching on his side.

With a grunt, the man’s grip on you only tightens, and you kick out before you bring your claws to his side again, fingers digging into torn flesh. 

This time, his hold weakens, just marginally, just for a split second, but it’s all you need as your feet kick again and you pry yourself free. 

Landing hard on your knees, you waste no time staggering to your feet. As you run the water comes within sight. You take the scale that had been clenched in your hand and shove it in your mouth, tongue dry as you swallow. Immediately, you begin to feel a change, a twitch up and down the muscles in your legs as your gills wiggle back to life. You hope you’ve timed it right, not too early you become beached on the island or too late that your human form is bludgeoned against the jagged rocks that are perilously close where the white caps break.

Within meters of your escape, your legs burn with exhaustion, unfamiliar with use, but you push yourself forward. 

An impossibly heavy weight is bowled into your back, sending you careening forward. Arms wrap around your waist again, and you're tucked back into a chest and twisted sideways. Instead of colliding with the earth, you land atop the man, who takes on the brunt of the fall. Your head rebounds off his collarbone as you hiss in pain at the contact. Your bodies slide a few feet against the soaked grass, but not close enough for you to escape.

Your arms are restrained at your sides, a heavy forearm wrapped around you, and a strong hand grasps your jaw to keep your head in place, preventing you from twisting your head to the side to take a chunk out his neck.

“Calm down, m’not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.” 

You growled through your closed mouth, not understanding. Your knowledge of human languages was scarce. 

You thrash against him, a whine escaping your throat as it only serves to put you in more pain.

“I know you’re injured. Just settle down.” 

His words are nonsense to you, but you feel them reverberate through his chest more than you hear them. Like seismic waves rippling through the ocean floor and lulling you to sleep when you press your head against the soft sand, you feel the vibrations of his voice nearly vibrate through you. It’s slightly placating to you. Slightly.

When you struggle again, you hear him shush you, thumb rubbing against your jaw, slow and firm, grounding.

The transformation bubbles, insistent, just below the surface of your skin and at the forefront of your mind, but you shove it back down relentlessly. A stubborn, hopeful, part of you, a part that’s always been more mushy than hardened instinct, still believes in a chance at freedom. That you may yet throw yourself from the burly arms that restrain you and make it the final few meters to meet the ocean.

The resistance to your reversion strains you, and you give another struggle as your strength wanes.

“Come on,” His voice urges, soft, “Just relax for me.”

His voice makes your eyes flutter weakly as you yearn to be returned to the icy, dark waters.

Your will sapped, you give in. 

You feel your form change, webbing growing between your fingers, rays emerging between digits, gills now bristling, demanding seawater. Your legs fuse, skin peeling and flesh merging and hardening to tough muscle, dermis membrane stretching and scales poking through. You hear a wet crack as your feet twist and fold and morph back into a caudal fin. The sound of it is worse than it feels, nothing more than a series of slightly disconcerting pressures and snaps.

If your reversion was anything like your first transformation, you imagine the man’s pants and the grass around must be soaked in blood and gore. Whatever the man sees, silently observes, he doesn’t comment on, thumb stroking your jaw like an endless metronome, while you take heavy breaths, tiredness soaking through.

“There you go, sweetheart.” He coos. “Probably feels a bit more natural, hm?”

You don’t dignify his speech with any reaction, petulantly stubborn in the face of being overpowered. When he removes his hand from your jaw, you do one last snap of finality, a punctuation to your struggle that had been fruitless, and a laugh ripples from beneath, up through your chest until it rattles in your mouth, as strong as the thrum of the earth.

“Attagirl.” He says, voice pleased. 

You growl at him.

[flusteredfools]

Finally got the rough sketches done so now it's time for voting!

Snips from each AU below! Both will eventually be written, this is just for me to know which to focus on first!

Fazrule Fitness Plex:

(Legend of Zelda/Fnaf Crossover world) As a way to promote more interactions among the various Hyrule races, FazCo has opened up a fitness center so all races can bond over sharing their more natural exercise methods and explore new ones. Learn swim methods from Zoras, rock climbing and cave exploration from Gorons, balance and air gliding tricks from the Ritos, learn how to make healthy meals in the Gerudo's bar and relax in the spa or let retired Hylian guards teach you the basics of self defense!

The Fitness Plex seems to have trouble keeping on someone for their mixed species daycare next to the swimming lakes and falls. Something about complaints that watching over the mixed race's young alongside the swim instructors judgmental eyes is just too much to handle...

The Lighthouse Keeper's Keepers:

(sort of Detroit Become Human/Fnaf crossover world)

Sun and Moon have proven their sentience, have gotten married and retired from working at the daycare; letting newer androids take over their old position. They've responded to a job listing in a rather remote village where an old fisherman who cares for the village's almost neglected lighthouse is getting too old to look after himself much less the lighthouse. So they've agreed to the position, both of caring for the fisherman until he passes as well as the lighthouse once he does. The years they spend being caregivers to the fisherman and listening to him tell tales of the Mer he befriended in his youth make Sun and Moon think the poor man must have been losing his mind with age. They never thought that on the day they would be spreading his ashes they would happen upon the myth he befriended.

