#just trying to rock our ship

[mcdonalds-unofficial]

@waffle-house-unofficial is also aroace

I know because it's me.

ooc (should use an emoji for this-): honestly didn't know this uhhhhhh yeah that makes it even weirder that some people are reblogging that poll trying to like- make a ship happen

i don't think i need to explain why it's weird to do that when one (or both) parties has expressed discomfort towards being shipped, even if you're being goofy about it

[hauntingblue]

Max and anne I am holding you both carefully in my hands

[risestarkiss]

✨The Fashionista✨

Rise Ramblings #234

While watching “The Clothes Don’t Make The Turtle,” I noticed something.

I found it interesting that Raph, Mikey, and Leo were content with Raph’s outfit choice until Donnie stated that he wasn’t “in love with it, ya’ know.”

Suddenly, Raph declares “I’m a disaster!” Albeit ridiculously endearing, it was a little strange to see his sudden shift from moderately content to absolute dissatisfaction. Huh…

Then, the disaster twins decide to help him out.

Take a note of their outfit choices.

Raph tries on all of these fits and more.

Donnie’s first choice is a mild “no.” Leo’s choice is a hard “NO.” (Not surprising, lol.) But then, the overwhelming consensus lands on Raph’s fourth outfit, which ended up being Donatello’s other pick for his brother.

So, in summary, Raph tried on his personal choice for an outfit, of which they rejected. Then, ultimately, Donatello picked out an outfit for his brother, and that pick ended up being perfect. Hmm…

Then I noticed something else. In this episode, we never get a Donnie “curtain reveal” moment, to our disdain. I mean, Raph, Leo, and Mikey got to try on several different outfits in order to get their brothers' opinions before landing on that “perfect outfit, you know the one.” All of his brothers got to shine. Why not DonTron?

Then it hit me.

The try-ons were to get their brothers' opinions and approval. And, for his brothers' choices, he was a major contributor in assisting them in pulling their looks together.

What if, bear with me, Donnie didn’t need the "curtain scene" because he was so confident in his fashion sense that he didn’t need to ask his brothers for help to pick out a great look.

…or they figured out how to break Hypno’s spell before he could get a “curtain reveal.” BUT STILL-

Look at his outfit choices in this episode. Some of his wardrobe changes were off-screen, but all of them were fire.

(I added the baseball cap pic because it makes me happy. I wish we'd seen more of that fit.)

To me, he makes some really smart choices for himself, pushing the envelope of what is expected and taking chances: an open collar with no tie for a “black tie” event, a beanie and spiked wristbands for their “gansta look,” no socks with loafers (a viral fashion trend that actually began in Africa) with old man slacks in his reclined pose. *muah* Chef’s kiss!

But Don’s fashion sense doesn’t just shine in this episode.

In “Reparin’ the Baron” the boys go to Draxum’s apartment. Leo and Donnie show up in some extra nice “Sunday Dinner” twin drip.

The gold is in the details. Everything Leo is wearing, Donnie rocks its compliment: for Leo’s round collar, Donnie’s is angled, for Leo’s blue shirt, Donnie’s is white, For Leo’s light slacks, Donnie’s are dark. Blah blah blah. It’s so good!

Look at the winter fit in Snow Day.

Again, Donnie is Leo’s perfect compliment. As a pair? Fire.

Donnie has “the eye.” I can go on and on with examples, but I’ve said all of that to say this…

In the future, we see that Donatello’s technology had major pull in the resistance. He had drone ships patrolling the skies. He built and designed Leo’s arm, Casey’s chainsaw-hockey stick, and Casey's mask. The list goes on…

But, when Donatello from the past see’s Casey’s clothing from the future, he says this:

We know about the “Genius Built” brand. We’ve seen that logo on all of his tech up to this point. But, here he didn’t just say “Genius Built.” He said, “Genius Built Apparel.”

“Apparel” is not a tech brand. “Apparel” is a fashion brand. Of course, tech is incorporated into the clothing, but still.

This means that past Donatello secured this trademark with plans of creating a fashion brand, comparable to the likes of Gucci, Ralph Lauren, or any other modern clothing brand, as a subsidiary of “Genius Built,” the tech company.

And why not? The evidence has been in front of us this entire time. He has a sharp eye for style, fashion, and trends. It is easily canon that he can sew. Splinter sewed their ninja garbs in “Insane in the Mama Train,” and there is a sewing machine in the house.

They already learned Ninjutsu through basically osmosis, so learning to sew is not too far-fetched.

And here it is, right in front of us, Casey’s entire ensemble, from mask, to weapons, to clothing, was made by Donatello in the middle of the apocalypse under the brand name “Genius Built Apparel.”

And that was just in the bad future. Resources were limited, they didn’t have access to much of anything in that broken world as they were survivors of a devastating Krang invasion. Yet, he created all of this.

However, now that they’ve changed the future, his future as a fashion designer is limitless. Think of what Donatello could produce with unlimited resources, unlimited technology, and unlimited creative freedom.

Tech genius. Clothing designer. Fashionista. Future Genius Built Apparel Owner and CEO. I’m sorry, but I have to call it...

Donatello Hamato of the present, of the bad future, and of the good future is a fashion icon, the likes of which the world has never seen. ○○○○

Update: I've decided to make this concept into a mini-comic series!

[no-144444]

the disgraced pop princess

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

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

summary: oscar is your salvation after things go horribly wrong

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x singer! reader

warnings: TALK OF SA and cyberbullying

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

comments

user13: WHAT THE FUCK

user15: This is all her fault. She's a bad person

-> user16: Where did you get that from? An anonymous twitter account?

user14: I AM A CHILD OF DIVORCE

Alexy/l/n: ❤️❤️❤️

CharlesOBrien: the end.

DarrelBowser: fin.

user82: WTF.

user45: how could she ruin this? doesn't she care about the fans?

-> user38: you have no idea what happened? stfu

oscarpiastri: GUYS I'M FREAKING OUT RN WTF.

-> user55: WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

-> logansargeant: he's been a WINGS fan since he was a teenager. He's been in love with Y/n Y/l/n name since he was like 15.

-> landonorris: Can confirm he's having a breakdown rn.

-> alexalbon: It's all too much for little oscar piastri

->zbrown: Zandvoort is fucked isn't it? @/landonorris @/oscarpiastri

-> landonorris: Sadly, yes.

-> oscarpiastri: VERY MUCH SO, YES.

user90: oscar piastri being a WINGS fan was not on my 2024 bingo card tbh.

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

BREAKING NEWS! POPULAR MUSIC GROUP ‘WINGS’ HAVE ANNOUNCED THE END OF THEIR WORLD TOUR, AND THEIR BAND! 

Speculation has been flying for weeks due to various sources giving people an inside look into popular music group ‘Wings’. Many fans have been left wondering in recent weeks as the band has been seen arguing on stage, not speaking to each other off-stage, and even some of them have been refusing to go on and perform. Many people have been trying to point fingers to who’s at fault for the end of this historic music group, and  various pieces of evidence against the front woman Y/n Y/l/n, the singer, songwriter, and lead bass guitarist of the group. Many pieces against her have been posted to the popular anonymous twitter account  ‘@/anonymousmail’, detailing how she has been treating the rest of the band badly, by not letting them write their own music, becoming too controlling over the band, and even going as far as to threaten other members of the band. 

Late last night after their last of 5 shows in Las Vegas at the historical Westgate Las Vegas Resort & Casino, where rock and roll legend, Elvis Presley played for years, the front woman Y/n Y/l/n posted a photo of her hugging her brother (and fellow band member), Alex Y/l/n with the caption ‘the end of it all. 12 year old me is crying. so is 22 year old me. bye for now and ever.’. On stage, they announced they were parting ways and were all in tears as they left. 

This looks like the end for the group, and this publication is sad to see them go. We wish them all good luck, and we will keep our readers posted on any drama from the unravelling group. 

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

BREAKING NEWS! ‘WINGS’ LEAD GUITARIST SPEAKS OUT AGAINST Y/N Y/L/N!

In a new-deleted instagram story, the lead guitarist of the band called out Y/n Y/l/n with this statement 

‘Good f*****g riddance to that b***h . F******g fame-hungry c**t who could never sing for s**t. Good f**k tho’

This left fans shocked, as Y/l/n has said in the past that they were ‘all friends and would always respect each other, even if the band broke up’ (2021 interview with Vogue). Many people have shipped the two online due to their flirty stage-presence and good banter in interviews, but they always vehemently denied the claims that they were together. In other shocking news, it seems the rest of the band Charles O’Brien (lead guitarist), Alex Y/l/n (new lead singer, ‘Wings’ second guitarist), Darrel Brown (drummer), and Axel Smith (new bass guitarist) will be continuing on with ‘Wings’ as this was posted to the band social media account just days after their announced split. 

Y/n Y/l/n has refused to comment and all her social media accounts have gone dark. We’ll keep you updated!

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

comments

user12: ZAK BROWN IS WILDIN

user59: HE GETS US, BRING BACK THE REAL WINGS

landonorris: bro plz don't jump wtf

alexalbon: we're here for you buddy :)

logansargeant: he's crying in my driver's room rn. he's unconsolable.

-> user90: bro is DOWN BAD.

mclaren: Please don't crash the car Oscar. We'll bribe you.

-> user47: this is insane.

User58: hey so you're crazy.

georgerussel: We're here for you mate :(

lewishamilton: Missing WINGS rn.

user83: i feel bad that oscar just found out his celebrity crush is a bad person :(

-> user33: phone down. NOW. it's an anonymous twitter account with no credibility.

user55: what Charles said about her was mental.

-> oscarpiastri: AGREED. I ALWAYS HATED HIM.

-> landonorris: PUBLIC ACCOUNT.

-> WINGSfanno1: ur right, my b. AGREED. I ALWAYS HATED HIM.

-> user88: no way oscar piastri has a WINGS fan account 🤣🤣🤣

hater66: I hate Y/n, oscar should too.

hater36: she's a slut and an awful person.

hater22: Y/N Y/L/N HATE CLUB!

->hater82: me too!

->hater100: me too!

->hater3792: me too!

->hater38: me too!

->hater202: me too!

->hater26: me too!

->hater77: me too!

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

BREAKING NEWS! Y/N Y/L/N IS SET TO BE ATTENDING THE DUTCH GRAN PRIX THIS WEEKEND!

According to anonymous sources, Y/n Y/l/n will be attending the Dutch Gran Prix this weekend. This comes as a shock since she's deactivated her instagram, most likely due to the break-up of her band. The rest of WINGS will also be in attendance, all as guest of McLaren, whereas Y/n is a guest of Sir. Lewis Hamilton, in the Mercedes garage. They have been seen in public recently and have been sparking dating rumours, despite their age difference. Many fans are now speculating that another reason the band broke up is the supposed cheating rumours. Y/l/n was apparently dating lead guitarist Charles O'Brien, but cheated on him with 7 time World Champion, Lewis Hamilton. Their paparazzi photos certainly seem to paint a picture...

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

You woke up puffy-eyed and angry. 3 days ago, you were on tour living your life to the fullest, singing and touring with your best friends, and your chosen family. At least, that's what you thought they were. It turns out they'd all been trying to get you out of the band that you started, for a couple of months now. They'd been lying to the press about you, making every little thing you did seem worse than it was, and your 'best friend' Charles O'Brien decided it was time to get you drunk enough to sleep with him.

You felt used. Every time you four went in for a record session, a new contract, a new show, you were told that you were the only reason the band was famous. You were the real talent.You were the moneymaker. You always brushed it off, telling them that you were so good, because the band was so good. You didn't give a fuck about people telling you to get out before they swindled you and felt you in the dirt. Now you wished you had listened. Now you wished you hadn't seen so blind to their blatant disregard for you. Now you wished you'd broken off from them years ago, even your brother.

Charles had been the backbone of getting you out, that you knew. He'd always hated how you got credit for making the band popular, when it really was you who made the band popular. It had been your idea to start a youtube channel at 12 years old, it had been your idea to enter your schools battle of the bands at 13 years old, and it was you who took the risk and trusted a manager for the first time, even going as far as being the only one to sign the contract, so they could always get out of it. You'd always been so considerate, so protective, so blind.

Today was the Dutch Gran Prix, and Lewis had decided it would be best for you to get out of the hotel room you'd been rotting in and come visit him for the race. You'd been to Gran Prix's before, but mostly when you were younger and not in the middle of a world tour, like you had been for the past year and a half. You left your room looking better than you had in days, you'd done your makeup, worn your favourite outfit, and you'd finally stopped crying. Small victories, right? You hadn't checked social media in days, you knew what you'd find, and you didn't want to know what everyone thought of you. You just wanted it all to stop.

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

liked by nicolepiastri, charlesobrien and 772,922 more.

comments

alexalbon: Ok this is becoming pathetic now

-> logansargeant: YOU ONLY THINK IT'S PATHETIC NOW?

georgerussel: Poor kid :(

maxverstappen: 🤣🤣🤣🤣

danielriccardo: I'll swing by with some food. We can cry together brother

-> oscarpiastri: the only real one on the grid 💔💔💔 love you daniel

-> logansargeant: mate I held you when you cried last night.

-> oscarpiastri: and you're still complaining about it. Daniel doesn't complain.

nicolepiastri: Kids these days...

hattiepiastri: please take his phone away from him @/logansargeant, I can't handle anymore embarrassment.

-> logansargeant: I'm trying, I promise.

user67: can we talk about zak brown, wtf?

-> zbrown: he's too sexy to die (and crash my car)??? what don't u get????

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

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

As you walked into the paddock beside Lewis, you felt the cameras on you. He was trying to shield you, but it wasn't exactly working.

"Y/n, how do you feel about what Charles said about you?!" "Y/n, are you and Lewis together? Did you cheat on Charles?"

What? How could you cheat on Charles when you weren't even dating him? That made no fucking sense. He'd assaulted you. You were going through the motions of suing him. How could anyone think you'd willingly have sex with the boy you'd seen as a brother for the past 22 years of your life?

"Follow me," Lewis whispered, leading you further away from the McLaren garage. "Don't worry about them, they're not going to talk to you."

You nodded, trying to put on a brave face as he led you to the Mercedes garage. You were used to the paddock, Lewis had known you since you were a young teenager embarking on your first tour with a new record deal, he'd shown you around as you stood nervous, just trying to do everything right, make yourself and the band look good. He gave you an important piece of advice that day.

"You don't need to worry about the cameras or the press, be yourself and the rest will come naturally."

A piece of advice you'd followed through your teenage years, and now into your 20's. You were scared again, but this time, you were alone. No band behind you, your brother wasn't there to protect you, and everyone hated you, for no good reason.

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

As you sat down in the paddock, Toto gave you a look of pity.

"How's my favourite popstar?" He smirked, trying to cheer you up.

"Disgraced," you groaned, and leaned your head against his shoulder. Mercedes had been like a second family to you, you'd met everyone back when you were 14, just about to start a tour after a song you posted online went viral. Your first stop was Silverstone, playing for so many people made you want to run and hide instead of play, but Lewis and Toto had helped you out, calmed you down, and you'd smashed it. It skyrocketed your fame, and got you an extended record deal.

He sighed. "Not for long. Don't let the boys win, it's always a boy's world."

You chuckled. "Thanks Toto."

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

Oscar jogged out of the McLaren garage as WINGS walked in. Logan had promised to let him stay at Williams if the band were too much for him, and he'd just had to listen to Charles O'Brien talk to his race engineer about how it was to fuck you. He felt sick to his stomach, and he didn't have anything else to do ahead of today, so off he went.

"Oscar!" Lewis's voice rung out and Oscar stopped in his tracks, turning to see where it was coming from. "Come here!"

Oscar walked over, confused by the sentiment. Lewis and Oscar didn't often speak before races. He walked over all the same, and there you were. Standing beside him looking gorgeous and flawless, and he knew he was fucked.

"Hi, I'm Y/n," you held out your hand to be shaken, and he did so with vigour, almost squeezing too hard.

"I'm Oscar," he smiled, then dropped your hand.

"See, I am a miracle worker," Logan's voice appeared out of nowhere, and Oscar whipped his head around to see him smirking. "I'm Logan," he introduced himself to you with a handshake which you reciprocated. "Oscar is basically in love with you and your music-"

"Mate!" Oscar tried to cover his mouth, but Logan was already in a laughing fit, as Lewis laughed with him. "I am so sorry about him, he's-"

"It's alright," you smiled. "It's honestly just nice to know that not every WINGS fan hates me now."

He frowned. "I'm really sorry about the break, it must've been awful."

You shrugged. "It was what was best for the band."

"I seriously doubt that. You were like, more than half the reason anyone ever listened," he chuckled. "You're amazing."

You felt yourself heat up. "Thank you. I think you're a pretty amazing driver."

"You watch F1?" He asked.

"Oh yeah, Lewis would kill me if I didn't," you chuckled. "It's also just really interesting, and congratulations on being like, the best rookie of all time."

He blushed and smiled. "Thank you."

You heard a camera snap and the small moment you two were having was ruined. Lewis and Logan had left you two to chat, and obviously now it looked... strange to say the least.

"God, I'd better go, sorry. You probably don't want to be seen with me-"

"I'd rather formulate my own opinion on you, rather than listen to what everyone else is saying. Do you want to go for a walk?"

You smiled, a real, genuine smile. "Yeah, that'd be lovely."

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

"So... how are you?" he asked as you walked through the crowds of people.

"I'm alright," you answered hesitantly. "Charles isn't making anything easy."

Oscar sighed. "He's definitely not an easy person to be around."

"You met him?"

"For about 5 minutes before I had to leave so I wouldn't punch him," he chuckled.

You laughed. "He's good at first impressions."

"Evidently," Oscar smirked.

"Yeah it just sucks that he aired all that shit out y'know? It's just... so unfair, especially when the court case is still being pieced together by our lawyers-"

"Wait, what? What do you mean 'court case'?"

"I'm suing him, he assaulted me," you shrugged.

"Holy shit, I'm so sorry," he stopped and took your hand. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

You stopped for a moment. In the last 72 hours, no one had apologised, no one had checked in, and no one had been so heartbroken for you. Did he have to be perfect?

"T-thank you," you sniffled. "I'd better go, it was nice to meet you, b-bye Oscar."

Oscar was left standing outside Ferrari as you walked off to the Mercedes garage. He felt awful, no one should have that happen to them, and you were so sweet and kind, he almost couldn't believe someone would take advantage of that. He knew one thing though, he needed to see you again.

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

comments

hater56: why is lewis still hanging out with her....

hater52: LEWIS RUN

hater79: lewis get away from the slut plz

oscarpiastri: ❤️❤️❤️❤️

-> lewishamilton: out of my comment section now.

-> y/nyl/n: stfu lewis

hater67: how is she still famous?

alexalbon: PLZ LET HER SWING BY WILLIAMS

-> logansargeant: I SECOND THIS ^^^^^

-> y/ny/l/n: omw rn

-> oscarpiastri: same. (just a conincidence)

-> logansargeant: 🧐🧐🧐

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

comments

hater77: she's so annoying, why does he like her?

-> oscarpiastri: girl. have you seen or meet her? THAT'S WHY

user66: This is insane.

alexalbon: nurse he's out again! -> logansargeant: he's scoping out Williams to find her. come back soon plzzzz

lewishamilton: it was embarrassing...

georgerussell: good luck with keeping away from you @/y/ny/l/n !

-> y/ny/l/n: 👍👍👍👍

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

Oscar walked into Williams with one objective, to see you. He needed to talk to you again. As he was searching, he finally bumped into you.

"You found me," you smiled.

"I did," he smiled. "And I was wondering if you'd want to talk more."

"Well, right now I have to get to Mercedes," you explained and he deflated slightly. "But I can give you my number and we can get dinner sometime?"

He was elated.

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

Months of texting and dating, healing with Oscar, getting into the studio, and finally, your next single was ready. It was called 'Labyrinth', and it was about how Oscar had turned everything around for you. He was perfect. Kind, a gentleman, funny, sweet, everything. You loved him. He loved you.

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

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

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[moonstruckme]

Can I request whimsical!reader and Sirius Black?? Or maybe poly!marauders but I just feel like Sirius would be so whipped for his quirky girl and join in on whatever shenanigans she starts 🫶

Sooo right babe, thanks for requesting :)

poly!marauders x whimsical!reader ♡ 878 words

“Darling,” Sirius keeps his voice quiet as he slinks down into the armchair. “What are you doing?” 

You look up from where you’re knelt beside the couch, bent ominously over James’ sleeping form. He’s out cold, his glasses discarded and placed carefully on the coffee table by Remus. James is a hard sleeper on a good day, but when he’s sick even the apocalypse couldn’t wake him. His breath wheezes noisily in and out through clogged nostrils. 

“I’m cleansing him,” you whisper. 

“With rocks.” 

You send your boyfriend a smile, well used to his ragging. “With crystals,” you correct him softly, placing another on James’ sternum. 

Sirius sits forward curiously. “What do they do?” he asks.

“Different things.” 

When you don’t seem inclined to go on, he reaches forward to poke at your shoulder. You sway placidly like a ship on calm waters. “Like?” he prompts. 

You hum, taking a smooth, green rock from your pouch. “Well,” you say, “this one is jade. It helps with headaches.” You place it gingerly on James’ forehead. 

“I see.” Sirius nods thoughtfully. “And what’s that blue one?” 

“It’s to help support his immune system.” 

“Uh huh. So you’re trying to heal him, is that it?” 

You consider this for a moment. “Sort of,” you say. “More like help his body heal itself.” 

Sirius grins at your breezy kindheartedness and slides down onto his knees beside you. “That’s sweet, baby.” He kisses your cheek, delighting when it dimples. “Can I help?” 

“Sure,” you say, looking pleased, “if you want to.” 

You move your little pouch so it sits between the two of you. Sirius brushes a piece of hair behind his ear, considering the stones inside. He picks up a cool-looking black and red one. 

“What’s this?” 

You glance over from where you’re setting another crystal on James’ chest. “Garnet,” you tell him. 

“And what’s it help with?” 

“Calcium deficiency.” 

Sirius guffaws. He covers his mouth with his hand when Remus pokes his head out of the kitchen, looking suspicious. 

“You think our boy’s fallen ill because he’s low in calcium?” he whispers. 

You shrug, scrunching your nose in that silly way you do when you don’t get why he’s laughing. “I guess I thought it couldn’t hurt.” 

“What are you two doing?” Remus asks, coming over with his arms crossed to lean against the wall. His voice is cautiously quiet. 

Sirius leaves you in charge of fielding questions while he dedicates himself to carefully balancing the garnet crystal on the point of James’ nose. His knuckles brush his boyfriend’s overwarm cheek as he retracts his hand, grinning at his work. He wonders if he can get one in his mouth without waking him. 

“We’re using crystals to help Jamie get better,” you explain, voice light as thistledown. “Siri, love, you can’t put it there. It’ll fall.” 

To his disappointment, you take the stone from James’ nose and place it between his collarbones. When Sirius pouts, you dig in the pouch to hand him another. 

“Here, try again.” 

“No.” Remus recognizes the glint in Sirius’ eyes and steps forward to snatch the stone from him. “Don’t enable him, sweetheart,” he tells you. “He’s just playing around.” 

You seem unconcerned, leaving Remus to deal with Sirius as he sees fit while you continue your healing rituals. 

“Excuse me for trying to help our sick boyfriend,” Sirius protests. 

“She’s trying to help,” Remus says sternly. “You’re just going to wake him.” 

“He could sleep through a tornado.” 

“He’s ill, Pads. Leave him be.” 

“Sorry, Jamie,” your voice comes, soft and sympathetic. Remus and Sirius both turn. “How are you feeling?” 

“Wha…” James clears his throat, then sniffles thickly. “What’s on me?” 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say. Your hand comes up to stroke at the damp curls lying across his forehead. “Do you feel calcium sufficient?” 

“What?” 

“The answer is yes,” Sirius helps him out. “Yes, you do feel calcium sufficient.” 

“I suppose so.” Crystals fall from James’ face as he sits up on his elbows, rubbing at his cheek. 

“I’m sorry we woke you,” Remus murmurs, crouching by James face and beginning to take crystals off his chest. You look slightly put out, but you don’t protest. Sirius kisses the side of your head consolingly. “How are you feeling, love?” 

“Properly stuffed up.” He inhales sharply through his nose, and Sirius feels his mouth twist at the ugly snuffling sound. “A bit better than when I fell asleep, though.” 

Remus and Sirius both look at you. Your smile spreads like a slow sunrise, the tops of your cheeks turning a pleased pink. Sirius’ heart does an embarrassing little dance. He takes your hand, stamping a kiss on the back of your palm. 

“Do you feel like some tea?” Remus asks James, his own lips curved slightly. 

“That sounds fantastic,” James admits. 

Remus smiles over at you. “Want to help me make it?” 

You hop up eagerly. “I can go get some thyme from the garden,” you say, headed for the back door. “It’s good for respiratory issues.” 

James makes a face and Remus takes you by the shoulders, gently redirecting you towards the kitchen. “Maybe just a regular tea for now, sweetheart,” he says. “But we can definitely try that later.”

[fandom]

Memes

At a certain point, it was just hard to keep up. They seemed to fall from the sky like fizzing raindrops, soaking everything in pure wildness—memes, that is. 2022 had an absolute bumper crop of memes. The fertile field of this year’s chaos was sown freely, resulting in some impressively widespread phenomena. Most of it remained pretty contained within the dashboard, but at the end of the year the biggest meme of them all broke containment…We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. 

Cast your mind back to January 2022. We kicked off the year with Horse Plinko, which soon joined forces with Eeby Deeby in a frenzy of flaming gifs in which the poor horse plinko’d its way to Super Hell. Nothing has ever summed up the mildly deranged meme generation process on Tumblr so perfectly. 

This era of memes merged smoothly with the Month of Blorbo. Can you believe blorbo from my shows is more or less purely a 2022 phenomenon? Granted, the original post happened in late 2021, but it was the new year by the time “blorbo” secured itself in our vocabulary. How did we even live our lives on Tumblr without the word “blorbo”? It’s impossible to even imagine at this point. 

Springtime dawned with the rise of Live Slug Reaction, which dominated the dashboard as everyone rushed to plop that shocked slug in the corner of their favorite gay moments from TV and film. And in May came a very important event that would define the rest of the year on Tumblr: the launch of Dracula Daily, Affectionately dubbed “tumblr book club,” the serialized email newsletter found a hugely involved following on Tumblr and spawned an infinite variety of memes, beginning with the iconic paprika recipes. 

The Summer of Morbius dominated Tumblr from June onwards, with everyone going bonkers with Morb-based puns, jokes about the film’s most ridiculous moments, and reblogging a single GIF somehow containing the entire movie that would crash your browser when it played on your dash..

The i love you x i love you y text post meme saw us to the end of the summer, and autumn came with the rise of the GOUGER. Or is it GOUGAR? Regardless, the strange but harmless creature took over everyone’s meme palette for a while, getting involved in increasingly silly scenarios. 

This free-for-all was interrupted by the death of Queen Elizabeth, an event that was solemn everywhere else. . But on Tumblr, of course, users swamped the dashboard with Queen Liz-related memes and commentary. And crabs. There were quite a lot of those.

Later, in September, the Try Guys saga unfolding on Twitter and YouTube filtered over to Tumblr in the form of the “lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship” meme, with Tumblr users casting various favorite co-worker ships in the roles of the controversial real-life pairing. 