Secret Third Choice:

Shhh... Is a secret. Very hush hush. But if you can't decide or don't care which... maybe this option is for you.

[niofo]

the q&a was good in the first hour, but then it was pretty frustrating with bs and repeating question (like duh, thedas is in the southern hemisphere). but the beginning was good.

taash is the youngest in her mid 20s and emmrich is the oldest in his early 50s

hossberg wetlands?

crossroads explorable

there's some unique venatori helmet that's important in the plot?

can't romance npcs outside of companions bcos they put a lot of work into having the romances be deep and meaningfull

bellara and lucanis have a friendship bcos family is important for them both, also they're both team cooks

bellara and neve also have a nice relationship and it was "sisters like"

emmrich and taash argue about necromancy, but considering there's not much reactions to rook's specs i guess we can't argue about it too?

you don't have to have tank in your team, there's only a specific number of enemies focused on rook, but on nightmare the more important part is bringing the elemental damage against the enemies

each class is supposed to set debuff and detonate abilities of other class like rock-paper-scissors, but it's not clear cut and companions can have different detonations and debuffs

you get more gear from factions you build relationship with, and you can upgrade this gear

each time you find new gear you can transmog into it, and also there's some cosmetics to be bought from vendors

evoker don't have to be ice, but can be all types of damage

next month we explore more of the lighthouse

there are companion-specific gifts and they will be displayed in their room

neve, lucanis and emmrich were already companions when the short stories were written

maevaris is coming! and she's having some important role in the game (perhaps the viper??)

sth about lucanis' parents? most likely being murdered?

it's supposed to be very upfront about when you're locked out or into the romance so you're not left out

you can save rook's look using your local save files

lucanis possessed confirmed, and it's some venatori shit (zara renata i guess)

quests can expire, which makes me super stressed out and nervous already, and the game's not even out yet

most missions don't have mandated companions

davrin has some kindness brough out by other companions, but he has rivalries with others (pls not be bellara), he's also a monster hunter on top of being a warden, not bcos of it

they're really working hard to not answer much about cc, there will be dwarven beards and you can put one on a qunari

there's not really lockpicking, but each companion has an unique way of solving the puzzles, and rook has the dagger (the lyrium dagger i assume?)

they were singing someone happy birthday :(

helmets are tied to races the way they are in dai

assan's brothers and sisters will show up

[tinyshoopuf]

Once in a blue moon I write something, so here is a little ficlet to further my Snow Crow agenda (aka Neve/Lucanis).

“Smells. Like. Ink.”

Lucanis didn’t even spare a glance at the demon darting around the path as he made his way towards the study. Once they figured out that Spite had a different spatial awareness, Emmrich had suggested a walk around the Lighthouse to give him more substantial markers. He now took to announcing their location to Lucanis whenever they emerged from the pantry.

“And. Coffee.”

He seemed particularly drawn to smell.

“Yes, I am going to visit Neve,” Lucanis said, hovering before the door. He was tired and just wanted some peace in her company. “Go play with the wisps.”

The demon grumbled, but obliged. Lucanis could hear him muttering as he slunk off towards the main hall.

“Curiosity. Has. Legs! We. Want. Legs!”

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that, yet. Maybe Emmrich would have a suggestion? The thought of Spite possessing a skeleton, running around and wreaking havoc, was slightly alarming, but he figured so long as they were anchored together that couldn’t happen. Maybe.

Hopefully.

With a sigh, Lucanis nudged open the door into Neve’s sanctum.

She was seated at her desk, slouched over a mess of papers. Whatever puzzle lay before her had her gnawing at her lower lip and a fierce glare crowning the deep bruises under her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was the light of the myriad of wisps twinkling about, but he thought she looked a little pale. One hand was buried in her hair, shifting the tresses away from her face as she looked up to see who had come in.

“Coffee?” She croaked, looking slightly startled at the rough issue of her voice. He wondered how long she had been holed up in here, not speaking to anyone, for it to sound so disused. He was sure he’d seen her a few days ago, but Rook had brought him along to do some work with the Lords of Fortune (or, rather, Taash had asked if he could come so that they could ask him even more ridiculous questions about the Crows.) They hadn’t been gone more than a day, only just now returning to the Lighthouse, where the other two promptly went to bed and he made coffee.

“Mierda, Neve, you look awful.”

“Rude,” she said, reaching to take the cup from him. She winced slightly as her hand pulled at a tangle in her hair, but once feed she gratefully accepted the drink, letting out a sigh at the first sip of the warm liquid. “But, I’ll forgive you as thanks for this.” She silently raised the cup to him in cheers before bringing it to her lips once more. “Spite?”

“Probably playing rock, paper, scissors with Manfred. Well, trying to at least, I’m not sure he fully understands the game.” Lucanis leaned his hip against the desk and crossed his arms in concern. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m not sure. What day is it? What time?”

Lucanis hummed. “You accompanied Rook to hunt some Venatori the day before yesterday. As for the time, it is somewhere around 3 am.”

Neve blinked.

“Ah. I picked up a case while in Dock Town. Haven’t been able to quiet my thoughts since.”

She shrugged, as if to say what can you do?

Lucanis shook his head. “You need to sleep more.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she said, but there wasn’t any bite to it. A few moments passed in silence as Lucanis looked to be deep in thought. Neve took the chance to drink some more of the coffee and stare blearily at the notes that just seemed to tangle themselves further the more she tried to undo the knot.

He was right, though. She knew sleep would help her makes sense of this mess, but whenever she tried to lay down her racing thoughts kept here awake. Not that she had been sleeping well, before. Stress, anxiety, grief. It kept her in survival mode, ready to run, or fight, whichever would keep her or her people safe.

A rustling sound pulled her back to the present and she realized Lucanis had come around the side of the desk and was holding his hand out to her.

“What?” She said, confused. Did he want the cup back? She still hadn’t finished it yet.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?” She asked, even as she obliged. Lucanis tugged, pulling her into standing with him.

“I’m going to help you quiet your thoughts,” he said simply.

Neve looked at him warily, though her mouth was drawn into amusement. She left the cup on the desk as he led her around to a more open space. He turned to face her, pulling her flush with his chest, the hand not holding hers going to rest lightly at her lower back.

“Are we...dancing?” She asked, her crooked half smile widening into a tease. They certainly were positioned for it. She knew a few basic Tevinter dances and had seen performances of the more athletic Antivan ones.

Maybe he thought the exertion would finally knock her out.

“Do you not like dancing?” She shook her head and he slowly guided them into the first steps of some slow dance she didn’t know the name of (or, really, the steps.) “Caterina made sure Illario and I had the best dance teacher in Antiva. We had a reputation to uphold in polite society, and the training would help us in our less than polite society. Practicing the steps calmed me in my most unruly teenaged years, something about the rhythm and the music.”

His steps were precise, measured, and she began to relax in the easy comfort of his presence. The light pressure of his hand on her back made her feel more grounded, solid. Their lazy circuit of the small space was oddly reassuring. It all combined to make her feel more anchored in the present moment, a whispered bit of safety.

“Unruly, huh?”

“Can you imagine two teenaged boys with the skills of elite assassins? Illario and I got into so much trouble. Truly, we were lilttle terrors.”

Neve laughed at the thought. She was glad he was able to speak of his cousin in a lighthearted manner again. His betrayal had clearly affected Lucanis badly and she could see the same hesitation to let anyone be close that clouded her own social interactions.

“Well, I suppose I can imagine some of it. I wasn’t exactly the tamest teenager.”

With the hand on her back gently guiding her, Neve ducked under their raised and interlinked arms in a short twirl. Her hair whipped around as she performed the expert spin on her prosthetic foot. They had a rhythm going and she certainly felt calmer, but she wondered if the thoughts were crowd back in to fill any silence.

“Think the wisps can play instruments?” She joked.

“Music! Of course, it is an important part of the recipe. Allow me.”

With that, Lucanis began to hum, his voice low and scratchy. He was fairly pleasant to listen to, steady strong, if a little untrained. And she could feel her mind starting to settle. The sound filled her up until there was no room left for her runaway mind.

She didn’t know how long they danced like that, just that at some point she roused enough to realize her head was leaning against his shoulder and they were mostly swaying in place, the vibrations she could feel through his chest weighing her eyelids down. It was nice.

Safe.

Eventually, Neve felt his hand cup the back of her head followed by the sensation of her body tipping back until she was resting on the bed. She floated there, eyes glued shut as her limbs turned to stone and grip on the waking world loosened. Distantly, she could feel fingers carefully undoing the straps of her prosthetic, before that, too, drifted away.

She wanted to tell him to stay, to not go back to the pantry and leave her alone. She tried, but wasn’t sure how well her body responded to her command and she struggled against the sleep threatening to enfold her. In this half state it was so much easier to accept a want, but so much harder to attain it. But perhaps she needn’t have worried, for soon a warm weight settled next to her and she felt the remaining tension drain from her as she finally gave in.

There, on a cot on the floor, they both slept deeply and soundly for the first time in a while.

[trivelino]

Oh, Silvermoon City of sinful sensations! I played in the plaza and I bothered the bankers! I capered and crept through the shadows and slinked through the sewers! I had fun fun fun, and was soon bored bored bored. When I went to go to alleviate my boredom… I had a slight–minor–VERY-slight misunderstanding with the officers of the so-called-law. I only happened to be near the fire, I certainly did not start it. Unless I left the city at once before I would be accosted–nay– MANHANDLED– again and charged with something called “arson.”

So, finding my motley mischief unappreciated– I set out into the wilds! With my flesh-prison still new to me, I thought it would be prudent to start with the basics. I allowed the aromatic air to fill my lungs and observed the flora and the fauna around me with my meat-made eyes. Silvermoon City was surrounded by sunlight and sea-breezes. I followed the road south, down the scar across the pretty face of the map. 