And finally, closing out the year, the meme you’ve all been waiting for: the one and only Goncharov (1973). Just in case you’ve been living under a rock, Goncharov is a movie borne out of the magic combination of a misprinted shoe label and Tumblr’s fertile imagination. Thanks to a fake movie poster by user @beelzeebub, which gave names and faces to the characters, Tumblr ran absolutely wild, churning out analysis, fanart, and even fanfiction at an astounding rate. This was by far the meme to win 2022: it gained coverage all over the internet, including the freaking New York Times, and even Scorsese himself acknowledged it. You did that, Tumblr. Goncharov forever, all hail the power of the Tumblr meme!

[bucketsofmonsters]

Deep Water - Part 1

cw: the ocean, talk of being drowned, water inhalation, more tags to be added as the story continues

merman x fem reader

Word count: 3k

read on ao3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

You peeked out a small porthole, a rarity on this kind of ship. You couldn’t decide if you were grateful for it or not as your stomach churned looking out at choppy waters. 

You’d never been particularly comfortable with the ocean. It wasn’t that you disliked it, far from it. You just had a healthy fear of it. 

Right now, it felt like anyone who didn’t was a fool. 

As you looked down at swirling black water, swearing you saw something snake around just far enough under the surface that you couldn’t make it out, that fear felt very reasonable. 

It wasn’t only fear that consumed you when you looked out at that churning water. There was awe in there too, as you looked at the seemingly infinite abyss below you. 

But not enough awe that you wouldn’t keep yourself as far away from it as you could. 

But that was the problem. Fate had thrusted you right into deep waters and you’d had no choice in the matter. 

So there you were, stowed away on a transport ship, tucked amongst boxes of spices and herbs and expensive teas that you’d never get to try. 

At least your hidden little corner smelled good, some of the herbal scents escaping their carefully packed boxes. 

You sat back down behind them, trying to put the thought of the turbulent waters under a few thin layers of wood out of your mind as the waves rocked you back and forth at a sickening pace, never quite stabilizing enough to be able to fall into a rhythm, refusing to be tuned out or ignored. 

You pulled your shawl tighter around you, though it was no use. The chill of the ship had long since set itself into your bones. 

You closed your eyes and tried to tell if it was raining or if it was just the darkness of the night blanketing the ocean. The sounds of the waves roared above anything else. You decided it wasn’t, more for your own peace of mind than anything. You didn’t need water coming at you from any more directions.

As you sat, curled up on the floor trying to focus on anything other than the deafening crashing of the waves, a new sound caught your attention. The door creaked open and as footsteps approached you, you held your breath. 

They’d caught you on an exhale and sooner than you would’ve liked, you had to sneak a tiny breath of air. Nothing noticeable, surely. Not through the sounds of crashing water. 

And then the ship slammed to the side, a massive wave sending the ground tilting under your feet.

The boxes slid as the ship wretched and you went with them, slamming into the opposite wall of the ship.  

The sailor cursed as he pushed his way out from behind the boxes that had slid right into him. You scrambled to push yourself away, to obscure yourself in any way possible. You didn’t have time to stand but maybe you could hide yourself just far enough away in the dark that he wouldn’t see you. 

You weren’t fast enough. 

His hand snaked out to grab your leg, ending your desperate scramble to get away before it had even really begun. 

“No wonder we got stuck in this god-awful storm, found our bad luck charm right here.”

You kicked at him, trying to struggle, to get away, to run. But where was there to go? They knew you were here now, it was over. You were at their mercy. 

The pleading started as soon as it sunk in, desperate promises that you wouldn’t cause any trouble, that it was only a day until they docked, you could stay out of their way, they wouldn’t even notice you. 

Rain poured down on your face as you were dragged above deck. 

Part of you was aware of the talk that began to arise as the others caught sight of you. You couldn’t focus on anything other than getting away, trying with everything you had to run. 

Despite that, you were pulled closer and closer to the edge of the ship. The rain got saltier and through the dark and endless storm, you realized you were at the edge of the ship, briny water splashing over the sides and hitting you in the face. 

You doubled your attempts of escape as you looked down on the dark waters, not sure where you would go if you escaped but certain that anything was better than being pulled closer and closer to the inky waters. 

“This is your own fault,” one of them yelled over the storm, directed at you this time.

“Please,” you called out, “Please let me stay. I’ll do anything.”

It was an ill-advised promise, especially to make to a ship full of sailors, but you could not be thrown overboard. You’d even prefer one of them ending you here and now, with your feet still standing on the wood of the deck.

Anything but being thrown off, your lungs filling with the churning, black water below you. 

“You should have thought of that before you stowed away,” the man to your left said, with what sounded almost like a chuckle. You hoped you’d imagined it amongst the rest of the endless noise. 

It was hard to know exactly what was happening. The waves were roaring and you could hardly see or hear anything. 

One second your feet were thrashing, fighting to land a blow on any of the men near you, and the next you were underwater. If you thought gathering your bearings was hard on the ship, it was impossible down here. It must be nearby but you had no idea where the ship could be. You fought to stay afloat despite knowing exactly how this would end. There was nothing else to it now. You’d landed in your cold, wet grave. The waves forced you under again and again and no matter how you tried to time your breaths, you couldn’t escape the burn of the saltwater sneaking into your lungs. 

Just as you’d breached the surface again, attempting to cough up some water before heaving in another deadly breath, something yanked at your foot and you were pulled under the waves once more. Your scream was drowned out by the ocean, eyes fighting to open despite the sting of the seawater. 

As you opened your eyes, you realized it was calmer under the water. You were no longer trying to fight the wishes of the waves to pull you down and the ocean rewarded you with a moment of clarity. 

The rockiest part was near the surface, where the rain still beat down on the water. You were being pulled further and further away, so far down that the last rays of sun from behind the clouds could barely reach. 

You’d expected to see a shark or some other ocean creature as you’d felt that tug on your leg. Instead, you found a face staring back at yours. He looked curious, taking you in as you stared dumbfounded back at him. 

Before you had a chance to process what you were seeing, the man who’d just pulled you under the waves leaned forward and kissed you. It wasn’t a long kiss, ending before you even fully realized it began. 

He pulled away and your lungs began to burn, pleading for oxygen. You tried to swim up for air but he grabbed your arm and yanked you down again. Then you caught a glimpse of something below him, the limited light reflecting off of a shimmering tail.

You gasped in water, your lungs unable to hold out any longer. Instead of choking on the ocean water filling your chest, you felt like you were gasping in air. You knew it was water, the texture was different than the air was, but as you heaved in water, you discovered you could breathe. 

He was smirking at you, the smugness evident in his face. 

He let go of your arm, having proved his point and you stayed under, filling your lungs while glancing up at the rocky surface. 

Suddenly, you were being pulled along again, under the stormy water. You didn’t have the strength to fight him, letting him take you wherever he wanted. 

It wasn’t long before you were being pushed into shallow water. You could feel the sand barely a few feet under the water and eagerly moved towards dry land. 

You pulled yourself up onto the warm sand. The rain had disappeared entirely, the sun shining above you once more. You sucked in air, falling to your back as you basked in the warmth. Off in the distance, you could see the storm still swirling. You’d traveled much further than you’d thought. The feeling of the sun shining down on you was more than welcome and some wretched part of you hoped those sailors were still in that accursed storm. 

As soon as you got your first breath of oxygen, it was like your lungs remembered that water wasn't supposed to be inside of them. You started coughing up the salty water onto the shore, gasping like you’d been drowning the whole time and just hadn’t realized it yet. 

You saw your savior wince as you hacked up the seawater. “Sorry, didn’t know that would happen.”

You stared up at him incredulously as your breathing finally slowed. “Aren't sirens supposed to drown humans?”

His eyes narrowed at you above the water. “Aren’t humans supposed to be grateful when you save them?”

Fair enough. “Thank you. I don’t really understand why you saved me but thank you.”

You laid back on the sand, inevitably getting it in your hair but too exhausted to mind. The warmth was welcome after the freezing cold water. 

You took him in from your new vantage point, eyes darting instinctively to his tail. It was a pearlescent thing, the complex shimmering shifting above his white scales. Just above it was a set of gills that he kept below the water as he lay there, staring up at you on the shore. His face wasn’t unpleasant, something almost impish about it. A smattering of scales sat on his cheekbones right under eyes that were tinted orange. His hair was shaggy and pale, dragged down to his shoulders by the water that saturated it. 

“We do drown people sometimes,” he said quietly, like he was working it out for himself and you just happened to be overhearing it. “I was planning on going after your ship but it didn’t feel like a fair fight after they threw you off like that.” 

“Humans didn’t want me, sirens didn’t even want to drown me.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I can… I can drown you if you want?” he said, mouth barely above the water as he spoke. 

“Maybe some other time. Where even are we?” you asked, looking around at the small patch of sand. It was a relatively barren little island, a few rocky tidepools on the other side of it the most exciting thing present on the small stretch of land.

“Just a little island nearby. I figured you’d want to get some rest before I took you anywhere. Why’d they throw you overboard anyway?”

“I was a stowaway,” you explained. “I needed to get somewhere and didn’t have any other way to travel. They found me mid storm and women are bad luck so off I went.”

“I can take you there if you want. Where the ship was going, I mean. I know all their routes. I won’t even drown you.”

Who would have guessed that the sailors would try to drown you and then you’d have a siren promising to bring you ashore? It was like the world had turned upside down. 

“Thank you so much,” you said, hoping it could both convey your gratitude and keep him on your good side long enough to successfully get you to your destination.

“Also, we should wait until night, I’ll take you back then okay?” He sounded very insistent, despite you having no idea why. 

You were honestly worried you might freeze to death if you left at night. “How about in the morning?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He waited eagerly, watching the sun set. It was refreshing, being able to see it clearly after locking yourself below deck for so long. When it finally dipped below the horizon, he turned to you. “Watch this.” 

His tail flicked excitedly behind him, a light glow starting to reflect off of the scales on his bottom half. 

As he ran his hands quickly through the water, you were able to make it out better. The water lit up a light blue as he moved. 

You couldn’t help the smile that crossed your face, your eyes going wide with wonder. “Oh my god, that’s incredible.”

“Isn’t it? It’s why I like this island so much, it’s so strong here. It’s a bunch of tiny plants in the water that are glowing, I thought you’d like it.”

How could you not? You’d never seen anything like it in your life, it almost looked like the water was alight with a blue flame. 

You could feel your siren’s eyes on you as you moved your hand back and forth in the water. 

“Are you less sad now?” he asked and your movement slowed at his question. 

“What?”

“You were upset, did I fix it?”

Was that what he was trying to do? “Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “Not often I get to talk to you guys, our encounters are usually less pleasant than this. We’re kind of similar, you know. Sailors don’t like me either.”

“Small world.”

Eventually, you abandoned the glowing water, as amazing as it was, in an attempt to rest. You knew you needed to get some sleep. You were exhausted but it was cold and you never fully dried off and you were absolutely miserable. You heard a shuffling in the sand and then a warm hand touched your side. You didn’t know how his body regulated his temperature so well in the cold water. His arms were open, a clear invitation to nestle into him

You hesitated and he spoke. “You seem like you could use the warmth.”

You moved towards him, head settling on his chest as his arms wrapped around you.

“I thought fish were cold-blooded,” you said as his arms rubbed up and down yours, immediately sending a wave of heat through you.

“I’m only half fish.”

“Is that how you can breathe out here?” you asked, looking at the trail he left in the sand as he dragged himself ashore.

He murmured in the affirmative, leaning back to make sure you could comfortably lie down against him. He was right, his body heat did help. There was also something comforting about leaning against him, his arms wrapped around you protectively. 

You drifted off faster than you would have thought possible while soaking wet and cuddled up with a fish man. 

When you woke up, you glanced at the boy next to you. He really did look silly on the land like this, flopped over on his side. As you took him in, you stared at his gills right over where you assumed his ribs would be. You knew what he had told you last night but he looked too peaceful and still. You quickly nudged him awake, wanting to make sure he was alright out of the water like this.

He rubbed his eyes, moving slightly in the sand in an attempt to get a good look at you. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”

“Mmhmm, still breathing, can I go back to sleep now?”

He tried to roll over, tail flopping helplessly behind him, and you nudged him again. “Don’t we need to leave?”

He squinted up at your face, which you knew was creased with worry, and his demeanor softened. “Yeah, let’s get you home.”

You didn’t bother to correct him about where you were going, instead helping him back into the water. He pulled you in after him, looking back at you as he did, clearly deep in thought.

“You know how I kissed you yesterday?” he finally asked. 

“To make me breathe underwater? Yeah, I do.”

“It would be much easier to transport you if you could breathe underwater again.”

It was the most roundabout way anyone had ever asked to kiss you before, that was for sure. 

He seemed nervous about it so instead of letting him dwell on it, you just kissed him. You hoped there were no other rules to the kiss you needed to follow but your siren didn’t seem to mind, instead leaning into it. It was kind of nice, being the one to surprise him this time. 

You knew the kiss didn’t have to be long, the one from the day before had barely lasted a moment, and yet you lingered. His hand hesitantly rose to cup your cheek, his touch featherlight. He wasn’t holding you there but his touch begged you to stay just a second longer. 

He looked almost frightened when you pulled away, eyes wide and hand still outstretched. 

“Will that work?” you asked.

He cleared his throat, still looking dazed. “Yeah, that should be fine. Come on.”

Even knowing that you’d be fine and you’d be able to breathe, it took forever to will yourself to inhale after he pulled you into the water, waiting until the last second before you passed out, when your body forced breathing on you. 

The journey felt much faster than it should have been. You couldn’t have been zooming through the water for more than an hour when you were being pulled to the surface once more, your feet extending to find rocks beneath you. 

You turned and your eyes met the shore, the dock looming above you. You guessed you’d probably beat the ship here. Who knows if they’d made it at all, maybe the storm had taken them out. Part of you hoped it had. 

He grinned up at you as you stood, still lying below you in the water. “This is your stop.”

You had no idea how to thank him. What did one even say to someone who had just saved your life? 

“Thank you,” you managed. “If you ever need anything…”

If he ever needed anything what? You couldn’t imagine he’d have a particularly easy time finding you. 

He seemed to understand your meaning anyway. “I’ll be sure to ask. And if you ever change your mind on the drowning thing, let me know.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Will do.”

You settled on the shore, the rocks shifting beneath you as you sat, and you watched your siren swim off, one last shimmer of pale scales flashing before he disappeared into the waves.

[demonic0angel]

Celestial Bodies AU (part 4/?)

(Part one, part two, part three. Also on AO3)

Dick paused, tilting his head.

He was on a spacecraft near Tamaran, watching his star through a live feed on his tablet. His friends sat around him, some watching the cluster alongside him over his shoulder. Kory was behind him, encasing him in her arms.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

Dick frowned. “I don’t know. Something is really, really wrong.”

Kory grew quiet again, listening to the song of the stars. It was loud and fast paced, almost frantic. Behind the song, if Dick concentrated enough, he could also hear… screaming.

He almost didn’t know if it was real or not, but it had gone on for a few hours, so he wasn’t sure.

The song covering it was almost like that of a mother singing a lullaby to quickly comfort their child. The stars seemed frantic as they sang, but visually, they didn’t look any different from usual.

His star and all of the others were slow today. They seemed to be circling their sister, the quasar, who looked smaller than usual as well.

Most of the time, her enormous size almost dwarfed her siblings. Her rings of light were so wide that she made her baby siblings look like marbles and even his own star occasionally struggled to be noticed within her glow.

But now, she was still and her size seemed small, even small compared to the protostar. Her accretion disks were pale and her jet was thin and weak.

Was she the one screaming?

But why?

Dick mumbled to himself in confusion, "What's going on—?"

Light flashed across the screen and then she went supernova.

The shockwaves impacted the spacecraft hard, hard enough that the camera shook and blurred the view. The ship rocked and creaked with a screeching noise so loudly that it could be heard through the screen.

For a moment, Dick was excited as he perked up and waited for the dust to settle so he could see into the cluster.

But his stomach dropped when he looked out the camera again and saw nothing but only three stars in various forms of their lives.

No, surely, his eyes were wrong.

One, two, three.

Where was the quasar?

He futilely tilted the screen, as if it would somehow change the perspective of the camera and reveal the quasar hiding behind her siblings.

"No... no! No, no, no! Why is there only three?! Where did she go?!"

"Dick! What has happened? What does that mean?" Kory asked as the Teen Titans crowded around him. Even the others who had been distracted doing something else turned to look at him. The ones close to him all surrounded him with reassuring and comforting presences, trying to calm him down as Dick descended into hysterics.

Dick hurriedly pressed on the buttons, trying to change the camera, get different perspectives, hopefully see something new and not what he was beginning to realize was true. He hoped and prayed that maybe the quasar had turned into something else. A small star, maybe a dwarf.

Anything.

Anything but gone.

“No, no, no! Did any of you see anything?!” He turned to his teammates, who stared at him with horror and worry.

Raven said slowly, “No. We didn’t see anything except for the quasar going supernova.”

“That quasar was Jason’s! And both of our stars are linked to us— when I became Nightwing, my star also went supernova when I grew up. But Jason’s star is gone!” When he saw that his teammates didn’t seem to comprehend what he was saying, he said, “Our stars are connected to us. If the quasar is gone, then that means that…!”

He didn’t want to say it.

His teammates’ eyes widened. They were slowly beginning to understand.

Kory covered her mouth. “Dick…! What does this mean? Are you suggesting that—?”

Vic stood up hurriedly. “I’ll go to the computer, and look into it right now.”

Garth quickly hurried to follow Vic to the main computer while Dick crumpled to his knees with a sob. Kory caught him and the two of them fell onto the floor as she hugged him securely. He clutched back at her just as desperately, but his eyes could not help but look at the camera feed again, where the galaxy had frozen in place.

He didn’t know why they weren’t moving, perhaps a mixture of shock and grief? Maybe some sort of astrophysics reason, since the quasar’s gravitational pull was the one who was mainly holding the little galaxy together when Dick’s star changed. Maybe some weird way of star mourning. Maybe it was nothing, and Dick was going crazy because surely, surely, his little brother was not dead.

His little brother who he had not appreciated enough.

He clutched his eyes shut and forcefully turned away from the Phantom Cluster to bury his face into Kory’s neck. He felt other hands on his shoulders and arms and back, just comforting presences and sources of warmth.

He barely held back from tearing up, praying that Vic would come back with better news. That maybe there was a misunderstanding.

Anything.

Footsteps skittered into the room and everyone looked up.

Garth stared at them with wide eyes. He visibly gulped and then looked at Dick as his blood ran cold.

“I’m sorry.”

Jason Todd, the second Robin, was dead.

————

It took Dick a week before he could go back home. Every day, he just stared at the stars, at the little galaxy where his star sat in silence. There was no more singing, no more chatter, nothing that showed that the stars and planets that inhabited that strange galaxy were sentient besides their still positions in space.

Kory held him every night as Dick mourned for a little brother he did not really know.

And every day, he waited for a call from Batman. A notification, a message, a fucking telepathic signal, anything.

Nothing came.

Dick’s panicking and crying faded by the fourth day and he grew wane from the lack of communication between him and Bruce. For a moment, he almost wanted to go back to Earth straight away just to tear Bruce a new one, but his duties kept him away.

He checked on the camera feed of his star, but it showed nothing. Like him, the stars seemed to also cry for their lost sibling.

Inwardly, Dick was immensely guilty for how grateful he felt for the fact that the quasar also died, uniting him and his star in grief. He wished that the emotions inside of him couldn’t be known by his star, but he had seen what had happened when bad people had met the cluster, and he knew that they were probably aware of his feelings.

He was also grateful that his star did not abandon him despite his inner ugliness.

When he got back, he was met with Danny’s callous and cold remarks about Jason’s death. He had promptly thrown him out and then visited Jason’s grave.

Jason Todd

Rest In Peace.

A cold, emotionless, apathetic tombstone. There was nothing else, no anecdote, no notes, nothing. Dick drew comfort from Kory again and then he went to hunt down Bruce.

That didn’t go well either.

Months passed.

The hurt did not ease and every waking moment when he could, Dick spent at least a few minutes with his star. They were still silent, but as time passed, the cluster began to move again, around and around an empty space that was clearly meant for their sister.

Oh, how strange it was to see stars mourn and grieve just like how humans did.

(Sometimes, they were still so human-like that it was terrifying.)

Dick sat with his star in the control room, watching the celestial bodies whirl around in space in subdued, quiet circles. The singing did not start again, but it was okay. Sometimes, his star spoke to him when he got too worried.

At other times, the one who spoke to him was the King of the cluster, the neutron star who protected his cluster with his remaining light even while he was only a star corpse, that fed his siblings with his supernova remnants, the one who was a hero, just like Robin, when he was still alive and human.

The interstellar medium left behind by their quasar sister was ignored, floating in space in purple, pink, red, and blue hues.

Dick wondered if Robin was reborn as a star somewhere out there.

But then thinking of his star and this cluster, it probably wasn't likely.

They were extremely possessive. If Jason was reborn as a star, he would've been collected and brought here.

(But that meant he was truly gone forever.)

Dick felt like the grief would never disappear.

But just like these stars, the world kept moving.

A boy forced Bruce to take him on as Robin. To help him with his grief. To help him save Gotham. To help him become his best and truest version of Batman again.

Dick disagreed but he knew that the kid wouldn't be obedient. He stepped in to help Bruce train him, so another child wouldn't be sacrificed to Batman's cause.

Dick couldn't have another death on his hands. In order to make things right, he had to train him.

How many more children would be picked up and trained and discarded like him?

(Like Jason?)

How many until Bruce had enough?

Dick was back in the space station again. The cluster was a little more energetic today. His star was spinning around the empty spot again, with his brother and sister following them. The two larger planets, the ones that were considered part of the family of stars, were also excitedly spinning around the stars.

Dick tapped the glass. "My star? What's going on today?"

There was only a crackling silence. It was almost eerie without the singing, but Dick had gotten used to it.

Suddenly, the nebula that had been left behind began to converge.

Dick froze as he watched the glittering star material contort and bend into one spot. There was a small flash of light, then several, and then a burst of sparks appeared before a black mass was formed in the middle of the empty space. It was relatively small at first, but then it grew until it was bigger than the neutron star and protostar, only dwarfed by Dick’s own star.

All of the astronomical objects then began to spin with wild energy. The neutron star himself spun into a pulsar, casting rays of cold electromagnetic energy every time the light passed through the windows.

Dick's jaw dropped as he stared out the window in slow-growing recognition as the black mass stayed still and quiet, as if asleep.

Both Dick and his star spoke up at the same time then, one with relieved happiness and the other with shocked disbelief.

"She's back."

"He's alive!"

|||||||||||||||||||||||

Me: Ah yes my wholesome space themed series

Also me: *kills Jason and Jazz*

Was looking up what Dick’s reaction was to Jason’s death and why did I discover a character named Danny Chase who becomes someone named Phantasm… 🤨 he was such a little asshole too jfc. Also! Please suspend your disbelief on how Dick finds out so fast (since Batman wouldn’t have been able to put it in the computer that fast). Time and computer works differently in space… or something

I almost left this as a fic with Dick mourning for Jason, but I decided to make it a somewhat happy ending with Jazz coming back as well.

You also might have noticed that I use the word “cluster” now instead of “galaxy” and that’s bc I always refer to Danny’s star cluster as “little” and clusters are smaller versions of galaxies.

I’m learning as I go 😭

The Robins and Phantoms are in a codependent and mutualistic relationship. Usually, whatever happens to the Robins will also affect the stars they bonded with, but the reverse won’t happen bc the Phantoms are extremely protective of them and (also extremely protected by Clockwork). I’m doing as much research as I can in order to make the DCU characters’ lives accurate.

I can't wait for Damian to arrive, I want to get into Sam and her planet already

[hamliet]

Excited for your thoughts on the bnha ending

Also I’ll be honest I dropped this like 200 chs ago and I’ve just kept up through your metas because I was so disillusioned with the manga 🥲 I even sold my copies

it's a bit bittersweet to see bnha handled this way. sometimes i think we'll get a promising continuation from the author which is major cope for me T.T

fix its are otw but damn it doesn't mend that it ended this way rn

Diff asks, answering together.

Not saying too much because there's not much to be said besides that a friend who wrote a meta who won't post it (to all our detriment!) said it best last week: this story is cowardly. It's afraid to say or do anything because it wants to make everyone happy and realized it can't, so now it just wants to make no one upset, but everyone's upset.

I feel sad for Horikoshi. His recent interviews are quite depressing, and he seems burned out and done with his own manga in a way that makes Gege look enthusiastic about JJK.

Like, he doesn't confirm Touya dead or alive--which frankly I will take--but leaves it up to the reader to decide. Is the doctor's word final, or is Touya crying a symbol of healing since he previously couldn't? I know which one I choose to believe, but this way people can choose to fit the manga into their personal beliefs. He's trying to say nothing to avoid rocking the boat. And that's just sad, especially when we consider what likely contributed to that.

Which is to say, on a purely story level, the story has no power. There's being open to other perspectives and then there's not having a message. This is sadly the latter. It's a mess. Deku "heroes save" doesn't save, but he's still heroic, but that line isn't demolished or destroyed. AFO may be dead, but he won in the end because what he used to taunt Deku came true. Deku's character is nothing more than a vehicle--no struggle, no emotional climax, no principles. The ships are not even confirmed because the story can't even commit to the obvious Ochaco/Deku (which I dislike even!) for fear of angering other loud shippers. Society is the problem, but also the answer. The hero system is the problem, but also the answer. It's not a paradox because it doesn't explain the layers at play here. It's just noodles that have cooked far too long and turned into a congealed mess.

The only message I can take from it is "yay authoritarianism" which I'm going to hope Horikoshi is saying accidentally (and most likely is). It's as meaningless as GoT season 8, and TROS, and that's not good company to be in.

[seafarersdream]

Unscripted (Fabien Frankel x Y/N)

Actress Y/N L/N, who stars as one of Alicent’s children, and Fabien Frankel, the notorious Ser Criston Cole, show exactly why they’ve become the fan favorites.

TW // Strong language and profanities, sexual innuendos.

The studio was alive with anticipation as the lights dimmed and the familiar jingle of The Late Late Show with James Corden played.

The audience clapped and cheered, excitement bubbling in the air. James Corden walked onto the stage with his signature wide grin, waving to the audience before taking his spot behind the desk. “Alright, alright, settle down folks!” James said with a laugh, raising his hands to quiet the audience. “We’ve got an incredible show for you tonight. Now, unless you’ve been living under a rock, you probably know that the second season of House of the Dragon is just around the corner, and let me tell you, the internet is losing its collective mind over these next two guests.”

The crowd’s cheers grew even louder as James continued. “They’ve become the newest darlings of the internet, the power duo everyone’s talking about. Please welcome, the brilliant Y/N L/N and the charming Fabien Frankel!”

The applause reached a fever pitch as Y/N and Fabien walked out onto the stage, waving and smiling at the audience. They exchanged a quick glance, already feeding off each other’s energy, before taking their seats on the couch beside James.

James leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Welcome, welcome! You two are everywhere right now. How does it feel to be the internet’s newest obsession?”

Y/N chuckled, sharing a playful look with Fabien. “Honestly, it’s a bit surreal. One minute we’re just doing our jobs, and the next, there are memes, fan edits, and people shipping us like crazy.”

Fabien nodded, grinning. “Yeah, and some of those fan theories… I mean, they’re really out there, but I kind of love it. The internet is an incredible place, full of very imaginative people.”

James leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together, clearly enjoying the vibe. “So, Fabien, Y/N,” He began, “you’ve both mentioned how much you enjoy interacting with the fans. But let’s be honest, do you ever really lurk around the internet, you know, just to see what people are saying about you?”

Y/N's lips curved into a knowing smile as she nudged Fabien, who was already trying to suppress a grin.

Fabien raised his hand, a little too eagerly. “Oh, absolutely. I’ll confess right here, right now—I’ve got a burner account. Actually, I’ve got multiple burner accounts.”

The audience erupted with shocked murmurs, and even James looked momentarily stunned. “Wait, wait, wait—are you serious? You’ve got burner accounts to sleuth around the internet?”

Fabien nodded, clearly delighted by the reaction. “Oh, yeah. I’m like a ghost in the comments section. I leave little breadcrumbs, drop some hints here and there. Sometimes I’ll just throw in some wild theories to see if anyone bites. It’s my guilty pleasure.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head fondly. “He’s not lying. There was this one time he spent an entire afternoon on Twitter, hyping up a completely fake spoiler about our show just to see if it would trend.”

James was hunched over with laughter at this point. “This is incredible! So, what kind of comments are you leaving? Are you out there defending yourself, correcting people, or just stirring the pot?”

“Honestly, a bit of everything,” Fabien admitted with a satisfied smirk. “I’ll defend myself when I need to—like when someone said Criston Cole didn’t deserve to have his head intact. But mostly, I’m just there to mess with people.”

James wiped away tears of laughter, his eyes wide with delight. “You are absolutely diabolical, Fabien! I can’t believe I’m just hearing about this now. Have you ever accidentally exposed yourself, like, has anyone figured it out?”

Fabien shook his head, though his grin suggested he enjoyed the close calls. “Not yet. I’m very careful. But if someone ever does figure it out, I’ll probably just deny everything.”

Y/N interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, ‘careful’ is definitely not the word I’d use. He’s this close to getting caught every other day. I keep telling him he’s going to slip up eventually.”

The audience couldn’t get enough, roaring with laughter while James, still chuckling, clapped his hands together. “Right, this has been brilliant! But, of course, the fans also want more answers. They want to know everything—behind-the-scenes secrets, your personal lives… Shall we give them what they want?”

Y/N smirked, her playful side coming out. “Oh, we can give them something, but I’m not sure they’re ready for everything.”

Fabien leaned closer to the camera, adopting a dramatic whisper. “Careful what you wish for, folks.”

The audience chortled, and James shook his head in mock exasperation. “Well, since we’re all in such a good mood, I think it’s time to up the stakes. What do you say we play a little game? How about a round of Spill Your Guts or Fill Your Guts?”

Everyone cheered their approval, and Y/N and Fabien pumped their fists in the air. “Bring it on!” Y/N declared, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Alright then!” James said, clapping his hands as the crew wheeled out a table covered with an array of truly disgusting things that barely passed as foods. From bull’s penis to bird saliva, the table was a nightmare. And don’t even mention the smells. Horrid. Y/N and Fabien both grimaced, but the challenge only seemed to fuel their competitive spirits.

James explained the rules with an evil grin. “We’ll take turns asking each other very personal questions. If you don’t want to answer, you have to eat one of these delightful delicacies laid out in front of you. Simple enough?”

Fabien eyed the spread with a mix of curiosity and mild horror. “I already regret coming on this show.”

Y/N laughed, clearly enjoying Fabien’s discomfort. “Oh, come on, it’s just a bit of fun… or pure torture. Same difference.”

James started off, picking up a card with a wicked smile. “Y/N, we’ll start with you. Which of your House of the Dragon co-stars is the biggest diva on set?”

Y/N’s eyes widened, a nervous laugh escaping her. “Oh no, you’re really trying to get me into trouble here, aren’t you?”

James wiggled his eyebrows, holding up a plate of beetle jelly. “Well, you could always try this lovely treat instead.”

Y/N grimaced, glancing at the plate before shaking her head. “You know what? I’m just going to say it… Matt Smith. But only because he insists on having his tea just the right way, and if it’s not perfect, he sends it back!”

The audience roared with laughter, and James looked positively delighted. “Matt Smith, the tea diva! Who knew?”

James nodded appreciatively. “Okay, so Y/N’s not backing down. Fabien, let’s see if you’re as brave. What’s the juiciest piece of gossip you’ve ever heard about a co-star?”

Fabien raised an eyebrow, glancing at the plate in front of him. It was filled with some unidentifiable, gelatinous blob that looked like it might have once been alive. He hesitated for a moment, the audience holding their breath, before he sighed and reached for the fork. “You know what? I think I’ll just eat this… whatever it is.”

The crowd groaned in disappointment as Fabien took a cautious bite, his face contorting in disgust. “Oh, that is vile,” he muttered, barely managing to swallow.

James laughed, clearly chuffed by Fabien’s reaction. “Oh, you’re going to regret that later! Alright, let’s keep this going. Y/N, who’s your celebrity crush?”

Y/N flashed a sly grin, completely unfazed. “Fabien already knows this—I’ve had the biggest crush on Mads Mikkelsen for as long as I can remember. Zero shame here,” she declared, raising her hands in playful surrender.

Fabien nodded sagely. “Understandable. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s Mads Mikkelsen we’re talking about.”

James smirked, turning the tables on Fabien. “Alright, Fabien, since you love a good bit of gossip… Who’s the worst kisser you’ve ever worked with?”

The crowd ooohed in anticipation, and Fabien’s eyes widened slightly. He glanced at the plate in front of him—this time, it was a glass of clam juice. He sighed, clearly torn, before finally muttering, “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not end my career tonight.”

Fabien then downed the clam juice as if he is taking a shot, his face scrunching up in pure disgust. “That’s… that’s really something,” he choked out, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

James was in his element, loving every minute of the chaos. “Oh, this is too good. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

The game continued with more outrageous questions and even more disgusting foods. Y/N held her own, answering questions with wit and humor, while Fabien’s love for gossip almost got the best of him several times—though he managed to dodge some of the more damning questions by bravely (or foolishly) sampling the revolting dishes.

Finally, James delivered the knockout punch—a question so juicy that even Fabien, with all his gossip-loving tendencies, knew he couldn’t answer it. “Fabien, have you ever had a romantic relationship with one of your House of the Dragon co-stars?”

The crowd gasped, leaning in closer, and even Y/N’s eyes widened as she glanced at Fabien. The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing every flicker of emotion as he considered his options. After a long, tense pause, Fabien shook his head, smiling ruefully.

“James, I’m not going to give you that satisfaction,” he said, reaching for the plate in front of him. It was a stomach-turning concoction of pig’s blood and fermented tofu. He grimaced as he brought it to his lips, the audience groans and visibly shudders as he took the plunge.

Fabien swallowed the foul mixture, his face is a bit green now, before slamming the cup back on the table. “That… was a mistake,” he gasped, earning a round of applause from the audience.

James was doubled over, barely holding it together as genuine tears of laughter streamed down his face. “Well, Fabien, I think you’ve earned yourself a spot in the ‘Spill Your Guts’ Hall of Fame. This was absolutely brilliant.”

Y/N leaned over as she patted Fabien on the back. “You’re a better man than me. I’d have cracked.”

Fabien shook his head, finally managing to swallow. “I think I just did. That was the worst decision of my life.”

Y/N and Fabien collapsed back into their chairs, sharing a triumphant yet slightly delirious high-five, both still reeling from the culinary horrors they had just endured. Fabien was barely holding it together, his face a mix of pride and regret, while Y/N was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

“Honestly,” Y/N gasped, “I think we’ve just signed ourselves up for a week of bed rest and a diet of nothing but bland toast and water. Our bodies are probably planning a revolt as we speak.”

Fabien nodded, still trying to scrape the taste of whatever monstrosity he’d just eaten off his tongue. “If I don’t end up with food poisoning after this, it’ll be a miracle. I can already feel my stomach sending out SOS signals.”

James slapped the table repeatedly, trying to catch his breath. “Well, I hope you two have plenty of detox plans, because after tonight, I’m pretty sure your bodies will never forgive you!”

Y/N wiped the sweat that has trickled down the side of her face, nodding in agreement. “I’m going to need a cleanse, a prayer, and probably an exorcism after this.”

Fabien slumped back in his chair, looking over at Y/N with a half-serious expression. “If we survive this, we’re never doing this show again. I think my taste buds are filing for divorce.”

James finally wraps up the segment. “Well folks, I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve just witnessed the bravest—or maybe the most foolish—duo in late-night history. Let’s give it up for Y/N and Fabien, who are probably going to be recovering from this for the next decade!”

The audience roared with applause, and Y/N and Fabien, still laughing through the pain, waved to the crowd, knowing full well they’d be regretting every bite once the cameras stopped rolling.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

Y/N had never been one for the spotlight outside of her acting career, especially not on social media. Her TikTok account was mostly where she reposted fan edits, clips from House of the Dragon, and the occasional behind-the-scenes moment that her fans seemed to devour with endless enthusiasm.

But something had changed recently. Maybe it was the thrill of the show’s success, or perhaps it was Fabien’s relentless teasing about her being a “social media ghost” compared to other Gen Z stars. Whatever it was, she decided it was time for her first proper post.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch in her cozy London flat, Y/N set up her phone on the coffee table, propping it up with a stack of books to get the angle just right. She tapped into TikTok and scrolled through the various trends until she landed on one that had been making the rounds lately: the Hi kids, this is your mother trend, where people documented their current lives as a kind of digital time capsule for their future children. It was sweet, a bit nostalgic, and seemed harmless enough.

With a deep breath and a quick fluff of her hair, she hit record.

“Hi kids, this is your mother!” she began, her voice soft and slightly hesitant. “I’m recording this to give you a little glimpse into what my life was like before you were born. It’s 2024, and I’m currently starring as Princess Daenaera Targaryen on House of the Dragon. It’s a bit surreal, really, playing a character so different from who I am in real life.”

She paused, glancing around the room, trying to think of what else to say. “I’m in London right now, and this is my flat. It’s not much, but it’s home. I spend most of my time here, reading scripts, watching movies, and sometimes even attempting to cook. I’m still terrible at it, by the way.”

Y/N chuckled at her own self-deprecation, her smile genuine and warm. “I don’t know if you’ll end up seeing this, or if TikTok will even exist by the time you’re watching it, but I thought it would be fun to document this moment in time. Who knows what the future holds?”

She was about to wrap up the video when, out of nowhere, Fabien appeared behind her, his face suddenly filling the screen. “Hi kids, this is your father,” he said with a wide grin, throwing a casual arm around her shoulders.

Y/N gasped in surprise, her eyes widening as she turned to look at him, completely caught off guard. “Fabien! What are you doing?” she exclaimed, though she couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled up in her throat.

Fabien's sudden appearance had completely derailed Y/N’s carefully planned TikTok, but the impish grin on his face told her that he was thoroughly enjoying every second of it. Her initial shock melted into laughter.

“You absolute menace!” she managed between giggles, trying and failing to push him out of the frame. Fabien, of course, wasn’t going anywhere. He plopped down next to her, still beaming as if he’d just pulled off the prank of the century.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “You know this video needed a bit of excitement. Imagine our future kids watching this and thinking, ‘Wow, Mum was a bit dull before Dad showed up.’”

Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. Fabien took full advantage, leaning into the camera and continuing his monologue.

“Listen up, kids,” he began in an exaggerated, serious tone, “this is the flat where your mum and dad first started dating. That’s right, you heard me—dating! It’s where we had our first fight over who’s worse at cooking—spoiler alert, it’s me—and where we binge-watched the entire Grey’s Anatomy series.”

Y/N’s laughter reached a new peak at that, her attempts to shut him up devolving into her grabbing a pillow and whacking him over the head with it. Fabien, undeterred, grabbed the pillow out of her hands and used it as a makeshift shield.

“And yes, kids,” he continued, voice muffled by the pillow he now held in front of his face, “this is also where I successfully defended myself against your mother’s violent tendencies. Never forget, I’m a survivor.”

“Oh, my God, you’re impossible!” Y/N cried out. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess from all the tussling, but she didn’t care. The camera was still rolling, capturing every crazed, unfiltered moment.

With a dramatic sigh, Fabien lowered the pillow and turned his attention back to the camera. “In all seriousness, kids, your mum’s amazing. She’s smart, funny, and way out of my league, and I still can’t believe she puts up with me.”

Y/N’s laughter softened into something more tender, and she glanced at Fabien, her heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it always did whenever he said something sweet. “You’re not so bad yourself, Frankel,” she said, nudging him with her elbow.

Fabien grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “See, kids? That’s the kind of love and affection you’ve got to look forward to.”

At this point, Y/N realized that what had started as a simple TikTok trend had morphed into something else—possibly an accidental relationship announcement to the world.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” she murmured, half to herself.

Fabien chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. “Neither can I, but it’s too late now. The world’s about to find out.”

Y/N sat up, composing herself just enough to address the camera one last time. “So, yeah… I guess this is how we’re telling you all that we’re dating. Surprise?”

Fabien flashed the camera a peace sign and a cheeky grin. “Surprise! Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got to tackle the laundry mountain that’s threatening to take over our place. Priorities, right?”

With that, Y/N finally stopped the recording, her cheeks still aching from all the laughter. She turned to Fabien, who was watching her with that infuriatingly adorable smile of his.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” she said, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.

Fabien shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Hey, at least it wasn’t boring.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the affection in her gaze. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Fabien pulls her into his arms for a quick, playful kiss. “Now, let’s see how much chaos we can unleash on the world.”

Y/N hit post and not even a minute later, the notifications are piling up at an alarming rate. Comments were flooding in, ranging from shocked reactions to excited squeals to memes being born in real time.

————————————————————————

𝙊𝙈𝙁𝙂 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙔’𝙍𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂?! 𝙄 𝙆𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙄𝙏! 𝙄 𝙆𝙉𝙀𝙒 𝙄𝙏! 𝙈𝙔 𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙋 𝙄𝙎 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙇!!!

[𝙃𝙞 𝙠𝙞𝙙𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧] 𝙁𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙚𝙣 𝙁𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙚𝙡 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙗𝙞𝙜 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙡 💀💀💀

𝙁𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙, 𝙄’𝙢 𝙖 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙤𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙒𝙖𝙧 𝙄𝙄𝙄 𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙞𝙠𝙏𝙤𝙠

𝙍𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙤 🙋‍♂️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♂️

————————————————————————

“Wow, they really don’t waste any time, do they?” Y/N muttered, scrolling through the chaos. She looked up at Fabien, who was casually folding a pile of clothes as if they hadn’t just set the fandom on a rampage.

Fabien glanced over, grinning as he picked up his own phone. “Well, since we’re already in the middle of this, might as well show them how glamorous our lives really are.”

Without missing a beat, he snapped a quick selfie of the two of them, surrounded by piles of laundry. He captioned it, When you’re done breaking the internet but still have to tackle Mount Laundry. Then, with a satisfied smirk, he posted it to his Instagram story.

“There,” he said, holding up his phone to show Y/N the post. “Let’s see how they react to that.”

Y/N glanced at the screen and snorted. “Dork. You really just did that?”

“Of course,” Fabien replied, deadpan. “We’ve got to keep it real.”

“Honestly, they’re probably more impressed by the fact that we’re actually doing laundry on a Sunday,” Y/N joked, tossing a pair of socks at Fabien.

He caught them with a grin. “Just wait until they find out we actually sort the whites from the colors. Y’know mind-blowing stuff.”

As they continued sorting clothes, the laughter between them never faded.

[fen-luciel]

Baby fever 2

Here part 1

Another standalone story.

(C/n)= child name

Warning: breastfeeding

You, Qimir and a hungry baby.

I was worried. It was a feeling I hated experiencing, especially in my current physical condition, but I couldn't help it. I stood at the entrance of the cave with my arms crossed under my chest, using a crate as a chair, and wearing one of Qimir's ponchos to shield myself from the biting cold.

The evening hours were terrible because of the wind, and even worse when it poured like this. The sea was so rough that the largest waves nearly touched our ship near the rocks, yet in front of me, on the small stretch of beach that remained, Qimir seemed indifferent to everything.

He had long since removed his rain-soaked shirt, the wind tousling his hair that had escaped from the small ponytail he could manage. A continuous cloud rose from his lightsaber, where the water evaporated on contact with the heat. He continued to train tirelessly, he was probably sweating, although it was impossible to tell with the rain. The sky was dark with clouds, and the early evening hours came quickly during winter. I could barely see his silhouette illuminated in red by his lightsaber. I wanted to call out to him, but there was so much wind, and between that and the crashing waves, it was impossible to make myself heard. I hated seeing him like this, but as much as he denied it, he was angry.

I thought about getting up and trying to signal him when some gurgling interrupted my train of thought.

Turning, I noticed (c/n) waving their little fists in the air from his cradle, the blanket rising as he kicked erratically. I quickly stood up to reach him, not noticing that Qimir had stopped to watch me go back inside. Fortunately, the cave had been equipped with numerous heat lanterns to make the place more comfortable, at least around the cradle.

"My sweet baby, I'm here... mama's here" I cooed and gently picked him up, resting him on my chest. I wrapped the blanket around us to cover him as best as I could and then began to gently rock back and forth.

Everything about parenthood was still new to me. I struggled to understand what they wanted unless it was an obvious situation, but the diaper seemed dry, and his cry was fairly calm, so I was sure he was fine. The last thing we needed was for him to catch a cold, or worse, while we were in such a precarious situation.

I sat on the bed to take off the poncho and, as I laid him back on my chest, realization hit me when I saw him sucking on my shirt. "Of course" I whispered to myself in an irritated tone. Obviously, he was hungry, and I was just too stupid to realize it.

"You should stop being so hard on yourself, we're both stressed out" Qimir's sudden voice made me jump. (c/n) in my arms loudly protested at my movement, and I held back another curse at myself as I tried to distract him with soft, wet kisses on his cheeks.

Thankfully, at least this I knew he loved, and soon enough, they started gurgling happily. I heard Qimir chuckle as he approached us.

He stripped off his soaked clothes and left them near the heat sources, grabbed a towel, and began drying himself quickly. I stole a quick glance at his naked backside, but I held back from commenting, feeling uncomfortable with the idea of doing so in front of our child, even though it was obvious he wouldn't remember.

He slipped on a pair of soft night pants and, with the towel still on his head, took (c/n) into his arms, cooing at him, while I began to remove my shirt and bra.

"My sweet baby is hungry, aren't he?" he cooed, holding them up securely under his arms. "I bet you just want some of mama's breast, I understand, I'm obsessed with it too—"

"Qimir!" I interrupted him with a slight blush on my cheeks. "Stop saying those things." I moved to the head of the bed to lean my back against the wall, where the cushions gave me some relief. Qimir gently handed (c/n) back to me, and I nestled him in my arms close to my chest.

It was adorable to see him open his mouth like a little fish searching for the nipple. It always made me chuckle, and if he wasn't so hungry, I could have watched him for hours.

I moved the nipple, already leaking milk, close to his mouth. He sniffed the air quickly before latching onto the flesh like lightning. The sensation of breastfeeding was something I still had to get used to—the feeling of fullness in the breast that was being emptied and the wet grip of a newborn's mouth on sensitive skin was... peculiar. Certainly something quite different from the grip Qimir gave me anyway.

"Look at him, he takes after his father" he joked, watching us before leaning down on the bed. He gently pushed me forward as he slid between me and the cushions, his muscular arms tight beneath mine, lifting part of the burden of the weight from my arms.

"I don't think so, he doesn't bite" I whispered, feeling almost compelled not to raise my voice too much and break that moment of intimacy.

"As if you don't like it" he whispered in my ear with a husky tone, then moved to kiss the skin behind my ear languidly. The shivers made me tremble slightly as I half-closed my eyes.

"That's right, relax" the kisses moved to my neck.

"You're the one who should relax" the implication of that statement hanging over us.

"I'm fine. We'll be fine. We'll lay low here for a while, and when (c/n) is well-fed and safe for hyperspace travel, we'll go to a secure home." Another kiss on my neck.

"You just need to worry about our baby, I'll take care of the rest." He leaned in more to kiss me on the lips, his eyes half-closed before we separated. I sighed, more relaxed, as I lowered my gaze once more.

(C/n) was eating peacefully, eyes closed, a trickle of milk falling from the side of his mouth, and his little hand opening and closing against my chest. Qimir extended a hand over him, letting him grasp his pinky in a tight grip. We both couldn't help but smile.

At least for the moment, safe from the storm outside, I could pretend that we were all right.

[yeyinde]

SEA FEVER | Sailor!John Price x Reader

When he invited you to see his ship, half of it was—admittedly—a euphemism. A thinly veiled come-on. A facsimile of romance. Who wouldn't, after all, want to drift out to the open ocean, making love—or some sad version of it—under the stars on a clear night? And he thinks that might be fine. Maybe it's all you want from him, anyway—just a night. A moment. A memory to keep.  But John's always been greedy. The kind that wants, and wants. Once would never be enough, and he knows that if he sunk his teeth into you, a bite would never satiate his rapacious appetite, never quench the hunger.  And since he can't make a meal out of a morsel, he'd rather starve. 

tags: fluff, angst, unapologetic pining, obsession at first sight (but then love follows), blink and you'll miss it awful coping mechanisms (self-isolation, self-exile) and brief allusions to trauma (unresolved because this is about fucking the physical manifestation of the ocean, lads; it ain't about healing), egregious sea themes, a Newfie and his Newfie-isms, whirlwind romance; questionable sailing choices warnings: 18+ | allusions to smut but everything is brief and vague and more about the Feelings™ than the act, explicit male solo though but also very brief and about the Pining™. word count: 25k notes: unconventional leading man (haggard sea boy) romances local travesty (ambiguous, wishy-washy bartender) in a love affair no one asked for. That's what this is. Enjoy. 

*Suggestive themes are signified by a sailor's knot above the paragraph for those who want to read this, but don't care much for smut. SFW will begin with an anchor and wave divider above it. NSFW & SFW shown below:

—PRICE

The storm off the coast of Newfoundland is stronger than he'd anticipated. 

What starts as a bleak looking cloud on the horizon quickly churns the waters into a rough, sickly looking grey that rocks against his vessel without any respite. The cabin is in utter disarray within seconds of being battered by waves that seem to grow in size with each harrowing shade of charcoal blue the sky turns. 

A few warnings from local trawlers in the area, ones quickly turning into the nearby harbour, and a firm reprimand by the Canadian Coast Guard when he radioed back and asked if anchoring was a feasible option (oh, sure, b'y, the man said, his thick Maritime twang hiding none of his derisive scorn. If ye wan'na meet y'r mak'r, it's a safe place to capsize, luh. We'll risk our arses in the morn' when y'need savin', we do. If there's anythin' left of ya that needs savin', anyhoo), he's quick to follow their example. 

But, unfortunately, not quick enough. 

The sudden squall tears through his hull with a vengeance, ripping the sails from their perch with a gust of wind that seems determined to play chicken with the efficiency of his ballast tanks (a pyrrhic victory for Captain and her unquenchable bloodlust for trying herself on just how far she can list before rocketing back upright). He knows with full certainty, and innate experience traversing through the Gulf Stream when he was younger and much more foolish, that the damage is nearly catastrophic. Nearly, of course, because while it clipped his sails, he has engines to bring him back, limping, to the coast the Guard directs him to. 

"See there, y'er ten clicks away, b'y. Sending coordinates in a minute, now."

He's reminded of the warnings given by gnarled, old sailors who told him about the dangers of solo-sailing as he tries to be everything all at once to get his ship to the harbour they directed him to. Asking him, how can you be the captain, the navigator, and the watch all at the same time? When do you sleep? The answer, of course, is barely, but Price likes the freedom of being on his own. The isolation at sea isn't for everyone, but he takes to it with an ease that seems to defy all the gods of the ocean until he stands triumphant in his own domain, on his own ship. 

Until now, that is. 

Until he's battling with a handicap in the ocean. 

But somehow—luck, maybe—he limps his way to the port where he finds fishermen helping latch the vessels to the marina in the harbour. 

Shaded in a dreary grey, the port looks grimy and desolate from his cabin's porthole. A few wooden shacks on the beach are painted in faded primary colours and bear the quintessential marks of a seaside town—seashells, sailors knots (Carrick bend and Ashley stoppers), seahorses, and anchors. Without the dour grey of the downpour, he thinks it might be charming in a way. Quaint. There's a market to the west of him where stacks of lobster cages sit. Men in wellies and rubber dungarees shout orders amid the chaos of the storm, and he takes a moment to gather his things in a rucksack before he joins them on the deck. 

This late at night, there isn't much anyone can do but hunker down and hope for the best. The men point him in the direction of the closest inn—the only one, another jokes—and he tries not to think about how badly damaged Captain will be in the morning. His own stupidity, of course; he knew there was a storm coming but he underestimated how vicious it would be. 

With a nod of thanks, he sets off. 

Brushing against the Eastern coast of Canada was meant to just be a simple drive-by back to Liverpool. Barely a stop, really. Just a scenic route so he could spend his thirty-ninth birthday over the sunken wreck of the Titanic before continuing on the nearly week-long journey across the Atlantic. 

But instead, he celebrates it with a bottle of rum, and a ship on the verge of sinking—stuck, now, in Nova Scotia until he can find a mechanic to patch her up before he sets sail again. 

He sends a quick text to Soap about the delay—stuck in Canada, fuckin' hurricanes—and tries not to dwell on the sudden ease in his guts at the prospect of not going home anytime soon. 

(There are worse places he could be for his birthday, he thinks. Like Liverpool.)

The port he anchored his vessel to is a bottleneck between the last stretch of land for some hundreds of kilometres and the vast, ungiving ocean.

It isn't much to look at—just an empty boardwalk shaped like a horseshoe with most of the shops closed down for the season (or permanently, if the ramshackle state of them is anything to by), save for a grocer, an inn that takes up most of the middle section of the pier, a fisherman's village on the inlet with locals buying the wares from the lush waters filled to the brim with lobster and Atlantic salmon, a seafood restaurant, a cafe that moonlights as a pizza parlour in the evenings, and a pub—but it's enough for now. It's quaint, he thinks, even in its seasonal destitution. 

The buildings are all painted in faded primary colours that are washed out in the heavy rain that falls from some coastal hurricane just touching down in Labrador. 

It's one of those small seaside harbours that have seen better days. One with an economy wholly dependent on passing sailors just to survive, and he feels the despondency in the air like a thick, humid fog clinging to the skin of his neck. Fading signs. Peeling paint. There's damage to some of the buildings from a hurricane that must have swept through some several seasons ago, but the funds to repair are almost nonexistent, and so it sits. Festers. A broken reminder of how deadly the sea can be, even on land. 

The herringbone pier creaks under his weight as he walks the sandy trek from the marina beside the village to the inn (no vacancy, it reads, with middle letters flickering ominously), and he grapples with the unease that fills him at being on solid land for the first time in months. A strange, unshaky gait, as if the cartilage in his aching knees turned to liquid while he was at sea. 

It doesn't bother him too much—by the time he recalibrates to the weight of land pressing down on his soles, it'll be time to leave. 

Maybe. 