Far, far from fiery blazes of the red banners and golden spires I found a forest. It drew me in, strange and ghostly. As a spirit, I could hear the whispers of spectres and sprites. The yellow lands of the Blood Elves were bleeding into cool blues. The spooky Ghostlands were filled with black trees and gnarled boughs that shivered in the wind.

I could hear the humming of magic all around me. Twisted trees held aloft their knotty fingers to catch the hollow sky. There was an emptiness here in the shadow of the sunlit lands. 

Hark! I heard a hound, a sound, a scuttle… or SOMETHING. I stopped and stood. Was I losing my way, I wondered? Did I wander too far? The Harlequin hardly knows. I had no steed nor carriage to carry me. I traveled by foot, one set in front of the other but I appear to have taken myself far away from anything familiar.

So I kept going, but the feeling only festered. Was I being followed? The pitter-patter and rustle-shuffle caused me to run. Faster and faster, we chase and we race! I burst through the brush, scraped and sliced by thorns and bitten by rocks with teeth. 

I did not know what they were, but they were all around me– the Wretched things! The forest was filled with eyes. They were elves but they were husks of what they once were. Drawn to me to drain my magic essence! I required an exit, an escape or an escort!

But then the sky opened up and began to cry. My first rainfall, my first dark and stormy night. To make matters more miserable, I was drenched and nearly drowned. A fog crept in on silent, white feet. Were I still a spirit, I would float aloft above the clouds where not a drop would touch me…. But no, I was a miserable meat man, and now my silk stockings were soaked.

Chased, chastised, and chilled, I needed a sanctuary, a savior…. And I saw it standing on a hill. Like a lighthouse singing her siren song, I saw her beacon beckoning me home. I dragged myself up the hill towards the castle. 

The beast was far more imposing in person. The castle was callous, fierce, and gray with vines veining the walls. The night was dark and long and I needed refuge. And I was but a red harlequin, curious and cold. I knew better than not to knock and so I did–one-two-three-upon the front door.

(thank you for the reblog @wraheathcliff)

[dailylighthouse]

Race Rocks Lighthouse

Race Rocks Island, British Columbia, Canada

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Constructed: 1860

Automated: 1997

Have a favorite lighthouse? Curious about lighthouses in general? Send an ask!

[roseandxanderfics]

"The Beacon's Light" - Killian Jones x LighthouseKeeper!reader

Summary: During a storm, the lighthouse keeper saves Killian Jones, the legendary pirate. As they share a quiet night, he offers her a chance to join his world of adventure—away from her solitary life.

A/n: Based on this request 'I wonder, what would you think of Killian Jones x lighthouse keeper!reader? Whether she guides his ship to safety in a storm, or he introduces her to a world of adventure after a lifetime of mostly solitude, or she offers him a home base at the lighthouse after a lifetime of sailing. Just an idea I wanted to share. It's completely up to you.'

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The wind howled like a creature of the night, the kind that twisted and tore at anything in its path. Dark clouds choked out what little light the moon had left to offer, plunging the world into a thick, inky darkness. The waves that slammed against the cliffs were monstrous, towering like angry giants, each one crashing into the jagged rocks below with a deafening roar, as if the ocean itself had a vendetta.

You stood at the top of the lighthouse, your hands gripping the weathered stone railing, the wind battering your face, pulling at your coat, your hair whipping wildly behind you. The lantern in the tower burned steady, casting a wide beam of light across the churning water. This was your world—this towering stone structure that had stood against countless storms. It had been your home for as long as you could remember. A solitary existence, bound to the rhythms of the sea, to the pulse of the lighthouse’s steady beam.

There was a strange comfort in the lighthouse's isolation, in the predictable dance between you and the storm. You'd learned the patterns: the swells of the waves, the crackling roar of thunder, the flickering of the lantern light. It was all a part of the constant ebb and flow that you had become so accustomed to. But tonight, as you peered into the vast ocean below, something unsettled you—a pull, as if the storm was carrying something else toward the shore, something that would change everything.

Your eyes narrowed, searching the horizon. The storm had intensified in a way that made the waves seem alive, as if the ocean was desperate to claim anything caught in its grasp. And then, through the veil of rain and mist, you saw it. The dark outline of a ship—the ship.

It had appeared countless times over the years, a ghostly silhouette in the distance. A ship unlike any other, its sails tattered and torn by the violent winds. The ship’s dark wood gleamed eerily beneath the flashes of lightning, its course unshaken despite the chaos of the storm. It moved with purpose, but the angle at which it was approaching the rocks told you everything you needed to know.

It was too close. The ship was going to crash.

Your heart skipped a beat. You recognized it immediately—the Jolly Roger. Its name was whispered in every port you’d ever visited, a ship that belonged to none other than the legendary Captain Killian Jones. Hook, they called him. The man who had sailed across realms, lived through curses, and fought enemies that even the bravest pirates feared. But tonight, his ship was caught in the claws of the storm, and you could do nothing but watch as it drew closer, its course erratic, its crew struggling to control the sails.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your coat from where it hung by the door and wrapped it tightly around your body, feeling the cold press in against your skin. The wind was a beast, biting and relentless, but you had faced worse. You had spent your entire life in this lighthouse, and you had always believed that it was your purpose—to keep the flame alive, to guide the lost and the stranded.