("It'll pass," the innkeeper sniffs when he asks about how long these things usually last. "Give 'er a week or so, and she'll blow right by. Might cause some floodin' in Halifax, but we're on the opposite end of 'er. Should be fine.")

It smells like rotten fish, blooming algae, and old frying oil—a typical thoroughfare for most of the harbours he's saddled up to in the years he's been traversing the open ocean. He breathes it in and finds himself already missing the potent loam that brims from the seawater at night. Salt, humus, brine, eelgrass; the ocean smells distinct in its rot. This, then, is a pale ersatz. 

He's been here for a short, few hours already, and still can't seem to adjust to life on land. To the smells, the sounds, the people—not that there's too many of them around here. Price would be surprised if this town's population was higher than three hundred. 

But it's stifling all the same. 

And cold. 

Being at the very tip of the Atlantic ocean, the weather is a near constant gloom. Grey, lacklustre skies smeared with thick, black clouds looming in the horizon like an omen. Salt-saturated air. It's a strange amalgamation between a chilling breeze from the sea and a dense wall of humidity even this late in September. It's uncomfortably thick under the veiled sun—a pale yellow hidden behind streaks of grey cloud cover. 

The best description for this little place is dreary. 

One he thinks might still be true even without the hurricane looming in the distance; a constant, inescapable chokehold within reach. 

In the interior of the small fishing village, people chatter aimlessly about everything except the hurricane (but he supposes that with the frequency of them happening, there isn't much else to say about them except, ah, fuck, again?). He finds a modicum of comfort in their strange twang—a mangled bastardisation of Irish, Scottish, and something unique to the barren, eastern coast of Canada. It almost feels like home, strangely. Like someone dropped him in the Canadian version of Cork, Ireland. 

The people he meets in passing as he drifts aimlessly between the shops, picking up something for dinner and a set of clean clothes, are friendly in an almost aggressive way. 

Then, of course, there's you. 

You weren't expected. A catastrophe in the making, one that he can see coming from a mile away. It's something he has a keen intuition for—being able to sense the kind of trouble that will make leaving harder than it has to be—and he knows better than to entertain this little fantasy, but there's something about you that makes him keep coming back. 

Maybe it's the booze you ply him with; top of the shelf despite adding it to his tab under a bottom barrel price tag. Or the fact that no one has been able to replicate the perfect whisky sour he had down in Barbados, but—goddamn—you come very close. 

Or maybe it's just exactly what it is:

Loneliness. Distraction. 

He's a man always on the move. One who hasn't kissed land in months. And you're—

Well. 

You're the prettiest thing he'd seen since a rainbow cast a glimmering ring on the horizon eighteen kilometres off the coast of the Philippines. 

He isn't old. Not in the way that matters, but the sea has a way of chipping people apart; ageing them in ways that land just can't replicate. He's not yet forty, but sometimes he wakes up after barely missing a brutal storm in the middle of the ocean, and he feels like he's almost sixty. Battered body, bruised and broken; sunscorched. Salt-weathered. 

You, though, make him feel his actual age. As if he's some young, dumb lad who ought to know better but doesn't care. Flippant in the way only the people in Liverpool can be. Young of heart. Dumb of mind. 

And fuck—

Thinking about that place, those goddamn idiots in the pub who didn't know what quiet meant, makes him realise just how much he misses it. Not home. Never home. Home is the sea. The ocean. Home is this little place between land. A wild, untamed beast. The place where, when he was eighteen and smitten, he threw his heart down to the bottom of that unending chasm of midnight blue. 

But you make him homesick, and he thinks he ought to resent you a little bit for it.

(He doesn't, of course; doesn't think he could ever hate you for making him feel even though he should because you make leaving harder than it's ever been, and he doesn't know what to do about that.)

It starts over a glass of whisky. 

He's no stranger to being the foreigner, the tourist. Price is a tall man with broad shoulders and a permanent smear of sunburn across the bridge of his nose, no matter the season. With his unkempt beard of wry umber curls, his deep timbre that sounds more like the battered engine of a classic, American muscle car, a sea-weathered gaze, and his penchant for a stiff drink and an unfiltered cigar, he has a tendency to stand out. 

(Or so he's been told.)

So, when you round the corner of the bar, brow ticking up in intrigue as he wanders in, sun-beaten and salt-slicked, he isn't surprised to hear you murmur:

"Not from around here, are you?"

Still. It makes him huff. "How'd you guess?"

Your other brow joins the first. "This town has a permanent population of maybe sixty people. I like to think I know every single one of them. You, however, I don't know."

"That so?"

You nod. "Yes, sir—"

And fuck. The way you speak, softly but with a rawness in your tone that's completely void of any false pleasantry, seems to notch somewhere in his ribcage, however dusted it is with barren white cobwebs.

"No. No sirs here," he finds himself saying, unprompted, and a little adrift from his usual character. He likes the importance that comes with being known as an authority figure; respected—the responsibility gives him something to do, and John has never really known how to be anything other than a leader, even when he shouldn't be. 

(Especially when he shouldn't be.)

"Then what should I call you, stranger?"

He shrugs one shoulder in a lofty reply, but doesn't give you his name. Not right away, anyway—he also thinks he likes the mystery of being a stranger in a strange land—but you don't press. Your hands lift, palms facing him, in a mockery of surrender. 

"Okay, stranger. What can I get for you?"

"Whisky," he says, a touch gruffer than he should be considering how nice you're being, but he's also never been the sort to care much about social niceties. "Neat. Bottle of spring water on the side."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you mouth the words back to yourself, a little smile clipping the corner of your lips. Bottle of water. It makes him huff again. 

"Good business to mock your guests, is it?" 

It's your turn to shrug. "Only when they don't give me their name."

You're quick in a way he doesn't expect. Snappy. Unpolished. But considering the way you walk around the bar, snatching up a bottle, and then a glass without even sparing a glance to see what's in your hands, it tells him you're familiar with this place. I know everyone, it screams. 

It's an inference—but he's always been rather good at those as well—that you've been here a while. Maybe this place is home to you. Maybe it has always been. 

Growing up in a dilapidated port town must have rubbed off on you in all the wrong ways. Waspish but still deferential to your elders. Quick with your words. Taking everything to the chin without a flinch. 

You grew up around sailors. Around men who can't seem to stand still on land long enough to call any place home. And he almost pities you for it. Almost. 

But he doesn't know you well enough to care. 

So, he doesn't. 

Motions, instead, to the cigar case he lays flat on the table after fishing it out of his front pocket with a small murmur to see if it's alright if he smokes inside. Places like these are so far behind on bylaws, he doubts anyone would blink if he smoked indoors, but it's better to be safe, he reasons, than to find himself on the curb nursing bloodied knuckles and a black eye. 

(One too many nights down in Manila taught him well enough.)

You nod, then look around the empty pub. "Go ahead. I don't think anyone here will mind."

It makes bark out something that sounds too shorn around the edges, too frayed and unevenly cut, to be a laugh, but it still makes your lips quiver, pulling up in a smile. 

"Glad you've got my back." 

He leaves it open. An empty space for you to fill in, give him your name. A proper introduction. 

Price isn't too surprised when you don't, and instead use two, well-practised fingers to slide his drink over to him, not spilling a drop. There's a flash of teeth. A mockery of a smile. 

And then: "drink up. First one is on the house."

"Well, aren't you charming."

"It's just good business," you quip with a little more teeth. "Gotta stay above the competition."

It pulls another bark from his chest. The second in less than ten minutes. He can't remember the last time he laughed this much, however lumpish and unrefined it might be. 

"It's working," he adds, tipping the glass in your direction. "Might come back for a round yet." 

"Just don't be a stranger." 

He should have been. 

Living a large majority of his life floating aimlessly in the vast expanse of the open sea has given him several insights into who he is as a person, as a man, and what makes him tick. The situations he was forced into, almost all of them being life or death, make him acutely aware of himself in a way that only those who have trust pushed past the limits of their mettle know. 

Price is good at spotting danger. Looming storms. Rogue waves. Reefs jutting out in the middle of the ocean.

And everything about you is dangerous.

He knows himself well enough to know that you're his kryptonite. His weakness. That those glossy eyes, your stubborn pride, your spitfire mouth, are all things pitted against him. All designed to make him suffer as much as possible. 

You're more dangerous than running out of fuel near Australia. Almost getting capsized off the coast of Sri Lanka. Surviving a sudden hurricane in the waters around Mexico. 

You—

You make him yearn. You make him want. 

You make him think about things he swore off of when he was eighteen and set sail around the world all on his own. 

For the first time since he left Liverpool in a boat he named Captain, Price thinks about home. Solid land beneath his feet. 

Dangerous, indeed. 

And despite everything warning him away, he goes back. 

Blames it on a litany of things—all half-truths that are only marginally easy to swallow. Things like: it's been ages since he had a stiff drink, and this is the only pub in some ten kilometres, or so. The only licence he cared enough to renew is his boating permit, and he isn't even sure if his driver's licence from Hereford is valid anymore. Never bothered much to check. 

He needs to get out, anyway. Has to find someone to fix the leak he'd sprung crossing the Labrador Strait. Needs to get more fuel. Enough to last him until he can get to Maine. 

And where else is he going to find anyone in this town to do all of that if not at the pub?

It's practical. A necessity. 

(And if he wears his nicest shirt that only barely smells sunbleached, then no one has to know.)

No one. Except you, that is. 

You wave to him in what's quickly becoming known as your usual greeting. A slight widening of your eyes, as if you're surprised to see him. Then a small quirk of your lips that always accompanies the briefest flash of teeth. If you're not busy making a drink, you lift your hand up, fingers loosely curled over your palm. A lazy wave. 

He echoes it all back with a sharp nod as he takes his seat at the bar. His usual, too, because despite having not been a marine since he was twenty-six, he still has the training he picked up ingrained in his marrow. Back to the corner. Exits in his periphery. 

(Old habits die hard, he thinks, and feels his heart leap to the base of his throat when you grin at him from over the counter, wide and infectious—)

He needs a smoke. A stiff drink.

There's an ashtray laid out on the table in front of him, a coaster with an empty glass. You're quick to rectify that, sidling up to his spot with a bottle of whisky tucked between your palm and thumb, a bottle of water secured in your grasp by just your pinky looped around the nozzle. 

"You should try my whisky sour," you murmur conversationally—like this is normal. Commonplace. 

It is in a way, he notes. But there's something much too domestic about the way you take him in. Fluffing pillows. Resting a cool hand against a warm forehead. Sweetness bleeds into his teeth, makes them ache. He needs to rinse it away before he gets a cavity. 

"Mm," he mumbles, fingers curling around the glass. The whisky is only slightly chilled—the way he mentioned he liked days ago—and he wonders if you took it out of the cool, let it sit on the shelf, waiting for him. He doesn't know how he feels about the idea of that. Of being waited for. Expected. "Not a fan of that nonsense."

Your head tilts to the side. Narrowed eyes reading him. Trying to sear through the layers that accumulated over the years, thick growths. Barnacles bunched around his body from stagnancy. He wonders what you think you see when you look at him. 

Wonders, then, why he cares so much about what the answer might be. 

John hides it all in a swallow. A gulp of whisky that never stops burning no matter how many times he washes his blues away with a swig of it. Lights a fire in his throat that catches and spreads through his chest, all the way down to his belly. Smoky. Ashes. He wheezes through the burn of it. Let it strip his insides, taking all the pollutants with it. The ones that build up whenever he catches sight of soft, coy smiles, and warm eyes. 

Dangerous if left unchecked. 

"You never know," you say, and he's already forgotten what you were talking about originally. Too many dips into the margins. Too much reading between the lines. "You might like it if you try."

And he knows, immediately, that he would. That he'd order whatever fancy drink you whipped up for him tonight with lemon and liquid cane sugar and a pinch of salt to cut the sweetness (your secret ingredient), and would do it for the rest of his life if he could. Would drink himself into cirrhosis just to see the way you smiled when you made it.  

He swallows it. Chases it down with water. He's always been rather good at that—running. Avoiding the things that make his heart thud, and the back of his neck prickle. 

So, he says: "nah, m'set in my ways." 

And you smile, let him flee. "If you say so." Then, with eyes that drop to the three wrinkles in his collar, and the ambiguous stain on the breast pocket of his shirt, you add: "don't you look nice tonight. Who're you trying to impress?" 

There's an itch under his skin. He paws at his pocket for his cigars. You meet him in the middle with a lighter in your hand, held out to him when he jabs the butt of one between his teeth. He needs the distraction. Needs nicotine to quell his nerves. Smoke-stained apathy. Just enough to soften the urge to do something ill-advised. To say something uncharacteristically flirty, like—

You. If you'll have me. 

(And then desperately. With a quiver in his voice, and blood in his throat; if you'll let me. I'll be so good to you, so, so good—)

"Mechanic," he rumbles, words muffled and gruff from around the end of his cigar. The way the flames catch the softness around the ring of your irises makes him ache in all the wrong ways. "Boat mechanic, specifically. To help fix up Captain."

"Captain?" You echo, brows rising. He leans forward, pushes the tip into the fire; inhales to let it catch. 

"M'ship," he rolls the word around a mouthful of smoke. "My first love."

"Ah," you say with a smile that tugs on the corners of your eyes. "She must be a thing of beauty, then." 

His mouth is already forming the affirmation—yes, she is—and the question—why do you think that?—but you beat him to it with a softness that hints at more, that lays itself bare on the grimy, acetone bleached tabletop:

"To make a man like you so smitten."

And Jesus Christ. 

What is he meant to say to that? How is supposed to respond with his heart in his throat, and pulse in his ears? 

He's too old for this shite, he thinks. Then, not old enough. Not nearly old enough—

"Right," he grumbles, gruff and unfriendly, and everything that's meant to make you stay away for good, to look at him like the sorry sap of an empty man he is. But there's a tint in his words. A blood-drenched fluster. 

You catch pieces of it, and smile behind the counter as you pour another drink. 

"Anyway," he's grasping at anything with knotted hands, something to take the edge off of his nerves. To put distance between this, you and him, and all the things that will eventually come after it. "This mechanic. Know where I can find one?"

The derision that dances across your pretty face has heat blooming in his chest. 

"Look around. This is basically a town hall meeting tonight."

He likes the way you ride sarcasm and sincerity so finely that he always seems to oscillate between believing your words or wondering if you're making a mockery of him. Most of the time, you seem to be—if only to get a rise out of him. To draw out his sense of humour, mordant and drier than a desert. One that pairs quite nicely with your own. 

(Another tip to the scale he tries not to think about.)

So he doesn't. He huffs instead as he ashes his cigar, and reaches for the glass with his other hand. 

"Well, ain't you funny." 

You are, of course. Of course. He thinks about the things you say to him when he comes down for breakfast at noon and dinner well after the sun has set beyond the horizon, making a meal out of the lobster rolls you make for him in the kitchen, the tuna sandwiches. The garlic shrimp. The salmon and rice. Idle comments about the locals—or lack thereof—and their spotty reputation. The history of the town. Of your Province. 

"You love it."

And God help him, he does. He does. He likes the way you drag snorts out from the depths of his chest, clearing out empty cobwebs, and filling the barren space with warmth. Or something like it. Everyone he's met so far always seems to want something from him, but you don't. You don't even make him pay for the extra heaping of lobster you pile on his plate even though he's heard you say it was an extra five dollars to a passing sailor. 

He seems to be your exception, and he doesn't know why. 

(Or maybe he does, but looking at it too closely fills him with dread. The kind he only feels when he finds out a storm cell is headed toward him. When he has to anchor down in a bay and settle the sickness in his guts as Captain is viciously thrown from side to side.

The morning after when he has to clean up the broken pieces and examine the extent of the damage, it's always filled with a sense of moroseness. Uncomfortable, in a way, like the aftermath of a vitriolic row, a devastating argument when he emerges with a sense of uncertainty, no longer quite sure he was justified in the things he said, the anger he felt. But too prideful to apologise. The awkwardness of navigating the ruins of calamity with a sense of regret that blooms alongside his lingering anger.)

So, he does what he does best:

"Not in your lifetime, love." 

He runs. 

Because lying has always come easier to him, hasn't it?

The mechanic is an old man with an accent thicker than his own. 

He speaks entirely in regional colloquialisms that Price can't make sense of. Even when he makes it known that he has no idea what the fuck the man is on about, he just breathes out his nose, as if to say, what can't ye understand about me words? and continues in the same mishmash of something that might be English, but honestly—John doubts it very much. 

Still. He's quick. He checks the hull, the mast. The engine. Checks off a list as he goes, muttering to himself (himself, because John stopped listening after the third, what? Come again? I can't understand you, mate that went entirely ignored save for a few, luh, buddy, I knows yer not stun but yer gettin' me right rotted, ye'are), and then slaps the side of Captain, nodding to himself. 

Three weeks, he says, words stretched out and stressed, like he was speaking to a child. 'ave 'er all fix'd up in t'ree weeks, b'y. 

Three weeks. 

It's in line with the seasons, too. If he times it all just right, he could be eating jerk chicken, curry, and oxtail soup in Jamaica soon enough. It would be stupid to go against the Gulf Stream (something he knows from experience when he was younger and dumber and thought he knew better), but a short stint across the Atlantic to Bermuda would suffice. Then once he's finished, he could set sail to the Azores, and then to Gibraltar, or Portugal, back up to the UK. 

Well, then. 

It's set. 

He hands the man a deposit, and tries not to think about the hourglass looming in the distance. 

Or you. 

(He always has to leave eventually. This, he knows, is no different.)

A routine forms. It's not terrible—not at first. Just an itch in the back of his head, talons raking across the inside of his skull, right behind his eyes. 

It's fine, he reasons, taking his spot at the bar while you bat away grabbing hands reaching for free beer, more booze. In three weeks, this place will be a memory replayed in his mind when the stretch of ocean idles, and loneliness sets in. A soft comfort for him to break into pieces, into regrets and spots of unhinged laughter when the isolation in a wet, unfathomable desert sinks its maw into his psyche. 

He'll resent himself, he's sure; curse the winds and the squalls that threaten to tear his boat into pieces. The idle sense of listlessness that comes with seafaring long distances. 

He's done it enough times to know that between the inexorable sense of freedom and insignificance in the gaping maw of an untamable beast, he always hates himself a little bit for not taking someone with him. 

Solo-sailing is ill-advised, but he's always been a stubborn bastard. Too prickly to be good company, too gruff to care. 

Maybe he'll ring Gaz when gets close to Europe to see if he's up for a stint jaunting through the ocean to see the Caribbean with him. Or Soap if Gaz is still hunkering away with the military. 

(You—

He doesn't think about that. Carves the thought out of his hand as quickly as it forms.)

But even so—

You're a constant on his mind. The first solid presence he's had in months, too. 

Despite his cantankerous disposition—sometimes he finds himself snarling more than conversing; sometimes he has this urge in his blood to lash out, to push things away just to see how far they go—you navigate his mercurial temperament with ease. His shorn, gruff words bounce off of your skin and fall to the countertop where you pick them up between delicate fingers and throw them right back at him—all with a smile. 

See, you seem to say. Nothing you can do will push me away so just shut up already and drink your fucking whisky, old man. 

He doesn't know if he believes you. Or the phantom echo in his head. 

"You're shedding," you murmur, drawing his attention back to you. At his raised brow, you lift your hand up in front of him, thumb and forefinger pinched together. 

It's only when his vision steadies that he sees the single strand of hair wisping up from between the tips of your fingers. A coarse hair of dark brown with lightened tips. 

His hand lifts to his beard, roaming over the wry curls peppered, unkempt, around the bottom half of his face. His moustache is overgrown, eclipsing the entirety of his lips. He feels the wetness from his whisky staining the ends.

You laugh when he pats along his cheek and jaw, as if he could find the missing follicle amid an unruly basin of knotting hair. 

"Ah," he rasps. "Guess I'm in need of a shave."

It's not a priority anymore. Hasn't been since he left the Navy, or when he realised how troublesome it was to try and shave his face while crossing the Atlantic. It just stopped being something he cared much about. 

But he feels the long ends catching on the rough patch of skin around his knuckles. Straggly and whitening at the tips. 

"Maybe," you quip with a shrug, and he can't really place the note in your tone that tries to linger between feigned indifference, but misses the mark entirely. 

You don't say anything else as you drop the fallen strand into the bin behind the counter, but as the night progresses, he catches your eyes straying toward him more often than usual, lingering on the expanse of his covered jaw. Something flashes in those depths—intrigue, maybe; curiosity—and John tries to convince himself it doesn't matter even as he pulls out money from his wallet at the crux of the evening when everyone has gone home, save for himself and you. The only two left in an empty pub. 

It shakes him, somewhat. As if he's only realising just now how normal this has become. For him to wait for you. To walk you to the edge of the boardwalk, where a little cottage sits across a sandy embankment. Home, you told him once. The first night he kept pace with you just to keep the conversation going. 

Never been anywhere else but here, you said, a touch wistful. Must be amazing, then. Going anywhere you like. Always at sea. 

He swallows down something bitter at the memory. Something aching and acrid. Yeah, he murmured when the silence stretched on for too long and he saw the apology forming on your lips. Nice. It's—it's good, yeah.

The years have muted the resentment he felt toward his home. His father, in particular. He doesn't think he's ready to step back into Hereford—maybe not ever—but he might be ready to see the old bastard's grave. Drop a couple of flowers down. 

The memories he has are embedded in thrown cast iron pots. Fist-sized holes in the wall. Sealed with bitterness, resentment.

He didn't know how to summarise all of that into something digestible for you. So, he didn't. Doesn't. 

(Can't, maybe. Won't.)

You'd stopped aiming for personal and instead focused your attention on the things that made him snort. Made him laugh. He can't remember the last time he had a moment to breathe. Land makes him feel claustrophobic. Itches under his skin in a way that drums up the instinct to flee. Or fight. 

But with you—

It's easy. 

It awakens something in him, too. Something that has been there all along, maybe. Lingering on the periphery. One he tried hard to ignore as it raked down his skull, leaving false starts in his bones. 

There's an attraction there, seeding in the gaps between your bodies. One that becomes harder to ignore as the days pass. And how could there not be, when you're pretty in a way that makes him flounder. That makes him want to bend you over the counter just to see what expressions he could pull out of you with a mere touch. The sounds—

Fuck. You'd sound so pretty, he thinks. Has thought. Many times in the sanctuary of his hotel room that stunk of algae and smoke. Images of you splayed out on the sheets, begging him for more—

His hand goes back to his jaw. Feeling the years of accumulated indifference beneath his fingers, and needing something—anything—to take the heat in his belly, the tremble of his hand, away. To keep the thoughts of you at bay, locked up tight for no one else to see. To know. 

John doesn't walk you home that night, opting instead to duck into a drug mart beside the inn, hands burrowed in his pockets, eyes lidded. Narrowed, almost, as he takes in the rows of cheap plastic he'll inevitably find at sea. 

He stands in the aisle for a moment, taking in the mix of English and French on the boxes, and trying to come up with reasons for why this is a good idea—outside of the way it felt to have you look at him with lowered lashes, flickering from his chin, to his jaw, to his cheek: imagining what might be under the bushel of thick, unruly hair. 

It doesn't surprise him that he comes up empty. That his head is filled with nothing but the illicit image of you leaning over him—

Stupid. 

He grabs the first box he sees, crumpling the cardboard from how tight he's clenching his fist. 

It isn't the first time he's thought of you like that, but it is in your presence. With you staring at him, filling in the blanks his uninspired memory couldn't conjure up. Talking to him, too—bloody fucking hell. 

All frayed whispers of: you alright, John? You sure? Well, if you say so. 

There's anger writ across his brow, more so at himself for thinking these things, for feeling them in the first place, but as he stalks toward the counter, frown buried behind a mess of overgrown, unkempt hair, and eyes narrowed into pinched lines, he's sure he makes quite the sight. Must, if the little jump the skittish man behind the register gives when he drops the box with a growled how much? is to go by. 

John's never been good at handling his anger. Trickle-down toxicity, maybe. He's sure some fancy therapist would be overjoyed to tell him all about it—about how he's never had a good role model when it comes to biting his tongue. Never had to, when his last name is enough to pass tests, climb ranks. 

Mean and drunk, his dad was.

And Price—

Well. Sometimes he feels himself getting there, too.

But this. This. It feels different. 

He's not nearly as angry as he is flustered, and like anything he isn't used to, he lashes out. 

John is sure they don't tip at drug stores, but he conveniently forgets his change in place of an apology when he storms out of the shop, ignoring the hesitantly called, uh, sir…? as he goes. 

It's fine, he thinks and tries not to let his mind wander into uncharted territory, musing about what you might have said. Might have done. 

Swatted at him, undoubtedly. Said something scathing about him being a prick for no reason. Put him in his place, kept him there. 

But he doesn't think about that at all. 

John stands in front of the grimy mirror in his hotel room with a brand new razor in hand, staring at himself, and wonders if you'd shave it for him if he asked. If you'd keep him in line during the long stretch of the ocean where everything is an endless crawl of muted grey-green, and take him down to the bathroom in the boat, one that's barely big enough for himself to fit comfortably, and perch him on the toilet while you tended to the too-long wisps of curls growing over his cheeks. 

The thought is an algae bloom in his chest. Ethereal, beautiful. But beneath the marvel of nature's potent splendour lurks a deadly danger—one toxic in its domesticity. 

Still. He latches onto it. Curls his worn fingers around the edges, clinging to rotting driftwood. 

He likes the way it fits in his chest. The shape of you moulding along the barren brackets of his ribs; slotting in like a puzzle piece. It's winsome. Dangerous. But he's always like a challenge. 

Always liked the way some things were meant to hurt. 

(And you—you look like you were made to ruin.)

Hair rains into the stained basin with each cut. Filling the chips in the porcelain, built up from years of carelessness and indelicate hands, until a light dust of burnt umber sits like a layer of snow across the surface, hiding the blemishes below. 

Each inch shorn off seems to regress him in age until he's less an unkempt seafarer, a wild man who feasts on tuna and loses his mind in the middle of the sea, and more like the thirty-something-year-old who still has decades ahead of him to try and regain his footing. 

The contrast is jarring. 

He runs the back of his hand across clean skin and nearly startles at the feeling of something touching that part of his face that was hidden for so long. 

He's reminded about something his dad used to say—nothing like a shave to make a man feel new again—and isn't sure how he likes the sour twist in his gut when he feels the truth in those words, however hollow and artificial they might be. 

The face that stares back at him is different from the one who wore a military uniform all those years ago. Cheeks sunken in. Hollow. Thinner from months at sea. His complexion is darker, sunkissed and tinged slightly red. A permanent sunburn, maybe. He thinks about the woman from Ghana who warned him with a finger pressed softly against the apple of his full cheek about skin cancer. Melanoma. 

Wear sunscreen, she stressed with a shake of her head that sent gorgeous locks of midnight black spilling over her bare shoulders. It reminded him of the deepest parts of the ocean that he crossed. Endless puddles that looked like little jars of ink across the vast expanse of the sea. You're too pale not to be wearing some every day. 

(After he left—twinned hearts torn asunder—he found a bottle of sunscreen stuffed inside his rucksack. It was the only time he can remember crying in some twenty-odd years—)

That man feels almost as distant as the sea is to him now. A memory. A moment when he was willing to carve off the best parts of himself just to make room for the loneliness; the self-flagellation in the form of isolation. What he'd thought he deserved. Maybe still does. 