But tonight was different. Tonight, you weren’t just a lighthouse keeper. You were a lifeline.

Your boots hit the stone steps with urgency as you raced down the spiral staircase, each step echoing in the hollow tower. The wind followed you inside, a gust that rattled the old windows, but you barely noticed. You had one mission: save the ship.

As you reached the bottom, the door to the lighthouse flew open with a creak, and the night air surged inside, forcing you to step back against the rush. You squinted against the rain, the salty air stinging your eyes as you made your way toward the rocky cliffs. The waves were now lashing out at the base of the lighthouse, roaring in their violent frenzy.

The path down to the shore was treacherous—slick with rain, jagged rocks jutting up like hidden teeth. But you had walked it countless times, each step driven by the same unwavering sense of duty. Tonight, though, your heart thudded against your ribs in a way it never had before. You had never been so close to this ship. To him.

Your hand tightened around the lantern you carried. It was all you had—this flickering light that could guide the lost, the desperate, the doomed.

The ship came closer, now only yards from the jagged rocks. You could hear the cries of the crew, muffled by the roar of the storm, the snapping of sails and the creaking of the ship’s battered wood.

You raised the lantern high above your head, the fragile flame swaying against the onslaught of the wind. But this light—this beacon—was not just a symbol. It was a guide. And as the ship veered dangerously toward the rocks, you pushed all the strength you had into that beam, willing it to be bright enough, steady enough, to cut through the storm.

The ship’s sails cracked as it swerved at the last moment, its hull scraping dangerously close to the cliffs. You could see the crew scrambling on deck, but it was too late. The ship was going to collide with the rocks. You had to act fast.

With one last burst of energy, you shouted toward the ship, your voice barely audible over the storm, “Over here! This way!”

To your shock, the ship’s course shifted, following the light you held above your head. The crew seemed to react to it, the ship’s sails catching just enough of the wind to bring it around in a sharp arc toward the safety of the shore. You had done it.

The ship came to a halt a few yards from the rocks, its sails flapping wildly in the gusts, the deck alive with movement. The sound of ropes tightening, crew shouting orders—it all happened in a blur, but your focus never wavered. You watched as a figure stepped onto the ship’s railing, tall and commanding. His eyes locked onto yours immediately, a steady gaze that held the weight of the storm itself.

He didn’t move for a moment, just studying you, his face illuminated by the pale light of your lantern.

Then, with the confidence of someone who had survived a thousand storms, he climbed down onto the rocky shore, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His coat billowed around him like the remnants of a tempest, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and rich, carrying the weight of the ocean itself.

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours, “I’d say you’ve saved my life, Miss Keeper.” His lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Name’s Killian Jones, but most call me Hook.”

You stared up at him, heart pounding in your chest. His name was a legend, a story told in every tavern, whispered in every port. He was no stranger to danger, to risk, to adventure. And yet, here he was, standing before you, his eyes flickering with something like admiration—or was it curiosity?

“I know who you are,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. “I’ve seen your ship pass by before. Not many make it through the storm like you did.”

His smile widened, but there was something wistful in his expression. “It seems I’m not so lucky tonight. But your light...” He glanced up at the lighthouse towering above. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even the stars could guide me better.”

You couldn’t help but feel the pull of his gaze, the weight of his words. The storm was still raging around you, but in that moment, it felt like time had slowed, like it was just the two of you standing in the aftermath of the chaos.

“I’m not used to having a light to guide me,” he continued, his voice softer now, tinged with something vulnerable. “But tonight, I suppose it’s a blessing.”

The lighthouse was a strange place for someone like him. It was warm, comforting, filled with the hum of quiet solitude. You led him inside, the heavy door groaning on its hinges as you pushed it open. The flickering light of the lantern was joined by the steady glow of the lighthouse’s own fire, casting long shadows on the stone walls.

Killian’s coat dripped water onto the stone floor as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the interior. The simplicity of the lighthouse, the quiet beauty of its design, seemed to disarm him for a moment. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable.

“You live here alone?” he asked, his voice low, as if not sure whether to make small talk or not.

You nodded, stepping toward the fire. “Always have,” you replied. “I’m the Keeper. It’s my job.”

He let out a soft laugh, though it held no humor. “A solitary existence, I’d imagine. Must be strange—living in a place that’s always been about guiding others, but never... being with them.”

You couldn’t deny it. The life you had led in this lighthouse was solitary, filled with the quiet hum of the sea and the eternal vigilance of the flame. But you had always found peace in it. It had been enough—until now.

“I suppose so,” you said quietly, turning away to stoke the fire, watching as the embers crackled and popped.

The night wore on, and as the storm raged outside, the two of you sat in the warmth of the lighthouse. Killian spoke of the sea, of his adventures, of the things he had seen—things that seemed impossible. His stories captivated you, drew you into a world that felt both foreign and enticing.

But as the night deepened, there was something else in his voice—a note of something more personal. Something that lingered between you, unspoken but undeniable.

“I’ve been sailing for years,” Killian said, his voice softening as he leaned back in his chair. “But there’s something about this place... something about you.” He looked at you, his gaze intense, his eyes dark with meaning. “I don’t suppose you’d consider joining me, would you?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question. The idea of leaving the lighthouse, of stepping into a world so foreign to you, seemed both thrilling and terrifying. But in that moment, when he looked at you like that, when the storm outside seemed to mirror the storm inside you, you felt a pull. A pull toward something bigger than the quiet life you had known.

“I think I could,” you said slowly, your heart beating faster as you looked into his eyes. “But first, you’ll need to teach me how to sail.”

He smiled, a hint of mischief creeping into his expression. “That, Miss Keeper, is something I can certainly teach you.”

[poorlittleviolet]

🖤

In the vast and boundless ocean, you are a lighthouse, shining bright.

A beacon of hope and courage, piercing through the night.

Each wave that crashes against the shore, a reminder of your strength and grace.

You stand alone, a pillar of resilience, in the tumultuous dance of this vast, salty embrace.

🖤

In my verdant, grassy field, you are a wildflower, vibrant and untamed.

Your petals, a symphony of colors, dancing with the summer breeze.

Each blade of grass, a canvas for your beauty, you paint the landscape with your grace.

You stand tall, unyielding, in the wind, a symbol of resilience in this vast, open space.

🖤

In my vast and infinite galaxy, you are a shooting star, burning bright.

Your energy and brilliance, unmatched in the cosmic night.

Each star in the firmament, a witness to your presence, illuminating the dark void of space.

You leave trails of hope, courage, and dreams, with every path you race.

🖤

because in my life, you spark a fire.

You ignite a passion, a burning desire

To explore, to dream, to live with all my might.

You awaken the adventurous spirit within,

Igniting the fires that burn in me, bright.

🖤

In my chaotic mess of thoughts, you are a calm refuge, a safe haven, a place where I can pause and breathe. You are my solace, my rock in the storm. You anchor me, grounding me, preventing me from being swept away by the relentless currents of my own mind. In this tumultuous sea of emotions, your presence is a beacon of stability, a reminder that in the midst of chaos, there is peace to be found.

[chaos-chloe]

Midnight Mischief

Summary: The night air was cool against my skin as I settled into the passenger seat of Puffer’s old ford. The clock in the dashboard glowed 11:45 PM in soft blue light, like a lighthouse guiding us through the darkness. I could feel the excitement bubbling in my chest—there was something electric about midnight drives that made everything feel alive.

TW: Puffer driving, passenger princess, kissing, make out, established relationship

“Ready for an adventure?” Puffer asked, his voice laced with warmth and mischief. I grinned and nodded, shifting in my seat as I fiddled with the radio. A soft rock station crackled to life, the perfect soundtrack for our escapade under the stars. He pulled out of the driveway, and we melted into the quiet streets.

As we cruised through the city, laughter spilled from our mouths like sweet popcorn. Puffer had a way of making ordinary moments feel extraordinary, his infectious energy filling the car. I loved how he would point out the little things—a street lamp casting a golden glow, a couple laughing on a corner, or the way the moon hung low, as if it were a curious companion on our journey.

Before long, the aroma of street food wafted through the cracks of the window, pulling us in like moths to a flame. “Tacos at Luna’s?” Puffer suggested, his eyes twinkling with idea as he parked on the bustling street filled with food trucks. 

Luna's was a tiny truck illuminated by strings of lights, vibrant and welcoming like the laughter spilling from its open window. We jumped out, the asphalt cool against my feet, and I could barely contain my excitement. We stood in line, our shoulders brushing against each other, sharing ridiculously silly jokes that only we seemed to find funny. 

With our steaming tacos in hand, we stumbled back to the car, bursting into laughter as we tried to take monstrous bites without spilling guacamole down our shirts. I felt a rush of joy, a lightness that made me want to twirl under the moonlight, but instead, I leaned into Puffer, resting my head against his shoulder.

Back in the car, the world outside blurred into a kaleidoscope of lights as we drove aimlessly—pathways leading nowhere and everywhere. The radio played a soft ballad, and it felt like a gentle plea, almost daring us to lose ourselves in the moment. I turned to him, caught in the depth of his dark eyes, and the world around us melted away.

“Wanna dance?” I asked playfully, already knowing the answer. He laughed, the sound deep and rich, as he pulled into a quiet park. Switching off the engine, shadows danced around us, and in that moment, we didn’t need anything—or anyone—else.

With the music still flowing through the car, we leaned closer until the world outside faded completely. Puffer brushed his lips against mine, and it was like the first taste of warmth after a chilly day—a spark ignited. The kisses turned soft and sweet, punctuated by the distant rumble of a train passing by. 

Lost in our little universe, time didn’t matter; there was only Puffer, the car, and the music wrapping around us like a soft embrace. I could feel the rhythm of our hearts aligning with each note, our laughter mingling with the melodies that floated through the open window. 