He isn't sure what thoughts were rattling around inside his head at the time to make him leave the best pieces of himself with a woman who seemed too good to be true, but still wanted him, of all people, by her side. Those, too, feel far too distant to grasp. 

His hand is worn down. Knuckles more scar tissue than skin. Welts lined the inside of his palms—thickened flesh made from grabbing the ends of rope too many times to count as it reeled out of his grasp, cutting deep and cauterising the wound all at the same time. He should have known better, maybe. But when his anchor was tumbling down into an abyss, unattached to its cleat in the middle of the ocean, time for thinking was negligible. Nonexistent, almost. 

The accumulated scars—some from land, most from sea—discolour his skin until it's patches of ivory, pale pink, and mounted brown, all slightly hidden under a thin crop of wry topaz hair. 

His nails are short and lined with boat oil. Dirt. The beds are yellowing from nicotine. 

He scratches the rosy skin of his upper cheek where it meets the cut of patchwork mutton chops. His signature style when he was Captain. When he was responsible for more life than he knew what to do with or knew how to protect. 

(The men he couldn't save always seem to stack higher than the ones he did.)

John sees fragments of his old self in the mirror. Pieces of an incomplete puzzle he thought he left scattered on the battlefield, and then tucked inside a box when he handed in his medals for a trawler (a trawler for a sailboat). The fit is tight. It sits uncomfortably over his new skin—scarred and sunkissed—and he gives himself a moment to wonder about where he'd be in life now had he stayed behind. 

But a moment feels too long. Not long enough. 

He brings the razor up to his cheek and cuts the rest of that man away. 

He isn't him. Not anymore. 

(Hasn't been for a long time.)

The skin of his cheeks sting from the bitter evening winds billowing off the icy Atlantic and he's reminded why he kept his beard overgrown and thick when he was out at sea. 

November is a cruel month, he always found. Cold. Desolate. This close to the ocean, and he feels the chill deep in his bones, even though several layers of leather and fur. It's enough to make his teeth chatter. 

The fur lining the collar of his Levi's jacket does little to stem the vicious onslaught, but he makes a point to bunch his shoulders closer to the bottom of his earlobes in an effort to salvage some heat. Not that there's much to spare. 

But the walk from the inn to the pub is blessedly short, and the brief cold gives him enough time to clear his head. To think about turning back. Stopping whatever it is he thinks he's doing. 

He isn't a young lad. Not anymore. 

He knows this, of course. Knows it enough to feel the ache in his joints. In the raw scar tissue that is always a little tender in colder weather. Still. It wasn't enough to stop him from washing his clothes in the coin laundry of the inn. Buying fabric softener and forest-scented detergent from the grocer. A beanie (toque, he supposes, though he's never heard anyone out East use that word), some cologne—the expensive kind. Tom Ford, the lady at the cosmetic counter said. You look like you'd like this one best. 

He didn't ask why. She didn't tell him. 

It smells good, though. Like new leather, vanilla, and tobacco—a strange concept considering most of the time people couldn't stand the smell whenever he smoked, but maybe that's only in cigars and cigarettes. 

There was a moment when he stood in the washroom, buttoning up his freshly laundered (and newly purchased) shirt when he felt like a fraud. A goddamn muppet. 

This isn't him. He reeks of smoke, salt, and sun-dried sweat. He scrubs his clothes clean with extra shampoo inside the shower on his boat when they start to smell a little too pungent, even for him. He doesn't shave. Barely showers—

Who needs it when he can just anchor on a reef, or a distant, uninhabited island and take a dip in crystalline waters for a few hours? 

He feels—

Stupid. 

But he can't deny there's something a little invigorating about slipping a clean body inside clean clothes. Dressing up like some young lad taking his girl out to see a film, grab a burger to eat. Maybe bum around Liverpool until he had to go back to the barracks. 

He bit his tongue until he tasted iron and slipped on his jacket. Pulled the beanie over his head. Sprayed some cologne on the sleeves. And then kept his head low to avoid anyone's eyes, even though no one in this town has really bothered to get to know him like you had. 

John just feels a bit like a swindler. This isn't him. 

Fancy shirts. Clean jeans. Boots. A new leather jacket. Cologne. Barefaced. It all feels like a hollow pastiche of some clichè role he's trying to fill. Leading man, or something stupid like that Soap might jostle him about. 

Who're ye tryin'ta be, Cap? Tom Hardy, aye?

Fuck. Fuck. He should leave, just go back to his inn—

But the door is already opening. You're looking up, taking him in, and then—

Nothing. You offer a slight nod. No smile. No wave. And then you're looking away, eyes dropping back to the tabletop you're always cleaning despite the stains and the stickiness never going away. 

He expected worse, maybe. His hand reaches up as he steps inside, feeling the uneven skin beneath his palm. Rugged craters. Knicks from the blade when he got too close to his skin. Scars, maybe. Patches of hair he missed. 

He wonders what you thought when you saw it. Chiefly disappointed, perhaps, that whatever image you had in your head of him, all clean-shaven and dressed up, wasn't quite the same as reality. There's a sinking sense of disappointment in his guts, but it's almost minuscule compared to the relief of knowing that you don't care. Maybe it'll be enough to quash whatever has been rotting in the crevasse between you. Crush whatever idealistic notions of him you have in your head. 

John would rather you were bitterly disappointed now than realise it after. Regret. A mistake. It's good. Fine. 

It's only when he takes his usual seat does your head pops up again, eyes cutting across the counter to stare at him. 

And—

Shit. 

The way you look at him knocks the air from his lungs. The deep appraisal, the shock, the curiosity, and the—

"Wow," you whisper, eyes widening. He isn't sure what you think, but he knows that look in your eye; a keenness. Sees it sometime staring back at him in a cup of amber when you don't notice him looking. Shit. Shit.  

He clears his throat, uncomfortable under the intensity of your stare, and tries to soothe his nerves as quickly as he can, patting down for his cigars left somewhere in his pocket. In one of his pockets. Fuck—

"Well," you breathe, and he dreads your words immediately, not quite ready to hear them without something in his veins to dull the pinballing emotions in his chest. "Don't you clean up nice. Didn't recognise you at first."

He grunts. "Yeah, yeah. Talkin' nonsense now, aren't you?"

"Nonsense?" You echo, tone subdued, now. Soft. Too soft. He hates the way it makes his chest feel like it's caving in. "What? A handsome man like you can't take a compliment? That's a surprise."

Handsome. 

He feels his pulse in his throat. Heat under his collar. Something spreads across his skin at words, glueing itself down, uncomfortably tight—constricting, smothering—and he fights the urge to reach up to his neck, clawing at it until it's all gone. Peeled off in strips, taking with it jagged swaths of too-hot flesh. 

Your words are painted with too much sincerity, and it drips over his skin—thick and oily—until he's stained in the offering they make. Drenched in the sudden realisation that this is far too much than he can handle. 

That he needs. 

The way you're looking at him—bare-faced honesty, scoured of anything other than a genuity that trickles into the gaps in his crumbling chest, sticky filament made of saccharine promises and a dizzying sense of open affection—makes him heave; chokes him on the embers of that tantalising what if you let echo in the recess of words. 

It isn't grabbing, or taking what he wants. This is you lying flat on the table. His choice to reach for it. To curl his fingers around the bulk of it, feeling the heat in the palm of his hand. 

And he wants. Oh, how he wants—

But it feels a little bit like a betrayal. Self-sabotage from within as his body turns against him. Feelings conspiring with his whims, the ones that force out their pleads between bloodied teeth; yearning as they rattle the cages of this forced prison. Lost in absentia. 

He can't make sense of the tremors that follow, roaring through his chest in a deluge of innominated emotions that seem to shake the foundation he stands on. He reaches, but can't seem to grasp them. Temporal feelings without cause. Intangible. They slip through the gaps in his fingers. Slide off of his flesh as he was trying to catch mercury in the oil-slick palm of his hand. 

John can't make sense of it. Why him? What's drawing you to him outside of carnal attraction? It's always been there—that magnetic pull: his marrow to yours. 

But for the first time since he traded in medals for oars, he feels the pull back to shore. That unquenchable urge to dip his toes into the sand. To keep his feet firm on dry land. 

The feeling of it itches in the palm of his hand. 

And like most things, he doesn't understand, doesn't agree with, he feels the unrelenting urge to lash out against it. Push back. Carve out some semblance of distance between the thing he doesn't understand, and what it's making him feel.

And then he snaps. Bites back against the headiness admixing in the back of his head; noxious, dangerous. It's a discomfort. A slash of clarity that makes him all too aware of himself. Of you. This. Everything. It's too much. 

So easily swayed by a pretty word. What a damn fool. 

The snort he gives in response is a gnarled mess in his throat, all mangled up and shredded on the barbs of his sudden vexation. "Flatter all the poor sods like this, do you?"

It crackles in his chest. Smouldering embers. Dampened by the blood filling his lungs, choking him on what spills out of the shattered levee. 

This isn't—

Isn't him. It isn't you. 

He feels claws raking across the inside of his skull. Sharpened talons digging vengefully into the back of his sockets until it aches. Forcing him, maybe, to see the aftermath of his anger. 

"No," you say, pulling back. Stepping away from him. Giving him space. Not enough, and entirely too much. A sad echo snakes through the crevasse. Glass breaking. Shattering. He thinks of self-sabotage. Tastes it in the back of his throat. "Just you."

It's mean, awful, when he huffs, asks: "yeah? Why bother?" 

"Why not?" You volley back, and he can't quite place the look in your eye. Disappointment, maybe. Something tinged in regret. "Maybe I want to. Maybe I—"

You don't finish. 

Good, he thinks. Good. Stay away. Far away. 

And softer. Softer still—

It's for your own good. Better off this way. Don't turn around. You'll only end up hating what you see. Regretting what you find—

"Don't know what you're getting yourself into." His words are stagnant. Hollow. The consistency of ash between dry palms. He tries to swallow, but can't. Can't. Gives up instead, adds: "won't like what you find, either." 

You hum and it hurts. "Maybe I might. Can't be all bad under there." 

They're sharpened with an edge of sincerity he can't bring himself to acknowledge, not now; not yet, so he huffs instead, and brings a cigar to his lips just so he doesn't have to respond. Doesn't have to engage again. Can't, he thinks, with a cigar between his lips, stuffing his mouth full. 

A pathetic escape. He's never been the type of man to retreat when it isn't the best option strategically. Or when he has no other choice, and too many men on the line. 

But he can't—

(Knife to his chest, you walk away. 

Blade against his tongue, he says nothing to call you back.)

A fissure sits at the zenith that once was a sense of ease, comfort. It leaks a coldness that shakes him to the core when it drifts over gaping wounds and milky-white bones.  

(All of his own making, of course.)

In the midst of it all, he tries to convince himself that this is the right thing to do despite never being a man of altruism in his life, and the lie pools in his empty gut where it sloshes around in the shots of whisky you still pour for him even though he can he see the cruel lashes of his words striking over your expression when you look at him when you think he isn't watching you back. 

Better this way, and he downs a shot just to ignore the merciless echo that asks, for who?

Both of you. Both. 

Because despite what you might think, or whatever little fantasies you made up inside your head about him, he knows they aren't true. They aren't him. 

A man who climbed ranks on the back of his last name. A borrowed legacy with no honour of his own. One who had no qualms about crossing lines that others couldn't until they blurred, until his morality was a sickly grey. 

Until a prison cell in Siberia rewired the fibres in his head, and he was forced to reconcile the unignorable truth that stripped of his rank and the protection he offers there is barely any discernible difference between him and them. The enemy. 

He thinks of Gaz, and the words he uttered become a portend for the calamity of a man who always seemed overly keen to take things too far. 

It's them or us, he used to say. Them or us—even as he tossed an innocent man over the ledge to fall to his death. As he let a child watch him emasculate his father when he knew pride was all they had left, doing nothing in the end but creating another monster for him to hunt down at a later date. Threatened families. Threatened men. Women, children. 

His punishment was nonexistent. Self-flagellation in the form of exile. He cast himself out to sea and pretended it was enough. 

How is he supposed to pretend who is he isn't? How is he meant to touch you with blood writ in the lines of his palm? 

Selfish. Mean. Cruel. 

So, he lets it rot—just as he does with everything else.

There have been others, of course; but Price has always been attracted to older women. Laugh lines and crows feet; swatches of grey kissing their temples. A certain coldness to their touch. An unspoken understanding that everything that is, and will ever be, between them is temporal. Love was just a crutch. A fallacy uttered in the dark to soothe the rugged parts of themselves that worried they might never be enough. 

He can handle women like that. Prefers them. 

The youngest he's ever dated was a woman his own age, and he realised soon after that there was a disparity between he couldn't placate. One that left scars. 

He's a mangled soul in a young man's body. Rough and callous and unwilling to compromise. He's more scar tissue than man, and what can he offer someone idealistic with inexperience and youth except a bitter tangle of hurt that cuts deep. 

But you're an outlier, he finds. Only shades younger than himself, really, but it's not so much your age, but the way you carry yourself. Heart on your sleeve. Aching for love. 

He can't give that to you. 

The last time he tried, he ended up sneaking out on a woman in Ghana, leaving the pieces of him behind that dared to even try. 

He can't offer you anything that isn't temporary. 

And he thinks that might be fine. Maybe it's all you want from him, anyway—just a night. A moment. A memory to keep. 

But John's always been greedy. The kind that wants, and wants. Once would never be enough, and he knows that if he sunk his teeth into you, a bite would never satiate his rapacious appetite, never quench the hunger. 

And since he can't make a meal out of a morsel, he'd rather starve. 

He thinks about leaving six times in three hours, but you carry on as if nothing has happened even though he catches weariness in your gaze whenever you look at him. His glass is filled but the conversations are bereft of their usual cheekiness. The gaps between are no longer filled with his scored laughter or your amused hums. 

You spend more time away from him than you have since he first sat down. The deviation away from what quickly became a bruised touchstone, laden with clumsy fingerprints is jarring, but he can't claim to be upset by your distance when he was the one who caused the rift in the first place. 

So, he drinks. He smokes his cigar. Tries to not think about why his hand itches in a way that he knows can only be sated by sliding his knuckles across the worn wood of the table, linking his fingers with yours. It's a stupid whim. He swallows it down with a shot of whisky that makes his stomach curdle. Seals it with an inhale of his cigar. Forgotten, now. Covered in ethanol and smoke.  

But even with the crowbar in his hand, he can't stop himself from watching you. Eyes trailing along the paths you carve between old wooden chairs, and scowling men waving their hands at the staticky television set, upset by yet another bad call by the referee. 

(He's always thought it was stereotypical to equate Canada with hockey, moose, bears, geese, and maple syrup but so far, he's seen nothing else play inside the pub—aside from a polar bear warning being issued out for northern Newfoundland—but sometimes, the shoe just fits.)

You sift through the throng carrying drinks in your hand and impish grin at the men you recognise. Words he can't hear, ones he isn't privy to, are spoken softly and reinforced with a small grin. Seeing it on your face, pointed away from him; meant only for another, is a white-hot dagger to guts, scraping across his delicate insides. 

The flashes of anger are directed inward. Each stab is a reminder that they once were for him. That had he not gone and ruined a good thing, dangerous though it might be, you'd have been standing in front of him, curbing nonsensical requests over the bulk of his shoulder, unwilling to leave from your perch across from where he sat. 

(Hindsight is a brutal, bitter mistress, but it has nothing at all on pride.) 

He swallows it. Smokes. Pretends he's interested in the game that plays but it's just flashing colour on an oversaturated screen. A foreign language to his ears despite the words on the chyron flickering past in his mother tongue. 

John thinks about packing it in for the night. Heading back to his empty hotel so he can think about you in peace—in vivid, fantastical images of equilibrium; comfort—and finds that might be for the best. For both of you. Some distance to soothe the ache he caused. To reacclimate back to strangers in a dilapidated pub. A sailor and bartender: ephemeral, the way it ought to be. The way it must. 

With his dwindling pack of cigars slipped into his breast pocket beside the lighter he nicked from you ("people always seem to leave them behind in bars," you'd winked, handing him an ugly lighter in the shape of a bear with a pipe in his plastic mouth. "I picked out the one that made me think of you."), he finds himself at a loss for a reason to stay. All packed up. Ready to leave. 

He raps his scarred knuckles on the table, a final farewell that he can feel heavily in his bones, filled with iron as they may be. Still. Still. It's for the best.

Whose, he still doesn't know. His own, undoubtedly, in that selfish sort of way that makes it feel selfless. Like it's the right thing to do even though he bloody well knows it isn't. Won't be. That he'll think about this moment in time when he's all alone at sea and cuss himself out as he readies for a squall. 

John means to leave, but a man gets to you first. 

The man makes a noise in the back of his throat. A complaint, maybe, but it's swallowed by the creak of the floorboards when he sways on his feet. 

"Listen t'me, you—"

But you're not. You make a move to turn around, and he seems to realise you're not paying him any attention. Anger flickers over his slack face, and he's reaching for you with a clumsy paw before John has time to move. The moment he makes contact, fingers skating off the sleeve of your shirt, he's out of his chair, letting it clatter to the ground. The noise is swallowed by all the chaos. Murmurs, shouts. The music feels so out of place in this moment when he can feel his blood run hot, turning molten in his veins. 

"Hey—!"

But your hand is gripping his wrist, pulling him off of you, before John can finish. Eyes narrowed, jaw set, you shake your head once before pointing to the door with your free hand. 

"It's time for you to leave." 

He pitches a fit. Petulant whinging that cuts through the noise. Vague insults hurtled at you, words of complaint that barely make you flinch. 

John's rushing over before he can even think—thoughts all asunder, bouncing around his head in an unrefined mess of shorn noises and fervent anger—but you stop him with a jerk of your head. No, it says. I don't need you. 

And you don't.

The swelling chaos dims and in the aftermath, he realises he's the only one standing. The only one hovering in your periphery as you shove a man twice your size away from the counter when he tries to swipe a bottle as he leaves. 

Everyone is watching, wary, but there's an unspoken sense of understanding amongst them that makes him feel decidedly like an outsider, and wholly out of the loop. 

Where he's from, if you see someone being harassed, you step in. 

Things, apparently, are very different here. 

He catches your eye when you turn back toward the interior after slamming the door shut, and there's a moment where he almost rushes to your side, checking you over for any marks that man might have left behind, but you're shaking your head before he can even lift his foot from the floorboards. As if you know. And maybe you do. Maybe you know him more than he knows himself. Maybe, maybe—

You give him another shake. No, it says, and the soft quirk of your lip echoes in his head, a soft: down boy that makes him bristle. 

It's telling, of course, that he still heeds your wordless command. Hackles lowering, muscles unfurling from their rigid coil. 

Your nod, then, is a soft purr that rolls through his guts like a marble. Good boy. 

John feels leashed when he settles back into his chair. Anchored. All it takes is a nonverbal cue from you, and suddenly, he's tempered. Tamed. 

As if to reinforce the thought, his hand strays to his chin, feeling the scarred, bare skin under his palm. All done because of a simple glance, a fleeting moment of curiosity from you. 

He isn't sure how he likes the fit of it around his neck. Too tight, maybe. Dangerously claustrophobic. But it sits there, untouched. He has no desire to pull it off. To divorce the collar from his neck. 

(Maybe, maybe, he thinks he could get used to the way it feels.)

As he settles in his chair, his eyes never stray from you, standing lax and unphased against the door, chatting idly to the patrons who murmur in tones too low for him to pick up over the rhythmic echo of the sea shanty and the slew of voices in the background, cheers from the hockey game that hasn't quite held his interest long enough for him to know the score. Nothing is amiss, it seems. As if bullying out men twice your size was a regular occurrence—not even newsworthy enough to pull gazes glued to the flashing television, or stop the minutiae of mindless conversations from happening in sparse passels around the pub. 

But it changed something for him. He feels it in his chest, his guts. Something dislodged from the cornice, falling down inside of him in an endless spiral. A sudden freefall. 

He comes to the startling realisation when you look up at him as you pat someone on the shoulder, smiling softly—all forgiven in an instant, the crevasse sealed over in a thick bed of cobwebs—that he wants. Has wanted since he first lumbered into the pub and was met with a raised brow, and a cheeky wink. Not from around here, are you? and he was gone. 

Lost in the swell of you. 

Your mouth moulds around the words, pleading with him over the heads of everyone else, wait for me.

But John had no plans to go anywhere else. 

"I'm okay," you tell him hours later, hands buried in your pockets, eyes gazing up at the midnight blue sky. "Seriously."

There's a multitude of things he wants to say. All threads of lingering, unresolved anger brought on by that man who put his hands on you. Who thought he could. 

Maybe a little bit of it is directed at you, too, for not letting him rip that man into pieces even though he knows it's not your fault. Leashed, he thinks, and rubs absently at his bare neck. 

"Yeah?" He murmurs, voice raw. Eroded down to bare scraps, scorched and pulsing with the poison of anger. He tries to clear it. Swallows down the acrid tang that coats the back of his throat even still, hours later. 

Your head rolls toward him slowly, chin still held loftily up to the sky, and when your eyes meet, he thinks of rogue waves. Capsizing in the middle of endless azure, exposed to elements and predators. To the murky depths below in burnt sapphire.

He swallows again, but it's hard to get anything down when his heart is in the way. 

"Yeah, John. I'm good."

Your words take the shape of a breath, gently ghosting over a scraped knee. It's not meant to convince, but rather soothe, and something about that, about the softness in your eyes and way you speak tenderly, cautiously, as if he might startle, makes him feel hot beneath his collar. Flustered. Foolish. A litany of things he ought not to feel, but does because it's you. 

(Because it's always been you.)

"Right," he grouses, and tries to find his way out of the canyons inside your eyes. 

It's hard to escape when everything looks the same, when it all beckons him deeper. Stay, stay, it whispers over artfully crafted gorges and deep ravines, a stunning beauty that makes nature feel like a paltry imitation of the carvings in your irises. 

In the sandy shores of a small inlet nearly eclipsed by the sea, you turn to him fully, eyes smouldering embers catching in the flush of the full moon, and say, thank you, John. 

He scratches at the collar around his neck, and thinks about throwing away the key.

"What for?" He says instead, brows knitted together—a perfect pastiche of a fisherman's knot. It's rough: words scraped from the thick of his throat, raw and pulsing and dusted in smoke, but you don't baulk at the artificial ire that oozes between his nicotine-stained teeth. No. You lean into it with a smile. 

"Defending me. Trying to, anyway," you tack on with a small huff at his expense, a finger poking at his inflated pride. In jest, of course, but it still makes him frown. "I guess I just got so used to sticking up for myself that I forgot how nice it was to know someone is looking out for me, you know?" 

"Should be expected." 

There's a heat simmering beneath his tone. An underlying sense of anger that hadn't abated entirely yet, just began slumbering. Dormant, but still burning. Still hot enough to hurt. 

"Maybe," you hum, and the blitheness in your tone makes him bristle. Hackles raising. "But it's probably for the best."

"Tell me how none of those fuckin'—" There's a snarl in the back of his throat. He swallows. "None of them standin' up for you is for the best, 'cause it looked pretty fuckin' cowardly to me."

"If they defend me every time something like that happens, then it'll only be worse when they're not around. Most nights, it's just me working. I gotta know how to take care of myself just fine—"

"—shouldn't bloody 'ave to—!"

"—and I need them to know it, too. That if they try anything like that, I'll kick them out. I won't go screaming for help just because they're being rude. I'll handle it on my own because I have to."

It quiets him. Not enough to quell the anger burning in his chest, or the urge to tear them into pieces for sitting back, watching you get disrespected while they throw peanuts at the television screen, and jeer about something as arbitrary as a fucking game, but he finds something akin to understanding. Common ground. 

It makes sense, suddenly, even though it sets his teeth on edge and makes his knuckles itch. 

"No one else will do it for me, y'know?"

"I will."

The words tumble out before he can make sense of them in his head. A disconnect between his mouth and his thoughts, eroded by the smoke leaking into his throat. The fire in his chest. 

A mistake, maybe, because they're futile. Pointless. More so a whim of pride, a flash of possessiveness just to stroke the smouldering embers of the ego you bruised earlier with the tip of your finger. 

(Or maybe they're the afterbirth of his righteousness; that insatiable beast he conceived into the world he swore he'd save—no matter what—only to realise somewhere after leaking madness into the fibres that he was making more monsters than he was culling. 

A lingering remnant of when he bore the burden of the world on his shoulders during a botched pantomime of Atlas.)

You know it, too. "You won't be around all the time, John."

He tastes salt in the back of his throat. It burns when he swallows. When the words that tore through the seam of his lips dissolve into ash, into smoke. 

Your hand on his shoulder is meant to be placating but it feels like a dagger to his gut. 

"I can take care of myself. Been doin' it all my life, anyway."

He can't make sense of it. Can't understand how your words fill the hollow crevasses inside of him until he feels more like a mortal man than an untouchable mountain. 

You bring him back down to the solidness of land, of the earth. An anchor. 

John touches his neck again. "Yeah," he rasps. "I get it. Now, let's get you home."

He thinks about you. 

A lot would be an understatement considering how many times he's taken you to bed, pulled you down into the sheets with him. Tangled limbs. Rushed breath. He thinks of you now, too, with heavy eyes and a little smile, beckoning him forward. 

His own illicit sanctuary. A place in his head where he ruins you over, and over, and over again until there's a permanent stain on the tips of his fingers, the back of his throat. A constant reminder of you—the way you smell, sound, taste—

It's been a while since he had a moment like this, when he could relax, feel himself—already half-hard when he palms himself through his boxers—and just—

Lose himself. Body melting into the sheets. Tension bleeding together into one mass that pools in his lower belly, coalescing into a tight knot in his groin. It spools, pulls taut, when he runs the flat of his palm down the length of himself until he meets the soft flesh of his perineum. 

It's easy to tilt his chin up, eyes gazing at the seashell colouring of the popcorn ceiling, stroking himself in slow, unhurried rolls of his hand, and thinking of you. Your hand on him. Your breath tickling his ear, spurring him on. 

"Come on, John," you'd say in that voice made to bring him to his knees. "You can go faster than that, can't you?"

He responds instantly to the faint echo in his head, grunting at the pleasure that races down his spine. Tugging on that tightly wound knot until it trembles. 

His hand around the length of him is replaced with yours. Tentative, exploratory strokes from frenulum to his thickened base; up, up, a teasing swipe of your thumb across his weeping slit but only enough to make his hips arch off the bed, and then you pull away, down. Down. Over and over again. He thinks of the way your breath would feel ghosting over his temple. The press of your chest when you leave over his shoulder. 

John rocks into it, hips undulating with each pass of the hand that is too gnarled, too scarred to be yours; lost in the fantasy of your presence around him, on him, in him. 

Maybe your other arm would be tucked under the nape of his neck, bracketing him into your body. A safety net. A security blanket. You'd toy with his cheek—twee and gentle; a ginger touch to offset the illicit press of your thumb into his frenulum. Lean over, too, perhaps, and press those inviting lips to his. A soft kiss. Barely a whisper. A brush.

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, chasing the phantom taste of you that isn't there. He imagines you'd taste like the sea. Briny, but mild. Salted winter melon. A sweetness, too, beneath the tart tang of iodine, but one that was metallic—copper. Iron. 

Pleasure knots in his groin—tighter, tighter, tighter—and even with each stroke a pale imitation of your warm flesh on him, he finds the spooling coil building in a quick crescendo of bliss to be somehow more potent than it ever was. A feverish heat at the mere thought of you. 

It builds. Builds. And breaks—

Your name is a broken snarl in the back of his throat as he spills over himself in thick, molten ropes. Each pulse of his heart floods more liquid heat onto his hand (hot enough, maybe, to burn), and he leans into the sudden deluge of a chemical frenzy ripping through his synopses—all liquid euphoria, static endorphins, and a heady rush of dopamine that makes the edges of his vision blur just a touch when he blinks his tired, heavy, eyes open, staring back up at the off-white ceiling. 

The surge and plummet of adrenaline leaves him feeling fatigued. A bone-deep torpor that comes swiftly in the simmering aftershocks of his pleasure. 

He could close his eyes now and sleep—even with the mess on his hand, come cooling against his heated flesh, growing tacky and uncomfortably wet as it sat there. The idea is more appealing than standing up and washing himself down, and in his sudden languor, he haphazardly lifts his hand away from his still-throbbing cock softening against his damp thigh, and pats the mess on his hand against the extra pillow he doesn't use. It's hardly the cleanup he needs, and he knows washing the dry come from the coarse hair on his thighs and groin is going be a nuisance in the morning, but he can't muster the energy to open his lids past half-mast let alone stand and hobble his way into the washroom. 

(And maybe he doesn't want to see himself in the mirror right now. Doesn't want to contend with the same routine of thinking of you, getting off to the thought alone, and then slinking into the tub for a quick rinse of his regrets. Not tonight, anyway—)

So, he stays in bed, laying there in his own filth, and still thinks of you. With his eyes closed tight, he doesn't have to face the reality of your absence. Of his dirty whim that sullied you in his head (over and over and over again—). His loneliness. 

And it's nice to bask in the glow. To imagine you beside him still. 

John's never been as delusional as now when he can taste the Caribbean sun on his tongue. Feel the salt on his skin. He smells sand. Feels it under his back as he lays down with you curled over him, hand tucked against his chest where it belongs. Dosing under the shaded pyre. You'll catch fish in the morning. He'll take you out to places you'd never been, all of them. Every single one. Until the world is shaded with your fingerprints. 

He's never been much into lyricism, but you make him contemplate the dividing line between prose and poetry, and where he fits between the two. The bridge, he thinks. The gaps between words, the space between letters: heart and soul (and the tangibility of them both). 

He wants to go there with you. 

The vision of you laying with him in sand embeds itself in the weakened link of his splintering resolve, eroding the chain away until it breaks, and the next night finds him sitting in the same spot, drinking the same whiskey, but his thoughts are subsumed by you. 

Without it keeping him at bay, he makes a terrible decision—one he wishes he could blame on whisky, but he's sober in a way he hasn't been in years—but when he looks up at you, twenty minutes past closing after everyone has stumbled out of the pub, something blooms in his veins. 

It's white-hot—hotter than the sensation of being shot in the thigh by a stray bullet when he was still figuring himself out in a battlefield—and dredges up dormant feelings he hasn't made room for since he was twenty-seven and fell in love in Ghana. 

It's cacoëthes. 

(But maybe it's been heading forward this all along. Ever since he saw you tug around a man twice your size, and wanted to bruise his knuckles on this stranger's enamel. The one who dared touch you. Disrespect you.)

John makes the awful choice to kiss you.

It starts with a look. 

The night ends later than usual—a hockey game between the Pittsburgh Penguins and the Ottawa Senators draws a big, rowdy crowd of nearly fifteen people ("truly record-breaking numbers," you quip with a grin) that bemusingly celebrate the Senators' victory and mourn the Penguin's loss at the same time ("it's a cultural thing—Sydney Crosby plays for the Penguin's," you tell him as if it explains everything)—and when he finally pockets his cigars, the sky outside is already dusted with crops of mauve as the hazy sun tries to blink through the thick clouds of gunmetal and charcoal. 

You wave to the fishermen on the boardwalk as they prepare their empty lobster cages for the morning haul, and he tries to think of every reason why he shouldn't be standing with you right now, puffing away on one of his last few cigars. 

There are multitudes, of course, all of them eagerly buoying to the surface, and just as viable as the last. Just as concrete. But that's the thing about desire, isn't it? Reasoning is skewed. Malleable. For each con that is squashed by the claws of fatigue, a pro subsumes in its stead. They add up. The scales tip. And all at once, he's no longer oscillating between no and here's why, but how come. 

How come he can't give in, if only just once? 

But once will never be enough. He knows this. He knows it, and yet—

When John happens to glance at you from the corner of his eye, he finds you turned to him already. Watching him. 

Despite what the furious stutter in his chest at this bare appraisal would lead him to believe, this isn't anything new. 

(Neither is his reaction. The blood rushing in his ears. The hiccup of his heartbeat.)

You've always unabashedly worn your curiosity like this. Open, bare. Letting it moulder on the very ledge of a cornice for all to see when they looked into your eyes. Liquid gems, molten coins. They've always gleamed with a sense of misplaced curiosity whenever they rested on him; seemingly lost in the labyrinth of your thoughts as you tried to unravel the reef knot that is John Price. 

He supposes it's the novelty of a man washing up on shore in the middle of what's meant to be the most boring season of the year—your words, naturally. Nothing ever happens during hurricane season, you mentioned to him once. The maritime is quickly forgotten about until summer when stupid tourists head to Halifax or Peggy's Cove in droves. 

Until him, that is. 

(Until you, as well.)

But the look you grace him with right now is somehow on the precipice of being both foreign and familiar at the same time. A muddled sense of jamais vu that seems to wrap itself around his throat, pressing taut to his pulse. Mocking him. Confusing him. It's all a muddled mess of known and unknown and—

Want to know. Need to.

He knows this look. Knows it as intimately as he knows the hand he used to stroke himself, pretending it was you. Your touch. It's want. It's—

Desire. 

Intrigue. 

You stare at him—unabashedly, as always; lost in your perplexing keenness for him, for the man he is (and the one he definitely isn't)—and John sees that same, misplaced rapaciousness in the shaded valleys and unfathomably deep ravines. It's an almost visceral hunger that seems to eclipse everything else; colouring the topography of your gaze in its wake. The glittering scales of a meandering coelacanth. 

Getting caught looking at him in such a way does little to embarrass you. If anything, having his eyes meet yours seems to subsume want with need, merging the two until all that gazes back at him from that prismatic abyss is desire crushed into diamonds from the absolute pressure that leaks from the black holes in the centre. 

He's been warned before about sirens and sea monsters, but standing in front of him with the raging ocean as your backdrop, he finds he cares very little for portends after all. 

John gives you every chance to pull away, to tell him this is a mistake, that you don't feel the same way, that you couldn't possibly do this, but you ignore all of them. Every single one until his hand is around your waist, the other cupping your jaw, and your breath is on his tongue. 

You make the first move. He doesn't know why that surprises him—you have this way about you that reminds him of rogue waves: an untameable suddenness, brash in everything you do; untempered by man and their flimsy metal cups in the ocean—but when you curl your fingers into the Sherpa lapels of his jacket, and wrench him into your sphere, tidally locked in your pull, he finds himself adrift. Lost. The only thing keeping him steady is you. Your touch. 

Your lips are searing when they bite into his, bruising and all-consuming. He likes the burn of it.

It's a kiss just as much as it is a slap to the mouth. A reprimand. How dare you keep me waiting? And somewhere deep in his chest, something unfurls. Something comes loose. Wants to apologise, wants to beg forgiveness, but the words are stifled by your lips sliding against his, your fingers touching the parts of his cheeks that haven't known the feeling of another since he was twenty and grew it out as long as he could get away with it in the military. You hold him. Anchor him in place as you take, as you badger his body into yours, trying to syphon all of the air from his feeble lungs. 

He lets you, rocking with your demands the same way he would a sudden squall, his body a ship in the vast clutch of your ocean. 

The tip of your nose slots into the corner of his own when you tilt your head into the kiss, tongue sliding, liquid, molten, against the seam of his mouth. Humid breath paints the skin under his eye until it's tacky with condensation, and he wants to feel your breath on him everywhere. Wants to touch the places your breath ghosted over with bare fingers to feel the remnants of what you left behind. 

(He wants it to stain him. Leave a permanent mark for all to see. A sailor claimed by the sea, by rogue waves, and the embodiment of a pelagic calamity in the shape of you.)

His lips part just enough to let the tip of your tongue slide in, to touch his in a gentle kiss. A perfunctory greeting for what will, hopefully, become routine because he knows what you taste like now—seagrass, fennel and yew arils—and doesn't think he has the strength to let it go. A new addiction forms somewhere in the catastrophe of his hindbrain, the same place that yearns for nicotine and alcohol to blur the rugged edges of a childhood he can't quite manage to let go of. One that bled putrid blood into his adolescence, his adulthood. That makes running his first thought in the face of anything that has the capacity to heal. Or sacrifice himself for some greater good he could never really bring himself to believe in, despite the words he preached like a scratched record—we dirty our hands so theirs stays clean. A fallacy, of course, like many things in his life. A broken, fractured homunculi trying to navigate a world it wasn't made for. 

But you soothe those parts, don't you? Palliative comfort in the shape of something that has the measure to hurt, to ruin. 

—and fuck, does he want to be ruined by you—

You pull away from him as if you can taste his debauchery, his need, on your tongue and want to skewer him through the heart with it. The distance feels vacant and endless: a devastating bergschrund.   

You blink at him, eyes heavy and full of promises, of wants. The sight of your red tongue brushing over your wet bottom lip nearly makes him ascend to some spectral plane of existence where nothing but the alluring sight of you lives in his consciousness, and it's only your hushed words—raw and tempered—that reign him in. 

"Come back to my house, John."

It's not a question. He knows it in his bones. Just like he knows it could never be one—never—because doesn't have the willpower to say no. And you know this, of course. Have known it from the beginning when you peeled back the rotting layers, flaying his walls from his skin just to learn his name. 

("It's Price," he growled out, words masticating between clenched teeth. "John Price.")

He wears his want in cinder and ash. Feels the fever under his skin.  "Fuck—," he rasps, throat scorched. Brittle charcoal. The words taste like wood chips on his tongue. "What are we waitin' for then, love?"

The billowing sea breeze howls outside of your small house on the mouth of the inlet, an enchanting soundscape that seems to amplify the soft noises that spill from your lips at his touch. 

You burn like the sun bearing down on the desert of the ocean, and he feels your scorching presence between the split of his shoulder blades, liquifying the knobs of his spine until it pools in the clefts of his back. 

Boneless, broken, he loses all sense of himself as he ruts into you like a man who's never been touched before in his life—clumsy, selfish, and unpractised. Your pleasure is the equinox in the centre of his head, a reachable goal he strives for, but each shudder that leaves the column of your throat seems to shatter him into fragments. He wants, wants, wants: there's a war in his head, in his touch. Greedily, he learns your topography until it's ingrained in his marrow. Until he knows where each dip and fold, every scar and blemish, on your skin sits, waiting for the worship of his touch. 

He yields to you. Offers himself up at your altar—yours for the taking—until his sacrifice is met in seasalt and bliss. It's by this flickering dawn that spills into your bedroom window, the one that faces parallel to the sea—always there, in the corner of his eye—where his resolve is laid to rest on a bier. 

It burns on the pyre when your fingers thread through his hair, gripping tight as he falls into pieces in your arms, buried as deep inside of you as he can get. And it's here, safe in the bracket of your legs, spread wide to accommodate the staggering bulk of his body, he finds both nirvana and damnation—his own personal hell nestled in the crux of your thighs.

"Stay the night," you whisper to him, the command slurred on the tobacco that leaks from the burning tip of his cigar. 

One down, he counts; two more to go. The sight of the dwindling pack seems to notch inside his aching ribs, bruised with the cuts you made into his marrow until a scar in the shape of your name formed, seems like a portend. 

He stares at the brittle pieces of the tobacco leaves in the metal tin like they might divine the ancient wisdom of augers and the seers who gleaned hidden truths and hindsight in a teacup, but all he gets is the heady scent of nicotine for his search. 

"Mm." 

Your hands press against his naked back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch before they move around his midsection, fingers digging into the plush flesh of his belly—too much lobster rolls, he'd snarked when your teeth sunk into the softness put there by you; a fullness he hasn't felt since he was eighteen. You knead his skin, thumbing over the indents of your teeth, a perfect tattoo, before you hum in satisfaction, the sound of a cat eating its catch, that makes his spine thrum. 

"Good," you husk into his shoulder blade, teeth peppering nips across his sun scorched skin. "'cause I'm not done with you yet, John."

He shudders. "Fuck, love—gonna send me into an early grave."

It draws a simmering chuckle from deep within your chest. Sparking embers. The heat thrills him. 

"A lovely way to go," you murmur, hands drawing intricate webs over his torso, tangling through the coarse hair that gathers in dark swaths of brown across his body. "And I'll even give you a proper sea burial."

The thought alone strips his soul from this prison of bone and flesh. To be known so innately is a dangerous thing, he finds; so deceptively addicting, so achingly good, and he wants to run from it just as much as he wants to bask in the feeling. 

His soul is hungering for something he's never tasted before—until now, until you—and that unquenchable devotion glues to the very essence of him; a tick burrowing into his skin until it rots. 

He fucks you against the window running parallel to the sea instead. Unmaking himself in the clutch of you until your fingers thread him back into some semblance of a man with a soul made for the sea. 

(A place he wants to go with you.)

The unread tobacco leaves in bone china end up spelling out the end in a red flash on his phone. 

A voicemail is a cruel reminder of the looming deadline on the horizon. 

Fixed 'er up fer ya, b'y. She'll be ready in a night or two. Right time for lobster, too, yeah? Anyhoo, call me when you get this. 

What was once anticipatory now feels too much like being caught under a guillotine. He pretends his hands are not shaking when he calls the man back.

The man meets him by the harbour. 

"Should take 'er out," he says, wiggling a tooth pick between his teeth. "You know 'er be'er than I do. Make sure she's good t'go, ya'know?"

He hums something that might sound like an assent to unpractised ears, but the false starts in his rib cage flares up, a deep ache that rattles through the scarred brackets and leaves the seam of his mouth in a muted snarl of discontent.

Ready to go, he thinks a touch cruelly in a shorn off form of self-harm. Just to make it hurt. Just to feel it agony ripping through the gaps between his bones. 

Right. Right. 

How is he supposed to leave when he left so much of himself inside of you?

"Come with me tomorrow. Want to show you something."

"Oh, yeah?" You murmur, brows bunching together in a way that makes his teeth ache. "And what's that?"

His thumb brushes your pulse. "Mm, 'bout time you met Captain."

Newfoundland lingers in the backdrop for most of the day, rising above the waters in a rocky formation of evergreen against dark blue. 

You spend most of it leaning against the port, eyes wide in wonder at the absence of land, a mere pinprick in the vast sea, and he wonders if anyone has ever taken you out this far. Showed you something this haunting, this mesmerising. 

(Selfishly, stupidly, he hopes he's the first.)

The sea is calm. Almost eerily so, but he basks in the gentle rolls of the waves, the serene waters. It's picturesque in a way, the sight of an old postcard with a basin of pure azure and molten yellow sun, haloed in soft rings of ocean. 

As you fawn at the beauty around you, quiet in your musings, he grabs his fishing pole and sets out to catch dinner. John hasn't looked too deep into coastal fishing laws, but from your soft snort, he thinks it might just be on the side of illegal. Still. The coast guard isn't around, and he doesn't think you'll tell on him—at least not if he catches you a salmon and makes you an accomplice. 

The day dwadles, sun fading into a stunning sunset. 

He catches Atlantic Salmon, and spots a commercial lobster trawler in the distance. When he radios over, they offer a trade. Salmon for lobster. You laugh as the men toss over a cooler full of fat lobster for a wriggling salmon that nearly slips from his grasp. 

It's in this exchange—and a day on the water—that he realises just how much he missed this. This. Being on the water. Dependant on no one but his own knowledge, his foresight. Always just on the side of illegal in coastal waters. Making trades, and bartering for dinner. It's peace. Or as close of an approximation a man like him might deserve. 

A tried and true native of the land, raised on fish and crustaceans, you teach him the proper way to prepare lobster and Atlantic Salmon, sucking your teeth at his lack of spices in his threadbare cupboards. You make do, and he can't remember the last time he had something this good. 

"Just wait," you huff. "When I have a full kitchen with proper seasonings, I'll make you something even better."

There's a tightness in his chest at the prospect of next time. "Can't wait." 

It's a lie. Barefaced and ugly. 

He offers beer instead. Brings out some of his hidden whisky. 

"Not gonna be too drunk to get us back home, are you?"

Home. He is home. Has been since he kicked off from the marina, his hands curled around the leather steering wheel. The bumps of the waves against the hill. 

He wonders what you think about all of this; his kingdom at sea is nothing special. Modest, in many ways. Sometimes the toilet in the washroom leaks. He only really has warm water on Tuesdays. Something with the tides, probably. Spiders have taken a permanent refuge in the closet adjacent to the kitchenette. He thinks he might have some exotic stowaway lurking somewhere, too. A mouse of some kind, maybe, from when he was in Madagascar for a brief interlude. 

The boat is never still, always rolling with the waves. Rocking. He's grown used to the feeling of it. Much too accustomed to always moving, never being still, to ever feel any modicum of comfort on land. 

Thinking about it, about returning back to the inn tonight when the water is this serene, and the moon is this sull, pitches something ugly in his chest. Reluctance. And maybe the urge to show off. To share. 

"Want to spend the night?" 

You make a comical picture with your fingers tugging desperately on the cork of a wine bottle you found under the sink, blinking at him owlishly as you process his request, and he smothers a laugh in his chest at the sight. He knows if he lets it out he'll never look at wine or owls without thinking about you, but maybe you're already ingrained in his head. Stuck there in places he can't reach, can't scrape out. 

"What?" You ask, lightly. "Out here?"

"Why not? We're close to the Labrador Strait, too. Could drop anchor now. Head back in the morning."

"Is it—?" You stop yourself from finishing with a shake of your head, and a sheepish smile. "Nevermind. Yeah, um. Yeah, I'd—I'd really like that, actually."

Is it safe, he knows you were going to ask. The question would have made him roll his eyes, and bark out something that could have been a snort of derision or a condescending laugh. He was a bloody marine, he'd have griped. I know these waters better'n I know Liverpool.

But you didn't. You didn't ask. 

The harshness of the nevermind sounded like a self-admonishment for even asking such a thing. It's possible he's reading too much between the lines, but he likes the implicit trust that bleeds through—a touch of hesitation stifled by the immediate certainty that John will keep you safe. 

He likes the fit of it. The way it curls around his pride. 

"C'mon," he murmurs. "I'll show you around."

"It's small," he grouses, a touch uncomfortable as you patter around the bedroom that's barely bigger than a linen closet. It smells like him, he reckons. All smoke, tobacco, and stale sweat. Nothing pretty—not like your sheets that smell of fresh pine resin, or your room the scent of cornflower. 

The ship itself is considered a luxury on the ocean—old, but meticulously maintained—and its age bleeds through the panelled walls, and the clumsy decor. Built largely for dedicated seafarers, the cabin boasts two bedrooms (the captain's quarters being the largest, and the crewmates dorms still stained with rust from where the nails keeping the bunk beds in place during listing started to erode), a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a small space inside the helm that could be considered a small living room—squinting, of course, required. Still. It's home. It's—

The manifestation of his pride. His loneliness. His wants. 

(The walls are drenched in his madness. Do you see his ghosts when you look around—)

"It's cosy," you volley back, barely paying him much attention as you prod at his bare-bones; his sanctuary. He pretends the words don't stroke his ego in the perfect way. "It must be quite the sight to wake up to a sunrise on the sea." 

"Mm, it is."

It's unlike anything he'd ever seen before. A nearly endless roll of cerulean in all directions that almost blends seamlessly with the cyanic sky. Plumes of sea clouds. Birds swooping overhead. 

Often, he finds curious sea creatures coming up from the depths to investigate his boat. Pods of playful dolphins arching through the waves. A mother whale and her calf, nearly the length of his sixty-foot sailer. Rays. The occasional shark when he's fishing, lured in by the struggles and the flash of blood in the water. The feeder fish congregate beneath his boat, picking at the barnacles growing or the smaller fish gathering there for safety. It becomes its own ecosystem after a while, drawing in Remoras, various sharks, tropical fish, and barracuda. 

He mostly gets avian visitors resting on his hull. Great Albatrosses and Cormorants. The odd Pelican closer to shore. Mollymawks, Northern fulmar. 

The open ocean is a vast desert. Sometimes he goes days without seeing any signs of life. It comes with a sense of peace that is indescribable—an awe deep-rooted in his bones, one tinged with fear of the yawning abyss that rolls out in all directions as he knows, without a doubt, that he is less than a mere pinprick in the sea. Humbling. Awe-inspiring. It all coalesces into an experience he can't put into words. One that he yearns for when he's on dry land. 

One that he wants to show you. To share with you. 

A silly whim, of course. Strangers don't traverse the pelagic zone together. 

He shakes it off. Recalibrates. Tries to centre himself, and shuck the thoughts of waking up to a perpetual sunrise with you. The ochre crest of it illuminates a deep blue sea for miles and miles; bare from pollutants that seep into the aether near the coast. Lights that dim the coruscating beauty above. 

But as much as he thinks sunrises and sunsets are a thing of beauty, he knows there's something else you'll like much more. 

"C'mon," he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. "Wanna show you somethin'."

You don't hesitate this time. "Lead the way, captain."

(And oh, how the coy honorific rumbles through his marrow.)

That something is the reason he became so addicted to the sea. It's a darkness unlike anything else he'd ever experienced before—a complete absence of light that usually pollutes the sky in the cities, one that people often think is escapable in the countryside away from bustling metropolises. 

That has nothing on the ocean after dusk. 

To describe the sensation would be pitch blackness. A black hole. Everything is swallowed up by it—complete antimatter—until the horizon and ocean merge together in an unfathomable pit of tenebrousness. It looks like spilled ink across a page, everywhere the eye turns is shrouded. Indescribable. 

When he's in an inlet, or off the coast of an inhabited island, he used to turn the floodlights of his ship off just to see what he couldn't see, and it was endless. A vacuum. Terror drenched over him in almost equal measure to the absolute awe that rolled through his chest like a tsunami. 

It was the infinite darkness of space mirrored on earth. An uncanny image. Pure nothingness.

There was more light when he closed his eyes than when he had them wide open. Phosphenes brighter than the world around him. 

A harrowing, everpresent experience that notched false starts into the parentheses of his ribs, and made him ache when he wasn't surrounded by water. 

He keeps only the navigation lights on when he leads you to the deck, and the sharp gasp he hears makes him burn, knowing exactly what you must be seeing. Feeling. 

Even at the very tip of the ocean, barely with your toes in the vast abyss, the absence of light pollution gives way to a stunning artefact in the ancient sky. Nebulae clouds. Gleaming stars. In the distance, he spots the coruscating light of Mars, visible to the naked eye. 

The moon sits in the equinox, casting out a blanket of light over the rhythmic swell of the still-black water. It paints the surface lily white. 

He stands beside you, eyes greedily taking in every flickering emotion across your awe-slacked face. Each expression categorised and filed away. A preview to the experience going inside you as you gaze up at the night sky. 

"John…" it's a hushed whisper, drenched in a reverence so thick, so palpable, he thinks he can reach out and catch the ghosts of your wonder on the tips of his fingers. "It's…"

You trail off, but he knows. He knows. 

His hand brushes yours. "Beautiful, ain't it?"

Wordless, and maybe a little bit speechless, you nod, eyes still fixed on the indistinguishable horizon as your hands slip into his. 

The stars are still caught in your eyes even after he leads you to a small sitting area with steps leading into the water. He warns you about sea lamprey and cookie cutter sharks when you try to dip your feet into the basin, laughing at the small squeak you give when you wrench your toes out of the water, drawing your knees tight to your chest. 

Sharks hunt at night, he reminds you with the same cadence as a conman. 

The sideward glance you give in response to his mirth spumes a strange effervescent feeling in the pit of his chest. Humour for the sake of it. He can easily imagine many nights like this with you, basking in the bloom of the ocean, the splashes in the distance, the steady rock of waves licking against the boat, and it's something that seems to syphon the breath from his lungs, knocking him offkilter for a moment. Skewing his perspective. 

It's odd, he finds, to be so attune with someone so fast. To connect on a level that feels deeper than what it is. It jars him as it shatters through that ironclad resolve he wore around his heart.

"Why the sea?" You ask after a moment, thumb skating through the pebbles of condensation that gathers around your bottle. 

The sight of your wet finger shouldn't be as enticing as it is, but the way you stroke the nozzle makes his stomach burn with a heat he hasn't felt in a while. It's gentle. Soft. He wonders if you'd be that tender with him—

The thought is shattered when you glance at him, eyes searching for an answer hidden in blooming blue. There's muted curiosity eked into the divot between your brow—unconsciously done—and he forces himself to turn away lest he reach out and soothe the wrinkle for you. 

(You never know how much you furrow your brow around him. Price isn't sure if that's a portend, some archaic warning of the inevitable frustration you'll feel toward when all of this is over. When the hurricane season passes, and the waters are once again chartable—

Another thing he doesn't want to think about.)

He chews on the question for a moment, making a show of reaching for the—nearly empty—carton of cigars from his breast pocket (another run to Cuba is imminent, he reasons, and tries to convince himself he's not stalling). Deft, practised fingers pull one out, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as he measures just how much of himself he wants to give away to you. 

(All of it. Every part—)

The paper absorbs the whisky staining his lips when he skewers it between his teeth, a futile effort to keep the hollowness between his lungs and ribs from aching. He thinks about blaming the curdling weight in his stomach on the thought of a ruined cigar—soaked tobacco won't draw as good as dry—but he knows himself better than that. 

It's the suddenness of your query, maybe, but a part of him had been waiting for this very question from the onset of—this. You, him. Together. It seems to be one of those things that just comes up, doesn't it? An unavoidable collision into abject disappointment. 

In all his past flings—calling any of them relationships feels juvenile for what it was: quick, ephemeral pleasure in a foreign land, always lasting just long enough to patch up his boat; he won't disrespect the partners he had by giving it more potency than it deserved—this had been the epoch. The moment when they realised he was never really in it. That his foot was already slipping over the ledge of his boat, head full of the places he'd go next. Always alone. Without company. 

Some take it in stride. They know not to expect much in terms of commitment, or loyalty, from a man who reeks of the sea, and wobbles on land. They don't begrudge him the briefness of the affair, or the lack of a promise to write, or call, or see them again, some other time. When you pass through here next… always seems to be the sentiment at the cronis. The end of them. It never goes anywhere, but it's never finished, either—because it never really began, did it?

He rarely goes to the same place twice unless he needs to (Barbadian whisky, Cuban cigars, fish and chips in Liverpool for the holidays notwithstanding). 

And despite how many times he's been asked this very same question, usually with less clothes on, he never really has an answer. Not one that's enough. 

"Where else would I be?" He muses instead, blinking up at the indigo sky. It's an unforgiving nothingness up there, too, isn't it? "Workin' some job in an office? Military? Nah, would bore me too much. M'better off at sea."