After what felt like hours, we pulled away slightly, breathless and smiling, foreheads resting against each other. “Let’s never stop doing this,” I whispered, my heart racing with the thought of all the nights ahead.

“Never,” he affirmed, his fingers intertwined with mine, as if sealing a promise made under the starlit sky. With the radio still crooning in the background, we drove through the endless night, fueled by love, laughter, and the thrill of adventure

[greetingfromthedead]

1. Beached

Series: Mermaid!AU Depth of Despair

Series Plot: Vash is a former sailor who, despite the call of the ocean, is stranded on land. You are a mermaid, a member of a race in hiding who has become nothing more than folklore and fantasy. You were the one who saved Vash from certain death years ago and ever since that, you are being called closer and closer to the shore. Getting wrapped up with each other is asking for trouble and for your secrets to be dragged into the sunlight.

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Series Rating: PG-13

Series Tags: no use of "y/n", dark fantasy, magic, legends, folklore, mermaids, merfolk, magic, necromancy, shape-shifting, myths, fluff, forbidden romance, hurt / comfort, mermaid reader, Vash dresses like a pirate

Word count: 2k

Author's Note: I've had thoughts of mermaids since May, but now I got some creepy ideas that simply demanded to be written down. It seems that it ends up being a mini-series and I hope yall enjoy it as much as I do.

You're at the beginning | Next Chapter →

Vash walks along the beaten path leading to the edge of the cliff. The long grass sways with the strong sea breeze, brushing against his leathery pants and getting caught in the buckles of his knee high boots. He reaches the edge and gazes out at the vast expanse of ocean below. He has sailed these waters for many years, earning his living as a sailor. The salt in the air stirs up memories of a capsizing ship, and the tiny droplets of water hitting his face from the rough, crashing waves could be mistaken for blood that sprayed from his wounds. He shudders at the thought. He has left that life behind, but the sea always calls him back. By all accounts, he should have died that day with the rest of his crew, but by some miracle, he washed up at the shore and lived on to tell the cautionary tale of how he narrowly escaped the wrath of the ocean and now has to live with the guilt that comes with it. His body is still covered in jagged scars from the ordeal, and the loss of his left arm has made it hard to find a way back to his old life again.

His eyes trail along the shore he grew up on; he sees the sharp rocks reaching out of the water towards the sky, the shallow beaches where children go to collect seashells, and the lighthouse that always guided his way back home. The foamy waves roll into the bay, their white tops like rabbits skipping their way towards the land. It is a brilliant day with a bright blue sky and tall, pillowy clouds. He enjoys the gentle caress of sunlight on his rough skin as an unusual movement by a rock, not too far from the beach, catches his eye. He focuses in on the strange sight, trying to make out what it is, but there is nothing of note. He waits for a little bit longer, but eventually decides to continue his walk along the cliff. A shade of yellowy green keeps flickering in his mind—the color of kelp. He can't shake off the feeling that something was there in the water, lurking just beneath the surface.

He almost saw you. It's a terrifying feeling to be nearly discovered. Your usually cold body feels cooler still, like your blood has turned into ice water. You press your back against the rock and hope the rough waves are enough to hide you from view. You had stared at the handsome man for too long, getting lost in the familiar shape of his silhouette and in the golden glow of his hair that's the same shade as the ripe wheat fields you've admired from afar.

You aren't allowed to be here. Your kind is warned about the danger of coming too close to the shore. Nowhere is safe for someone like you except the dark depths of the ocean. So many lectures of caution have been drilled into your head about humans and their viciousness. It's not like you aren't afraid of them, but curiosity keeps you wandering closer and closer. The world looks so different above the surface: the blue sky, the pale sand, the red poppies, and even the white sea foam only show up on the other side of the waves. It's like a whole other world up there. But in all honesty, it's an excuse to go to the shore where you dragged a dying seaman to some years ago. You've hoped he survived, but until now, you never knew if he really did.

Your racing heart skips a few beats with the relief of seeing that man alive and well, standing at the edge of the cliff, surrounded by rippling grass that looks a lot like the surface of the water. You thought this would give you rest, but now all you want is to steal another glance. You turn around and stick your head out of the water. You feel your gills closing at the brush of air against your skin. Your hair and the algae in it stick heavily to your body, as you creep around the large rock to get a better view. You hold on to the rough surface; your nails no longer the sharp talons they are in the water, and the webs between your fingers disappear too. You keep looking in the direction you last saw the sailor, but he is nowhere to be found.

You should have listened. You should have been satisfied with seeing him alive and returned to the depths. Greed is a sin that always leads to consequences. You kept coming back, and you kept seeing him on the beach and on that cliff. You followed him along the shoreline to the port; you weaved between the supports of the pier as you listened to his footsteps. You kept getting closer, and you found that you had only eyes for him. That's why you didn't see the fishnet strung across the bay until it was too late, and you got caught in it. The more you struggle, the tighter it wraps around your body. The sharp rock you picked up from the seabed is no match for the ropes, either. You keep trying to peel it off yourself, unhooking it from the scales on your skin, but it only gets stuck on something new each time. You don't want to rip your fins as you fight against the relentless grip of the death trap, so you don't even notice as the current carries you towards the shallows of the beach.