"All alone?" You fill the gap he didn't realise he left empty. "Isn't that—"

He doesn't think he can bear to hear you say it—

"Yeah." 

—so he doesn't let you. 

His cigar tastes stale. Wet tobacco. Ashes. He draws in a deep hit on the next inhale but it curdles in his mouth, leaks poison into his bloodstream. He feels dizzy with it. Offkilter. 

When he invited you to see his ship, half of it was—admittedly—a euphemism. A thinly veiled come on. A facsimile of romance. Who wouldn't, afterall, want to drift out to the open ocean, making love—or some sad version of it—under the stars on a clear night. 

He'd take you to the spot where land was swallowed wholly by the horizon, until all you could see was the midnight blue ocean pressing down on all sides. Gentle waves rocking the ship. The stars coruscating in the indigo sky like glittering diamonds held up to the light. The murky haze of Juniper in the distance. A splash from a whale breaching the surface. 

It would have been a nice evening. He'd have drinked whisky with you—smuggled out from his secret stash of the best kind you could find in the Caribbean—and taught you how to smoke a cigar. 

You'd have laid down beneath the stars, head swimming with the buzz of alcohol. John would have leaned over you, charting the open awe in your gaze as you stared up at the heavens. 

Maybe you would have tried to ask a question, or marvel at the wonders of the world that might have only ever been seen by you. The first person to take in this view in all of history. Considering the vastitude of the ocean, it would be a real possibility. The very first. He'd give that to you. The first, the last, the only. All yours. 

In return, he'd steal a kiss. Swallowing the question from your lips with a slow, sensual roll of his tongue grazing yours. All coy and soft. Saccharine. You'd taste of whisky. He'd drink you down in several mouthfuls, unable to get enough, until you were keening into the night, begging for more. More, John, more. 

It blankets his thoughts, and the regret he feels at the loss is potent. Fragments of a good night flash before him—your fingers curling around the quilt he laid out on the deck, digging those talons into the meat of his shoulder until it breaks skin: a permanent scar. A jagged, silver meteor across milky flesh; he'd catch a glimpse in the mirror and think of you. Whisper-soft kisses. Your body opening up for him, eager and needy, calling out in a siren's song for more. 

(Who is he to deny you when you beg so prettily?)

Instead it metastasises inside of him. Malignant and pestiferous. Leaks rot into his bloodstream until all he can taste is the petrified residuum of regret, bitter and acrid. 

Some selfish part wanted something nice for himself. A respite from the eventual end careening toward him at a speed he can't avoid. 

The ruined tatters of it simmers in the air. A noxious miasma that seems to shake something inside of you loose. Maybe you see it, too. The loss. The end. The eventuality of a bitter, and quick, conclusion. 

You're quiet even as realisation darkens across your brow. Flattens the awe in your eyes with the cold douse of water to a burning flame. Clumped ash piles around a damp campfire. 

The flames were not smothered slowly, gently, like they should have been, like he wanted them to. No. No. They were snuffed out in a quick end. Brutal and unforgivable. 

And you say: "oh." 

As if you get it, but you don't. You don't because you think about forever when you look at him. It's not your fault, though—never. Because he hasn't said a word about leaving even though it stuck to his teeth, tarry and vile. A resinous stain he chews everyday, blackening his teeth until they rot. 

But he's a coward. A fool. The taste of you is sweet enough to drown out the bitterness on his tongue, and maybe he's using your kindness a bit too much—no. No. Not maybe. Certainly. Definitely. He's using the cloying taste of you as a buffer to everything weeping from the cesspit inside of his chest. 

Then: "oh."

It's almost prophetic in a way. Cyclical in its heartache. 

He wants to apologise, but he isn't sure where to start. How does he say sorry for something of this magnitude? 

He doesn't. He can't.

John lets it necrotise instead. 

"Well," you say after a moment of silence. "When are you—?"

You don't finish. Can't, maybe, and he doesn't begrudge you the inability to utter that succinct finality. Not when he doesn't think he could, either. 

So, he says, "soon."

But you ask: "how soon?"

And he's reminded, quite vividly, of packing his things in the back of his nineteen ninety-five forest green Tata Estate when he was just shy of eighteen. His dad fuming on the porch. 

You're nothing without me, he'd spat. 

He was right, of course. Despite everything he tried, the only place that ever gave him a chance was the military solely for the thinly concealed awe that leaked in whenever he uttered his last name. 

But there was freedom in leaving. In skirting around the army for a place in the Royal British Navy—separate from the shadow of his father, his grandfather, but still riding on their coattails. John quickly found sanctuary at sea. At the unignorable distance put between himself and all the terrible memories in Hereford. 

In the middle of the ocean, that bastard's shadow couldn't reach him. 

And now—

Nothing does. 

How soon, you ask, but the real question should be: how dare you. 

"Mm, a day, maybe—if the weather holds." 

And it will. He's checked the forecast meticulously. Radioed in and asked about that pesky hurricane that seemed to fizzle out without much fanfare afterall. All the answers he got were the same. Perfect window, they say, is between dawn and mid-morning. There's gonna be some heavy winds on the coast, but if you set sail early enough, you'll miss it entirely. 

"Ah," you murmur, and there's just the faintest echo of your realisation at uncovering yet another one of his half-truths. You know he'll be gone the moment he drops you off on the harbour. "Okay."

John doesn't mean to put all of this on you so quickly. Everything just spiralled, spun, until it was a big, tangled mess beneath his feet. Time a mere whisper in the wind. His absence is a glaring black hole that you can't avoid. 

It's all pithy excuses that do little to assuage the weight of everything he'd done, but you take it right on the chin like he knew you would. A sharp nod. The barest hint of a frown. 

That is the only thing you can do, isn't it? Swallow it whole and try not to choke on it because no promises have ever been uttered between him or you. Nothing to substantiate this growing, cancerous lump of emotions that feel too fast and too slow, and too—

Dangerous. Perfect.

In his silence, a crater forms again, and he's reminded how much he prefers the sea to people; gyres to love. The brittle embrace of his cabin to the warm arms of a lover. 

He was made for the ocean. Meant to sink into algae blooms, and discover reefs untouched. To battle waves bigger, more meaningful than himself, and find sustenance on crated bartletts and scored tuna. 

But—

But. 

His hands curl around your waist, pulling you back into the broad expanse of his sun warmed chest. The heat of him liquifies your spine, and you melt, readily, into him with what might be a sigh. 

It's all so quick, isn't it? And yet, he can think of nothing else except the almost perfect torture of waking up beside you each morning. Of suffusing his atoms to yours. 

"Come with me," he murmurs into your hairline, breathing in the scent of you. Loam. Pine resin. Soft and earthy. And that's what you are, aren't you? Made for the land. The earth. Gaia. Terra. Can he really take you from this place and expect you to live like him on the sea? 

You don't answer. He feels the disappointment like a searing knife to his gut, but he understands. Gets it. This isn't the sort of proposal a sane person would make to someone they've known for only a few, short months. 

He wonders if you think he's only saying it to get into your pants. He probably isn't the first—and definitely wouldn't be the last—to make a litany of false promises just to taste you on his tongue, but he means it. Means it with every fibre of his body. Captain is roomy. Has always been too big for one person—too lonely. But it's a heavy question. A big ask. One that he selfishly presses into your hands as he litters your neck with kisses sharpened with the edge of his teeth. Leaving his mark on your skin. A semi-permanent stain only he knows is there. 

It's easy to pretend this won't be the last time when he lays you out on the sheets, fingers digging into your skin as if he was trying to crawl inside of you—and maybe he is. Maybe he wants to. Maybe he could stay suffused to your ribcage for the rest of his life, waking up and falling asleep to the sound of your beating heart, and die a happy man. For once in his life, something that belongs to him that isn't shadowed by ghosts or regret. 

(Something he will never, could never, deserve.)

There's something heart achingly desperate about the way he clings to you. Folds himself over you, murmuring promises and pleas into the bruised skin of your neck. Soft murmurations easily swallowed by the sounds you make as he ruts into you at a maddening pace. All clumsy and unrefined because he refuses to let go of you. Refuses to unglue his skin from yours, his teeth from your neck. 

He's never had it like this—drenched in sweat, pinned in place over top of you like a weighted blanket; sloppy, messy—but he feels the curl of addiction setting in when he feels the hiccups you make when he pushes in just so. When your flesh dents under the tips of his fingers, and he feels your bones in his grip. Each moan, every tremble and quiver somehow magnified in the small cabin that's much too big for one person. 

John wants to take you to this reef he stumbled onto off the Azores. Wants to walk on the sandy atoll, and fuck you under the stars. The first—and only—people on earth to feel the white sand under their skin, to whisper into the inky black of night. 

You'd like it there, he thinks. This lonely, isolated patch of land just barely rising out above the ocean. Filled to the brim with tropical fish, and hammerheads. Sea turtles. Orcas chasing seals in the distance. 

He presses his lips to your hairline, and breathes life into this little picture of you on the shore, whispering promises wrapped in desperation, devotion, into your skin. 

"John," you gasp, and he's not sure if it's a reprimand—please, please, please shut up, stop talking about that because you know I can't, I can't—or a plea—take me, bring me there, please—but he doesn't stop. Can't. He's too invested in this picturesque fantasy, the same one he dreamed about when he fucked his fist to the thought of you. "John, please—"

His veins are filled with blood-red wine. A sudden potent cocktail that makes him dizzy. Drunk on the wisps of ethanol that burrow deeper into his body until it floods his atrium. 

John wants to lean into it. Relish in the white-hot heat of it all. Wants to drag you down into the sand, into the unending sea, and stay there forever, just at the cusp of where land meets water. Your own kingdom in the domain of Poseidon. Children of Phorcys. Pontus. 

You grip him tight, and he thinks like this he could pretend it's not the last time. That when your body shudders beneath him, it's not out of sorrow or finality. 

"John," you say, but he can't bear it. He kisses you instead. Drows in the taste of you until his head spins. Spins, spins—

He wakes up in a tangle of limbs. Your arm strewn across his broad chest, anchoring him to the bed below. Your head nestled in the crux of his armpit, nose pressed tight to the swell of his ribcage. Mouth open, he notes, drooling into wry curls that blanket his torso in swaths of dark umber. 

With you very much cocooned to his side, thigh trapping his pelvis down, he feels the sharp sting of claustrophobia raking talons over the bone encasing his eyes. He's buried under you—your body the soft swell of tumulus—and for a moment he nearly forgets himself. Nearly bolts from the bed, your arms. The room. Running, running—it reminds him too much of being a captive. Tied down. Restrained. Unable to move of his own free will—

But you mumble something in your sleep, the words lost to the blood rushing in his ears, and he finds the pieces of himself he'd lost. Lulled, almost to the point of complacency, by your breaths ghosting across the thick, coarse hair on his chest. Rhythmic. Calming. 

He leans into it. Buries himself deeper. 

You smell of sweat, sex. Fennel. He burrows his nose into your crown, breathes in the scent of you until his lungs burn. He wants them to scar over with just the thick scent of you. To leave a mark so deep, so permanent, that each time he inhales, all he can taste in the back of his throat is the lingering residuum of you. 

There's this earthiness to you that feels like digging his feet into sand, and he wants to slink deeper into the embrace, into you, but there's a lingering forethought in his head that he ought to get up. That this moment of brief comfort will come at a cost, with its teeth bared and wrapped around his bones, and it's a price he can't afford to pay. 

There's an almost cognitive dissonance between what his body wants, and what he needs to do. 

It takes most of his willpower to divorce himself from your clutch, but he does. Slowly. Reluctantly. With his fingers leadened with torpor. 

Regret is the feeling of cold wood under his feet. His arms relieved from the weight of you. Fix it, something inside his chest screams, but he can't. Can't. 

He doesn't look back when he leaves the small bedroom that smells of you. Not that it matters. 

In the separation, he finds he cut a little too much off from himself, leaving more of himself with you than he intended. 

John doesn't expect much. Hasn't, really, since he set sail with his compass pointed away from home, and threw each sorrowful piece of himself into the reefs he encountered along the way. 

It's the same when he gathers everything together in the morning, running through a mental checklist of what needs to be done before he sets off into the mid-Atlantic, hopeful to reach Bermuda within four, maybe five days. From there, it would be nearly fifteen days before he reached the Azores, some nine thousand and twenty nautical miles between the destinations. 

He expects the winds this time of year to be between zero to twenty three knots. Waves, at most, around four to nine metres. He can keep up with it all, he's sure, but he's feeling less inclined to make the trip solo, and thinks, as he trawls back to shore with you sleeping in the cabin still, if he might pick up a small crew in Carolina before setting off. Or maybe he'll take solitude until he heads into the Azores. He isn't sure. The only thing he is certain of is that, for the first time in years, he doesn't want to be alone at sea. 

An oddity, of course. John always wants to be alone. 

(Until you—)

The notion is tucked away into the space inside his head where all the things he doesn't want to think about go to moulder. To rot. The idea that he's more gangrenous parts than man sits idly behind his teeth, a fleeting whim, but that, too, is shoved aside. Buried. 

—like the weight of you on him. His own personal grave, a tumulus—

Another limb severed at artery. Left to bleed. To rot. He considers leaving it out, making it hurt. Salt to the wound he has no intention of healing. 

He cauterises it instead, and uses the flame to spark up his last cigar for the occasion. 

(There's nothing worth celebrating, but he thinks he's due a belated birthday gift to himself.)

The brackish waters in the inlet are muddied with loess, and he considers taking the longer arc into the harbour to avoid the sudden swelling of waves lapping at the sides of his vessel. Pure pride, of course. He's not a captain of a dirty ship—an oxymoron at best and a idling thought that takes the shape of stalling for time—but he trudges forward in spite of the twitch in his knuckles, the urge to notch his wheel just everso slightly to the right. 

It passes, and Newfoundland curves out of the waters in a splotch of green against dour grey. Another overcast morning. The inlet, he'd heard on the radio, is dense with fog trickling down from the rolling hills in the background of this rugged landscape. 

Fog on the ocean isn't rare. With a simple flip of a switch, he changes his visualisation from naked sight to sonar, and leans back on the balls of his feet, blinking restlessly into the thick plumes of smokey-white. 

The cabin door rattles when you open it—the only indicator that you're awake—and the sound sits heavy across his shoulders. A noise he thinks he could get used to hearing. 

"Give'er a shake," he calls, voice ashen, thick from sleep. He hasn't spoken a word since he radioed in to let them know he was moving down the channel. That was nearly two hours ago. 

You appear in his periphery, wrapped up in a shawl he keeps at the end of the bed. One he thinks he picked up when he was working on a shipping vessel in Pacific, just after he'd split from the navy, and was docked for a week in Taiwan because of bad weather. 

It looks good on you. The colours accentuate your features in a way that makes it difficult to focus on the black screen of the sonar, but you make it easier for him when you pad closer to where he stands, yawning around a good morning as you fic yourself to his side, reaching for him. 

You curl against him as he steers into the estuary, one arm tucked around the small of his back, and the other above his groin in a sideways hug. A small shiver wracks through your frame when the chill from the frigid waters sneaks in through the open companionway of the helm, and you burrow deeper into his side, nose nuzzling against his bicep to keep warm. The weight of you is comforting. Steady. 

It's a clumsy dance to free his arm, but he does it somehow without dislodging you in the process, and lifts his arm, steering with one hand through the maw of the Labrador Strait, before he quickly loops it around your neck, keeping you tight to his side. You fall into him in a hurry—maybe from desperation to keep the bitter cold at bay or for some strained, final moments of closeness before he leaves the docks, and you. 

The silence is heavy. A potent cocktail of shaky uncertainty admixing with all the regret he feels for not acting on his impulsive feelings sooner. It sits low, thick, in his guts, and vacillates between mocking him for what could have been weeks of satiating himself on the fill of you, and taunting him for starting this in the first place. 

Especially when he knew exactly how it was always meant to end. 

And in a rather vicious moment of cruelty, that particular ending bobs up from the brackish waters with its stark brown oak pillars cutting through the dense fog. He doesn't need sonar to see the pier in the distance. Three clicks to the west. 

His throat pinches tight at the sight of it—rather irritatingly unassuming in its lacklustre beginnings, but a garish knife to chest all the same. It constricts. He tries to swallow but can't get the weight around his neck to receed. 

He takes his hand off the wheel, scratching at the raw skin along the column of his neck. 

His jostling seems to wake you from your sleepy stare out the window. You clear your throat. He tenses. Guts wringings themselves into a frenzied coil. Don't, he wants to say. Don't speak. Don't say anything—

"Listen, Price," you start clumsily, cautiously. And despite knowing where this is going—some apology for why you can't go with him, for why you're saying no—he makes a noise to dissuade you from continuing. He gets it. He does. It's a big ask to have someone give up several months of their life to traverse the open ocean with a stranger. 

"I know. S'alright, love. I'll—" the words are bitten through when he realises where they're headed. The offer to call. Or write. Things he knows he won't ever get around to doing, but the loose attempt to placate is better than hearing whatever you might say. A selfish need to keep the silence. 

"No, listen," you stress with a huff. He hears the eye roll in your tone, and fights back a scoff at the image. "You're stubborn, you know?"

It's nothing he's never heard before but it still makes him laugh—some broken, ugly thing in the base of his throat. Clawing up his oesophagus. 

After a moment of silence, you nuzzle your cheek against his peck, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his heart. 

"I'm not a sailor, and this is probably the craziest thing I've ever done in my whole life, but—" his heart leaps, banging against the cage of his ribs, still scarred with your name. 

"—love—"

"—I don't want to just write you. Or—or wait for a phone call. I don't want to—" 

He hears the click in your throat when you swallow. Feels the herringbone floor open up beneath his feet, plunging his aching heart into the empty maw of his stomach. Still. Through the blooming sense of hope tangling vines around his falling heart, he reaches for the water bottle on the console, wordlessly passing it to you to drink. 

You sniff, and it's an ugly, wet noise that sends a shudder through his being. A sound he could hear, happily, for the rest of his life. 

(Sappy, tragic fool—)

"How long do I have to pack?"

If he'd been a lesser man—or maybe a better one; a good one—he would have crumbled. But he's too grizzled to take his eyes off the shoreline, and maybe—just maybe—too fucking scared to. He doesn't want to look down and find this whole thing has been some horrific joke. Doesn't want to see the derision in your eyes as you ask him why you'd ever pick him, a stranger, over the sanctuary of land. Your home, even. 

But he doesn't doubt you. 

It's an odd juxtaposition, John finds, but he's always been the sort to work in strings of abstract hypocrisy, hadn't he? Implicit trust in the men around him, but not enough to ever let go of the urge so just do everything on his own. To shoulder the burdens a man like him was seemingly built to carry. 

(And made to crack under the weight of them; a thousand fissures that were small enough to go unnoticed—until Gaz grabbed him by the lapels, shoving him against an iron door just to keep him from throwing an innocent man to his death for no other reason than his notched sense of safety—but big enough to leak a caustic ugliness into the word that threatened make the men around him bonesick.)

But he isn't thinking about that right now. Or, rather, he shouldn't be—

Because he believes you. He just believes in himself less. 

So, he has to ask. Has to. "Are you sure? Hard to change your mind when you're in the middle of the bloody ocean, love." 

The exasperated huff let out into his bicep seems to be the only answer he'll get from you on that particular topic, but it's not enough. Despite the miffed squeeze you give when he pulls his arm back, resting his hand against your cheek to pull your face back far enough to peer into your eyes, you go along with his demands, soft as they are. Maybe the way his thumb brushes along the curve of your cheekbone quells the stubbornness that brims at having your choice picked apart until it was nothing but bones. All just to satisfy his own internal dilemma. 

Or a mockery of one, anyway. 

"You gotta be sure," he says, and winces when it comes out rougher than he intended. "This is a big leap. It isn't go to fuckin' Tesco's on a Sunday—"

"First of all," you mumble, eyes narrowing up at him. "We don't even have Tesco's in Canada so that comparison is useless to me. Second of all—" and suddenly, all of that bravado falters. Shakes. You glance away from him—in askance, maybe, at your stutter, at his inability to take something someone tells him at face value. 

"Love—"

There's a fire in your eyes when you turn back to him. A defiant tilt to your chin when it lifts. Sure, and firm, and a little bit proud—drenched in the same shade of stubbornness as himself—and the sight is an electrical shock to his system. A jolt to his chest. One that hangs, heavy, around the nape of his neck, the drape of his shoulders. 

"I'm sure," is all you say. 

And it's enough. Inexplicably, overwhelmingly—enough. 

"Now, how long until we set off? I just need to get some stuff in order before we leave, but I can hurry it as much as—"

It goes against every rule in the book to take his eyes off the horizon and his hands off the wheel, especially this close to shore, but he needs—he needs to touch you. To know. To feel the commitment under your skin like an electric hum. 

"However long you need, love, fuck—" his lips are on yours, stifling the rest of what he meant to say in the taste of you. "Whatever you want, whatever you need—" he makes promises he might not be able to keep, but he thinks if he could, he'd steal the stars and the moon, and let you wear them like pretty gems. 

It'll never come to fruition because all he can really give you is a boat and a broken man who is only good at sailing the seas to escape everything that might get too close. None of it seems to matter. Not to you. Never to you. Every wall he's thrown up has been meticulously chipped down, and this, he finds, is no different. 

You lean into him, heedless of the war in his mind, and breathe in deep. Inhaling the scent of stale tobacco, sex, and sour sweat. There's something facetious about the way you hum into the kiss, nails scratching along his crown, as if you're not committing nearly a year of your life to a man you watched crumble at the altar of your feet just for a sip of you. 

"I've always wanted to go to Spain."

He groans a little into the kiss. Can't help the noises that spill out when you start mapping whimsical plans into something concrete. Something tangible. 

(Permanent, if you'll let him.)

"We'll go. Spain, Portugal, Liverpool, Italy, Cuba, Jamaica, Fiji—" he names each place between a searing kiss and keeps one eye open, listed toward the horizon. He says it all in a hush, caught on the tendrils of desperation. Urgency. There's a quiver in his voice. Blood in his throat. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Just name it, love."

And you just smile like you know he will. That those words, caked in some amalgamation of earnestness and madness, are a promise. An oath. 

"Anywhere," he swears again, brassbound in certainty, tangled in seagrass. 

Your name scars the brackets of his breastbone. Notched into marrow. He feels it heavy in his ribs when he pulls you closer, wanting nothing more than to sink into you until your veins are filled with him. 

Anywhere, he thinks, hushed in its reverence as the levee keeping everything he let rot cracks in your hands. Always. 

YOU—

There's a certain dreariness that comes from living by the ocean, one that's often difficult to put into words or explain to someone who hasn't spent their entire youth being told, never turn your back on it. Never trust it. 

(It, of course, because somewhere along the line, the sea stops being a place, a thing, an artefact, and becomes an entity all on its own. A living, breathing manifestation with its primordial history, its own mythology, all so distinct from anything someone on land could ever dream up.)

Because despite what you might wish, the sea will never be your friend. It's incapable of distinguishing the difference between affection and malice, and shows its love by dragging you to the darkest depths imaginable until your lungs fill with its briny breath and your drops to the floor, a human-sized whalefall. 

The ocean loves you in the worst way. 

It wants to make a tomb of you. A graveyard of algae covered bones. Bloated and unrecognisable. Picked apart until nothing remains but the ghost of you treading its pool. 

In spite of this, the ocean doesn't scare you as much as it should. It's a constant in your life. Permanent. Careless guard your iron shackles. 

(And maybe it's a little bit deeper than that because you never really understood the difference between obsession, devotion, and fear when they all make you feel the same.)

And being so far out from the rest of the people who live along the very same coast—well. That, too, is hard to simplify. 

Life by an unpopular harbour isn't as busy as someone might assume. With its deadened boardwalks, gimmicky shops, and lack of personality to draw a crowd or any would-be tourists, it stagnantes. The place begins to look like a tchotchke. A painting on a faded, sunbleached postcard rather than a cohesive ecosystem. The cogs are rusted and broken, and the delineation between them and the people begins to blur. 

And maybe that's because time feels slower in this liminal space perched between the sea and the swell of a bucolic dreamland, as if it's drenched in molasses. Bound with a ball and chain. Boring simplicity, perhaps. 

Sloughing along is the most apt descriptor you think of to describe how your tarry-thick time is spent. 

Work life balance loses its meaning when you feel the same at home as you do behind a counter. Listless. Lacklustre. It's hard to find inspiration when you've been to every nook and cranny in the valley. When all secrets have been exposed thrice over, and gossip is as stale as the bread Lucy always brings to the potluck each year.

It's fine, of course. 

Work. Home. Work. Sometimes, you'll drive down to Halifax. Maybe stop at Shoppers Drug Mart and squint at the overpriced brands on the too-white walls. But something brand name at Marshalls for more than you can afford to placate that gnawing sense of unease that comes with realising your life can be summed up in three paragraphs or less. 

Age does that, you find. Because when you're stuck in a place that never changes, when the ghost of your childhood runs along the same trails you take as an adult and feels more bitter than nostalgic, growing older starts to feel like a taunt. A jeer. 

Burdened by the encompassing emptiness of time. 

Somewhere along the line—or maybe from the very beginning—you start to stagnante, too. The overwhelming, unignorable feeling of growth weighing you down forms; barnacles clinging to your skin, softening your flesh as they burrow deep, deep, until striking bone. 

You're fine, you think.

Until him. 

Until a man shows up, hiding kindness behind a surly disposition, and offers you nothing but gruff company. Terrible jokes. Cloying sweetness drenched in nicotine and dusted in ash. 

John Price makes you consider your love of the ocean in a new, tangible way. 

There have been others, of course. People before John who have offered to pull you away from this anaemic corner of the world, making promises of taking you somewhere else. Or ones who offered to stay. To join you in this dreary town. An accumulation of hydrozoan floating aimlessly down this solitary stretch of ocean. 

They've all come and gone, and your answer has remained unchanged. Fixed. No. And if you're being kind—no, thank you. 

Because, really—

When you can't tell the difference between fear and devotion, how are you supposed to know if the ocean fills you with reverence or dread?

So, you stay.  

This place might be drenched in tar, forgotten by the masses in favour of the bigger, prettier cities that share the same oceanic view, but it's home. And your roots run deep (but your shackles are even deeper). 

It's odd, too, isn't it? That home feels less like a sanctuary and more like an obligation. A pact you have to keep. So, you do. And maybe you resent this place a little bit each year, but it's easy to forget all about that when John fits inside the spaces of your ribs that you didn't know were empty to begin with. 

It's good. Good—

—but this is better:

You wake up to the sound of the naked ocean, unencumbered by the shore. It's quieter than you expected it to be, but you suppose without land to get in its way, there's little reason to roar. 

The change in noise—and sometimes, the absolute absence of any at all—is the biggest shift you have to adjust to, but four days into your journey traversing the untamable Atlantic, the sea teaches you things you didn't know about yourself. That maybe there's a certain sort of madness that comes from being so far away from anything remotely resembling land. And a lethargy that's hard to tie down into something concrete. An abstract sense of disillusion, maybe. Bone-deep torpor. 

Something, too, that feels a bit like an atavistic fear of the yawning abyss that never seems to end. It's one thing to stand on land, solid ground, and admire it from afar, or to hug the coast on a cruise ship. Seeing it like this, in all its pelagic glory, is somehow sickening in its terrifying splendour and incredible enough to snake existential dread along the curve of your fragile insides. 