Fear grips you tighter than the net ever could as you realize you've gotten entirely stuck. You can feel panic rising in your chest as you struggle to break free, your carefulness gone with the wind. You find it hard to move with half your body out of the water, your arms strung to your body with the cords that have wrapped themselves in driftwood and debris, anchoring you in place as sunrise starts to creep over the cliff. The salty air stings your lungs as you struggle to break free, and you feel so tired. You whimper and growl in anguish as the realization sets in that you will most likely die here alone and trapped, but you refuse to give up. You don't hear the running steps on the wet sand on the beach; you only freeze up once the boots hit water, sending droplets flying everywhere and making no attempt to be quiet as they wade through knee high saltwater toward you.

"Hey! Are you alright?" A worried voice calls out, and you look over your shoulder to see the beautiful blonde man approach you in a hurry. He appears to be out of breath, concern etched across his face. You pull an arm free, no longer careful of the long fin reaching beyond your elbow. You manage to grab an old, soaked branch and wave it in front of you while hissing a warning at the man.

"Careful! You're bleeding!" He continues, his hands up in the air.

His eyes move away from the branch, traveling along your body and widening as he takes in the sight before him. He stands there with a strange look, somewhere between disbelief and awe. He just stares, making no attempt to come closer or move away, so you keep your makeshift weapon pointed at him while trying to wiggle free. After what feels like an eternity, he finally seems to come back to reality and shifts his gaze back to your face.

"Let me help you," he says with a calming voice. "I am not here to hurt you."

His tone sounds genuine, but you know better than to trust the words of a human. You try to push away from him, back towards the open sea, but you are so thoroughly stuck that you can barely move at all. The panic only sinks in deeper as you see him pulling a knife from his belt. You thrash against your restraints, sending water flying in all directions as you desperately try to escape.

"Please stop! You'll hurt yourself further!" He says pleadingly, "I'll back away. See?"

You see him walking backwards, putting a bit more distance between the two of you, but your eyes are still drawn to the gleaming blade in his hand. You don't understand why he hesitates. Humans are supposed to be ruthless and cruel. From all the stories you have heard, he should have jumped you the moment he saw you, pinned you down, and slashed your throat without a second thought. You are at a hopeless disadvantage, yet he doesn't grasp at the golden opportunity before him.

"You are a siren, aren't you?" He asks with a hint of wonder in his voice. Siren, mermaid, nymph, merperson—all names humans have given your kind since before you turned into mere lore and legend. You can see the amazement in his eyes, but you aren't sure if it is from greed or innocent fascination. "I've heard that knowing a person's name gives you power over them. My name is Vash. Will you trust me to help you now?"

What is this nonsense? You wonder to yourself. There really are outlandish stories about you still floating around even after centuries of being in hiding. But if he really believes in this ridiculous superstition, then maybe you can trust him. He doesn't have to know that it's not his name that you need.

He carefully approaches you again, and you try your best to keep your fear under wraps. He keeps his hands visible at all times, giving you a sense of security. You watch him intensely, your body twitching at every move he makes slightly faster than the one before. He is finally close enough to bow over you; his eyes remain on your face, and you can see the blue hues in them, reminiscent of the sky on a clear day. You breathe heavily, fear tying a knot in your stomach. You can't help but try to wiggle away again as his hand takes hold of the fishing net, pulling it away from you so he can cut through it with his knife. He is mindful of the sharp blade, making precise cuts to free you from the tangled mess without hurting you.

You relax a bit as you feel the net loosen around you, the ropes no longer digging into your flesh. Vash looks so determined and focused as he works away. Your anxiety hasn't left you completely, but you no longer fight against him either. You haven't seen him this close since you pulled him from the wreckage of his ship. He looked more dead than alive on that day, his body covered in wounds and bleeding into the salty water you dragged him through. You never expected to be this close again. Close enough to see the mark at the corner of his eye and the flush of pink on his cheeks.

"There you are." He says with a sad smile, "But you're still bleeding."

You look at your own body again. There are tears in your fins and wounds where the scales have been torn off. You sit up, the fin on your arm disappearing, leaving just a small cut on your human looking skin. The scales on your body retreat too, where the air brushes over them, leaving behind mostly smooth skin. Your injuries don't look so bad anymore, but they are still there.

"Woah!" You hear the man's amazed exclamation as he watches you, his hand empty, the knife back in its sheath on his hip. You can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you. You open your mouth to thank him, but you stop yourself before you can speak.

"Can you not talk out of water?" Vash wonders aloud, and you just nod, deciding to let him believe that lie. You are exhausted, and you try to keep your cards close to your chest to avoid the dangers that come with being this close to a human being.

Your attention is dragged away from Vash by a drunken song echoing from the bay, and fear fills you again.

"It must be the fishermen who put up that net; they're back to check on them." Vash voices the thoughts swirling in your head.

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