There's awe, as well, but in more muted shades of tyrrhenian. 

Still. You take to the barren sea like a once captive orca who forgot what freedom tastes like beneath its curled dorsal fin. It's exhilarating. And in equal measures, a true shove against your mettle. Your resolve. There's no help so far out to sea. No one to depend on but yourself and this enigmatic man who brushes his lips across your forehead when he thinks you're asleep, and then snarls at the ocean in the morning about not having any cigars as if he knows nothing at all about tenderness. 

It's a comfort you cling to. Embrace until your fingers ache. 

John mutters something under his breath about needing sleep. Whisky. A cigar. A good fuck in a better goddamn bed—and in no particular order, he gripes when you poke his back with your index finger. 

"Thank fuck," he rasps around a cigarette—a shitty fuckin' imitation—and pinches your side when he draws you close. Payback for the jab but it just makes you giggle. "Bermuda is only nine hours away."

"Nine hours," you breathe, surprised. Nine hours. It feels inconsequential. Brief. And maybe that's because time feels different out here. Inconsequential outside of where the sun sat. The only thing that matters about it is its position, and your internal clock begins to shift, turning into a sundial. To hear a length of time outside of morning, midday, noon, afternoon, evening, and night is strange. 

John's gaze flickers over to you hiding something that feels a bit like an appraisal as those burning sapphires run over the length of your expression, catching every twitch. 

His chest rumbles under your hand after a moment. "Excited for land, then?" 

Land. You consider it—his question, and, of course, the weight of it. The way it feels. Tastes. 

It's only been a sliver into your journey, barely anything at all in comparison to the kilometres left to go, but the sea feels as comforting as it does terrifying. The darker patches of blue signifying a depth so unfathomable that you feel breathless thinking about it. About the unquantifiable pressure, some metric tonnes of atmosphere pressing down on those pretty pools of navy. 

In comparison, Captain feels fragile. Delicate. Brittle bones of wood and plastic and foam contending with the vastitude of the sea that sprawls out in every direction. On a map right now, you'd be invisible. The tip of a pen would be too wide to accurately pinpoint your exact location. That massive gap, bigger than the whole of your country, sometimes gives you nightmares. And some nights, the boat lists as it bobs with the rolling waves that never end, dipping down much too low for your mind to ever feel comfortable with. 

The terror is almost equally as present as the awe. Both one-in-the same, almost. And it reminds you of your love for the sea. Where the lines between fear and devotion blur. It doesn't surprise you, then, that some mornings you wake up with something that curls around your head, and feels like divine euphoria, and others—

You can't stop thinking about every shipwreck movie you'd ever seen, especially when you know you'd passed over the same channel the Titanic sank in, that your bare feet stood right over top of a graveyard at a depth that hurts your head a little bit to even think about. 

But—

Land. 

John said you'd be missing it in due time the first hour into your trip, when you were still buzzing with the adrenaline of cacoëthes and watched the shoreline get swallowed whole by blue. 

In fact, he'd expected it. Seemed to keep himself at a measurable distance, as if waiting for you to turn to him and command that he bring you back home. 

A silly thought, in hindsight. 

You're shackled to the sea just as much as you are to him—maybe with a bit more willingness added in. The sea feels like home in spite of the endless dreams of capsizing in the frigid waters. 

And really. 

You can't imagine being anywhere else but here. With him. 

"I'm excited to see Bermuda," you confess, nuzzling your cheek into the warm Sherpa of his jacket. "But more so because I've never been anywhere outside of my own Country. But I like this better. I like being on Captain with you. It's—"

There's a weight in your chest. One that's almost equally composited into the ashen blue of his eyes when they flicker to you, clinging to each word. Each sentiment that spills from your sun chapped lips. 

"It's home, y'know?"

John goes quiet for a moment. Far quieter than you ever expected a man like him to be capable of—someone who got road rage out in the middle of an empty sea, and screamed himself hoarse whenever he had to talk to the absolute fuckin' muppets of the coast guard or passing ships your eyes weren't good enough to see through Fata Morgana—and it almost humbles you in a strange way. Makes you consider the stunning realisation that you've only chipped the surface of his rough, wonderful, insufferable man. In that, a keen sense of wonder brims, bringing with it an insatiable curiosity. You want to strip him down to nothing but bones, and crack them open like the claws of Snow Crab, sipping from the nectar that is his marrow. His essence. You want to map him out in greater depths than you ever dream of doing to the sea. 

His fingers spasm on your hip in a strange clench and release rhythm that makes you wonder if he's holding himself back for some reason you can't ascertain, but eventually, he breaks. His hand tightens, and pulls you closer to him. You feel his nose press against your hairline. Hear the sharp inhale as he breathes you in until his chest expands under your hand. Wide and broad, and filled with the scent of you. 

"Yeah," he rasps, humid breath fluttering across your skin. "It is. For however long you want it—"

"Forever." You catch smouldering blue just before it's eclipsed by endless black. "If you'll let me."

"Fuckin'—Christ—" 

With his words mangled in his throat, they sound more like an animalistic snarl than anything that resembles something human. The force of it seems to rattle through your flesh, dredging against bone like an anchor on the muddy sea floor until it catches. 

"Forever it is, then." It's a promise. An oath. And maybe a little bit of a threat, too, in the way only John can make something so romantic sound so gruff, and when he speaks again, you smell cinder and taste the ash in the back of his throat. Sealed in charcoal and salt. 

"I guess you're stuck with me, then," you tease, smiling when he huffs in a facsimile of exasperation, but you catch the softening in the corners of his eyes, and the low purr of happiness that rumbles out from his broad chest. 

"Can think of worse places to be."

"Like London?" You quip, echoing his words, and there's something heavy in his eyes, something that blankets around the unease that never really goes away even as you acclimate to the sensation of being landless. Adrift. It's something deeper than devotion. A black hole you could fall into.

"Yeah, exactly." He murmurs. You taste salt on his tongue when he kisses you, and wonder how you could ever dream of being anywhere else that wasn't with him.

Home, you find, is where his heart beats next to yours.

[jpitha]

The Oxygen Breathers: With one hand tied behind my back!

The human sat on the bench in the common area for at least one of their hours before the children worked up the courage to approach.

"You're a human right?" One of the children - an Innari - said as they approached the human. They were taller than the human, and seemed to have barely any bones. They moved and undulated like an octopus that was used to being out of the water.

The human's helmet flashed an cartoon icon of its face and smiled - without their teeth - broadly. "That's right! My name is Harold, but everyone calls me Harry. What's your name?"

"I'm Opian, this is Downward Draft, and standing in the back is Vizxxian." They gestured with their tentacle-like appendage. It had manipulators on the end which could be seen a little like fingers. Good for fine detail work.

Harry put up his gauntleted hand and spread his fingers. A wave. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. What can I help with?"

"Downward Draft says humans are the strongest of the Coalition peoples. Is that true?"

Harry sat up slightly. His icon continued to speak while he did. "Well, I don't rightly know if that's true, Downward Draft. I haven't met everyone. Of the ones I did meet, I have a hunch I might be stronger, but you also have to remember, we come from a heavier world than most of the other Coalition species. Earth's gravitational pull is half again what it is here on this station. There were gasps and noises of surprises from the kids. "That's so heavy!" Downward Draft rustled their feathers they caught the light and sparkled. "This station is already heavy for us; our homeworld's gravity is even less. I bet I couldn't' even walk on your planet!"

Harry's icon nodded. "You might be right, Downward Draft. But, gravity aside, it's nice here. I like the colors you use to decorate, and I like your plants. Everything back home is just different shades of green."

Vizxxian was working themselves up for something. Harry peered over Opian's head. "How about you? Do you have a question?"

Viz's eye slits squeezed shut and they blurted out "My parent says you're all a bunch of 'rock throwers' and that we should have never let you into the Coalition. They say that outside of your suits and ships, you're not so tough."

Downward Draft nudged Viz. "Don't be mean Viz! Harry is a guest here. You know how to treat guests."

Harry chuckled. "It's all right Downward Draft. We learn things from our parents. Part of growing up is trying to figure out what is true and what isn't. Now, I'm not mad, but you know that 'rock throwers' is a slur, and not a nice thing to say, right?"

Viz's ears wiggled in assent. "Yes, but that's the word father used. I know it's a bad word though."

Harry nodded. "Context is important though. I could say 'I picked up this rock and threw it' and that's not a slur, but if I said 'those rock throwers always go back on their deals' that is a slur. It's all right though, I'm not angry." Harry's helmet cleared. The kids looked across as his face became visible for the first time. Opian's eyes dilated in surprise. "So your dad thinks that we're not so tough outside of our suits? How about we place a little wager? I'll get out of my suit, and if any of you can touch my arm, I'll buy you a snack."

Opian shrinked back. Downward Draft raised their feathered arms in a gesture of dismissial. "You can't breath the atmostphere here! You'll die!"

Harry put up a hand. "It'll be all right. I'll wear a breathing mask, and the pressure and atmosphere difference won't hurt me for the time I'll be out of the suit."

"Oh we couldn't-"

"I'll do it!" Opian and Downward Draft turned in shock to Viz. They had stood to their full height, just a little taller than Harry and bent their legs just a little. "I can touch your arm."

Harry grinned. "Good. Let's see." Harry stood up, and touched the pad on his suit's arm. There was orange light that illuminated his face and he frowned and pressed more buttons on his suit. After a moment, it turned green, and lines appeared all over the suit. Joints. With a hiss of pressure and a whine of servos, his suit unfolded like a flower, and Harry stepped out.

He was much shorter than the kids. Just two meters tall if that. On the top of his head was a dark fur that was closely cropped, and he had fur all over the lower part of his face that was the same color. Under the outer, armored suit he wore a tight body suit that connected to the outer suit with thin wires. Harry reached down and unplugged them and they slid up into the suit he was wearing and disappeared. Opian was impressed. Their suits seemed to be far more advanced than ones of Innari make.

"There." Harry's voice was much lower than his translator made it sound. Maybe it was the difference in breathing gas? It was also a little muffled by his mask. "Okay Viz. Whenever you're ready."

Opian and Draft stood back and watched. Viz stood stock still and seemed like they were trying to decide what to do. Suddenly, Viz howled and ran towards Harry. Their long legs consumed the distance between them relentlessly. At the last half meter, Viz spun and in one fluid motion bend down and lashed out with one of their legs. Opian gasped. He was attacking Harry! That's a lethal kick if it connects.

Before Opian could react any further, Harry... wasn't were he was before. He was standing a meter to the side, and Viz was flying backwards into the bench. Viz jumped up, and roared again. This was a roar of frustration as well as a battle cry, and charged Harry. Once again, Harry stood there watching, and as Viz turned to kick him, he wasn't were Viz expected, and they went skittering across the smooth floor.

Harry stood with his hands on his hips. His eyes flicked to Opian and Draft. "Remember, strength isn't everything. Know your opponent. Know how they attack, watch for signs, paying attention and then you can move out of the way and dodge." Harry was grinning and put his hand out and curled his fingers towards himself. "Come on, Opian, Downward Draft, you try too!"

Downward Draft bent low and leapt towards Harry, using their legs to absorb as much potential energy as possible, releasing it as they sprung towards him with arms outstretched. Quicker than Opian could follow, Harry ducked underneath the Avar, and Draft sailed harmlessly overhead.

Harry, looked at Opian and raised one of the small lines of hair above his eyes. "What about you, Opian? Give it a try?"

"No, thank you Harry. I concede. There's no way I could touch you."

Harry's nodded. "That's all right. Mayb-"

Harry looked over and Downward Draft was standing mere centimeters away, with his arm out, and the barest edge of one of his iridescent feathers brushed against Harry's arm.

"Got you." Draft whispered.

Harry tipped his head back and laughed. The kids all took a step back in fear. "No, no, it's all right. that's a fair touch. You win, Downward Draft. I'll buy you snacks. Just let me get back into my suit. My skin is starting to itch."

It only took a moment for Harry's suit to climb onto him and fit around him as he stood there. "I have to say Downward Draft, you can move quietly."

They ruffled their feathers in pride. "Thank you Harry. On my world, moving without noise is a prized skill."

Harry darkened his helmet and his icon re-appeared. "Harry?"

He turned, "Yes, Viz?"

"You don't have to darken your helmet. We don't think you're scary anymore."

Harry's helmet cleared. He smiled without showing his teeth. "I'm glad to hear that Vizxxian. I'm glad to hear that."

[evilminji]

Huh >.> you know how Crechelings are basicly, like... possessed?

Like? They are cute af. But they VERY MUCH are constantly reaching out too and listening too the Force cause they are Baby and know jack shit? They are in that "why? Why? Why?" ×1000 stage of life. But instead of asking ADULTS, who might not always be on hand?

Well... the FORCE is on hand.

24/7!

Why NOT ask a cosmic driving force of all creation is you should have juice or water? This fruit or that vegetable? What are we gonna play today Effectively God? I'm a toddler! I don't know what boundaries are! Nor do I realize I probably shouldn't be bothering you with every single thought that passes through my head!

Yeeeeeah....

Tiny force sensitives? HELLA possessed.

They'll pull shit like "speak in prophecy" and "I stole a ship a can't even reach the controls off, to thwart an assassination attempt, because The Force Told Me Too, and that's why I'm on another planet and missed nap time." Plus the fun ol *hands a jedi master a rock* "the force says you'll need this! :D " *walks away, oblivious to the confusion they have wrought*

There is a REASON Creche master have to be SUPER patient types. And that parents are so often like "yeah, yeah we can't handle our kid. We love them. But this is beyond what we can parent."

Cause when your kid? Looks up from their mashpotatos? To casually drop "X is going to die soon." Or "he's going to betray you, you know" like??? Sweetie. Honey, youngling, you're THREE. Wtf. It's a BIT MUCH.

But? What I'm getting at?

I wanna see Creepy!ForceAvatar!Crechelings? Like it's... it's just a STAGE kids grow out off?

And I want it to save their fuckin LIVES.

Like? During the later stages of the Clone Wars. The Force is getting agitated. Knows what's coming. Does NOT like such imbalance and death. So? Even if the OLDER ones either can't hear it clearly or won't listen? The BABIES sure can.

And it's like a FUCKING HIVEMIND.

Absolutely HORRIFYING to behold.

All these lil babies. These wee lil toddlers n smol kiddos. Just... Stopping. Misstep. Balls bouncing past hands frozen, toys mid "woosh" motion, spoons half way to faces. All of it. Just... stopped.

They all cock their heads.

Like animals trying to hear a sound better.

Put down what they were doing. Calm as you please, ignoring everything around them, everyONE. Gathering their things from their rooms. Gathering the babies. Who are... oddly well behaved. It's the most calm and orderly anyone's ever see them. None of the creche masters can get their attention. Every attempt to physically get in the way is dodged before it's even attempted.

The children... calmly. Pleasantly. Like taking a stroll.

Steal a series of ships.

Broad daylight.

In... in front of everyone. No one can even STOP them. The Force is helping. All anyone can do is just? Follow.

They settle basicly a few weeks into the uncharted zone, in an old temple no one knew was there. All they will fuckin say is variations of "the Force says we live here now!" Like? Subtle this was NOT. I guess... we live here now?

.....huh.

It IS weirdly easier to think way out here.

As though we were no longer standing in the middle of some terrible smoke cloud. Nice and calm. Lots of Light. Unlike back o-.....waaaaait a fucking second. *sound of various Master's and council members connecting dots in their head*

>:O

@legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @hdgnj @babbling-babull @spidori @lolottes @nerdpoe

[avatar4life]

Sad girl in Westeros

Part 2

Y/N was walking back to her chambers, shocked and speechless about the apology she just heard from Jacaerys, never expecting it. When she arrived to her chambers she sat down on the couch and leaned her arms on her knees, clasping her hands and thinking about what happened, when suddenly, a raven came to her with a note on the leg. She immediately recognised the handwriting: her father sent a message.

'my dear daughter, our family is well, but my heart aches for the pain you have felt in this time. I'm sorry for bringing you into this situation and for letting you suffer for so long, and as much as it pains to cause such problem on our queen Rhaenyra, my loyalty to her is full but I'm more loyal to my family, to my daughters. So, with a heavy heart, I accept the annual amendment of your marriage with Jacaerys Velaryon / Targaryen, and with that, if you wish it, you can come home. And I think it's best if you bring your children too, we don't need to bring them in such heavy matters as for now. I await for your response soon.

Come home Y/N, your father' the letter stated.

Y/N was surprised by the context on the paper and she felt not only happy to come back home, with her children on the less, but she also felt guilty for doing this to Rhaenyra and leaving the family, but she knew that she is now needed home, whereas she'll return being the heir of her land.

So with a heavy bit at the same time light heart, she prepared her baggage and her children's as they slept and made a servant prepare the waggon for the small dragons of her kids.

The very next day, after another council, y/n stayed back with Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Corlys, Baela, Rhaena and Jacaerys.

"I've collected you here because... I've annuled my marriage with Jacaerys" she stated, leaving everyone in shock of what she just said "what?" Rhaenyra said shocked in hearing what her now ex-daughter in law just said "it is a decision I have made with much thought, and I think it's best for everyone involved. My house will continue aiding you and supporting your claim your grace but...I cannot stay here. Me and my children will leave tomorrow on the morrow on my dragon while their dragons will be shipped to my home." She explained to everyone, anxious of their response, expecting them to protest but getting surprised when Rhaenys immediately hugged her "even though you're not biologically my grandchild, I've always seen you as such" she whispered in y/n's ear, making her heart melt at such kind words from her. One by one, everyone hugged her, surprised especially by Baela since she hugged her so tight y/n thought she might have cracked a rib or two.

When everyone left, it was just her and Jacaerys, who looked shocked and frustrated "why?" He asked her, trying to keep his frustration at bay "cause this isn't my home, it has never been." She said to him, staying firm on her decision "I am your husband, and those are my children too" he said to her stepping closer. She raised her hand to keep him shut "you never acted like a husband to me, in no way you did. And you only spent time with the children, so much as I can count on one hand how much time you spent with them. So no, they're not your children, not our children, but my children. I need to get the kids ready for tomorrow, if you excuse me " she said firm and stern before leaving, not letting him say another word. Once she reached the children's chambers, she smiled as she saw them asleep, after a hard day of learning high Valaryan. She kissed each of their foreheads gently, trying to not wake them up. But it didn't work as her boy woke up "Mama?" He said half asleep as he looks at her and makes the motion of wanting to get picked up "hello my sweet" she said to him as she held him close, smiling widely as he felt right back asleep in her arms. She rocked him for some time to make sure he stayed asleep before tucking him back in bed and quietly leaving the chambers.

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

The next day, she and the kids were dressed and ready to fly back to y/n's home, for one last time she hugged the family, except for Jacaerys, put her kids and buckeld their saddles on Eclipse's back before climbing on her own saddle and with one last wave she said goodbye to the Targaryens and started her fly back home.

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

When she arrived she was immediately greeted by her sister, who was ecstatic to have her back "sister!" Y/N said happily as she hugged her sister back before gently unbuckling her children's saddles and helping them get off her dragon, who went to see her own babies. The children were in awe as they arrived to the house and we're happy to see their cousins, who immediately lead them to the gardens to play as the servants were taking the baggages they all brought.

"it's good to be back home" y/n said to her sister before looking at her parents and hugging them "I've missed you" she said with tears in her eyes, feeling like a little girl again in the warm embrace of her parents, especially her mother. "Aw my sweet girl, how you've grown" he mother carassed her face, "you're home" her father said smiling softly at his daughter. Y/N nodded at her father with a happy smile "I'm home".

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

A few years later

The children have grown into capable adolescents, her boy has become a fierce soldier, showing mercy to only those who were worthy of it, the oldest of the three, her first girl, became a great diplomat and stratigist, and her second daughter has grown to be compassionate but fierce when need, often found with her mother due to how close she was to her.

When it was time for the children to learn how to handle dragons better and y/n having finished with what she could teach them, she made the decision to send them to King's Landing and put them under the guidance of Rhaenyra and her family, who have won the dance of the dragons war and proclaimed her rightful claim to the throne.

This didn't meant that her children were happy with the decision, which brought to this:

"mother you can't be possibly asking this" the boy said in shock and irritation

"you're right, I'm not asking, I'm doing this" y/n said as she stands up from her throne and walks to them, carassening each child's cheeks "I know you don't want this, and it pains me to send you off, but if there's anyone who knows dragons better than us, is the Targaryens." She said to her children. The three wanted to protest but they knew that it was better not to.

"...when are we leaving?" Her oldest, the first girl, said looking at her mother with determination, "tomorrow in the evening" Y/N said to her. The kids reluctantly nodded at her order and went back to their chambers.

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

"this is ridiculous! Why should we go there when we can have someone else teach us?" The boy said as he paces around the chamber.

"cause mother bid it, now calm down" the first girl said as she stands next to the window and fiddling with her necklace gifted by their aunt on their 11th name day.

"as much as I hate this as you, mother is right. Our family has taught us everything they knew about dragons. If we want to know more we must go to the only other family that has dragons; the Targaryens" the second and youngest of the triplets said as she sat on the bed.

"I know but when we go there we have to see....father" the boy stated with disdain in his voice as he thinks about it. The girls stayed silent at his statement, also not liking their father, due to the true story they got from their mother when they have become adolescents.

"we must get through this. When we finished learning from them, we'll come back home" the second girl said as she looks at both her siblings, who reluctantly sighed and nodded at her words, accepting their situation.

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

"if you eat my food I'll kill you when I come back" the boy said to his cousin as they all were about to leave

"try me" the cousin said to him as he chuckled.

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

When they arrived to King's Landing, their dragons were brought somewhere else as they were too big for the dragon's pit. The triplets stayed there, looking at the entrance when they saw a man come towards them with a smile and a surprised look. They immediately knew who he was: their father,

'JACAERYS' they thought in disdain.

'GODS BE DAMNED'

This is the second part, I'm going to make a part three about how the kids are adapting and their relationships with each member of Jacaerys and Baela's family.

As again @aemondwhoresworld hope you like it

[bettyfrommars]

I need to know what you think about finding a dark siren Eddie Munson. Maybe he got hurt and washed up on the shore? You’re immediately his mate and he loves you very much even though he’s never been near a human. Very much I hate everyone but you vibes for our bloodthirsty friend.

Boyfriend From the Deep

darkSiren!Eddie x Reader

darkSiren!Eddie art here and here

Blurb 1

Blurb 2

18+ONLY, smut, some monsterfuqqing, mention of gore, mention of throwing up, visit from Murray & Hopper, mention of reader's life not going well, AFAB Reader, love at first sight, soulmates, merman!Eddie. wc: 3k

A/N: Another request I was really excited to sink my teeth into. My hope is to continue this eventually, taking inspiration from the 1984 film Splash. Looking forward to what y'all think of darkSiren!Eddie, thank you for indulging me.

---------

Eddie choked and coughed as the wave crashed over him, forcing his eyes open with a gargled gasp.  He was pinned up against a rocky ledge, half of his body on the sand and the other half in the frigid water.  All of a sudden, he felt sick, and began retching clear bile into the sea.  He didn’t like breathing the air, he wasn’t used to it, and it caught in his throat like a feather–tickling—until he coughed and retched again.  The gills on the sides of his neck sputtered, flapping open like vents, drying out, trying to conform to the new way of breathing.

It was then that he became aware of the dull ache at the back of his head, and with trembling fingers, he reached back to test the spot with a cringe and a hiss.  He checked to find that his fingertips were bloody; he must’ve knocked his head on one of the sharp rocks during the transformation.  How badly was he wounded? Would be a shame to survive the journey to human form only to die on the beach and rot like a bloated fish.  

He braced his hand, fingers digging into the sand, and flicked his hips to swish his tail to get him unstuck, but then two legs kicked out from his hips, stuck in a fisherman’s net, and it startled him, making him slam his head into the rock again.  He winced, eyes squeezing shut, whimpering a bit at the sting of the impact as the saltwater splashed up to his knees and misted his face.  

This was Eddie’s first time back to land in over a decade.  Mostly because he loathed humans.  He loved to lure them to their deaths, he loved to watch from under the water as their ships sank so that he could feed on their fear, curling the sound waves of their screams into his belly like sweet nectar. 

He twisted, trying to be free of the rough ropes that cut into his skin, but he was weak, and he wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost.  He was stuck there now, for 7 days and 7 nights, and he thought maybe he’d just find a way to stay hidden…

….until he saw you.

It was rare for you to be up at the crack of dawn, unless it was due to the fact that you hadn’t slept at all, which was a regular occurrence.  Long, restful sleeps that lasted hours were just a myth to you, ever since you’d watched your life go down the toilet.  A breakup, a death in the family, getting fired from your job; all of it happened all at once, and you were still reeling, teetering at the edge of the abyss.

You were all alone in the world, but for your dog, Louie, and the modest cottage you were renting for a week off the Oregon coast.  The beach house was tucked back in the woods, and it didn’t even have a TV, so flipping it on to watch the early morning broadcast or some cartoons to relax your brain was not an option. The radio would have to do, and the first song that came on when you flipped the dial was Brandy by Looking Glass.  You hummed along to it as you plucked Louie’s leash off the sofa and attached it to his collar.  He was a medium, handsome, mixed-breed boy that you’d rescued from the side of the road as a puppy.  Part corgi, part border collie, part…dalmatian? You weren’t entirely sure.  

“He came on a summer's day

Bringin' gifts from far away

But he made it clear he couldn't stay

No harbor was his home

The sailor said, ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl 

What a good wife you would be 

But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea”

It was exceptionally chilly for an August morning, making you bundle in a hoodie and boots for the trek out to the beach.  Louie was practically foaming at the mouth to get out there for his run, and since your area of the beach was fairly secluded at that time of morning, you unhooked his leash where the dirt path met with the sand, and he bolted into the fog toward the ocean like a shot.  There was a wet mist lingering in the air, like salty, seaweed-scented kisses that made you squint against the bright gray hues turning blue with the rise of the sun.  A few seagulls squawked and swooshed overhead, diving down to perch on a large piece of driftwood, and you waved to them, as if they’d showed up just to say hello to you.

You faced the vast expanse of ocean and crashing waves with a mix of awe and defiance, challenging it silently with a lift of your chin.  Your reverie was rudely interrupted by Louie’s alarm bark, somewhere deep in the mist. 

You followed the sound, walking blind until you caught sight of the jutting rocks at the base of a cliff, and the shrill of Louie’s distress signal was getting further away.  Your feet picked up speed, stumbling for purchase in the soft, wet ground as you called for him, a bit of panic stroking your heart.  Why did it feel like you were about to start crying? An avalanche of unfelt emotions gathered in your throat as you called for your loyal companion.  

But there he was, finally, sitting facing the rocks, tail wagging side to side, making a fan-shape in the sand, basically ignoring you as you collapsed to one knee, cursing, clutching your chest.  

You mumbled a whole conversation to him as you snapped the leash back in place and got to your feet.  You tried to guide him in the other direction, but Louie was transfixed on something a few yards ahead, and it took your eyes a moment to adjust—but then you saw it.  A hand, slightly webbed between the fingers, appeared from around the black rock, digging into the sand, and then another hand gripped the tan earth further along, as if someone were trying to pull themself along by their arm strength alone.  The wrists were covered in jewelry that looked like they were made of shell and bone; the forearms tattooed in dotted, swirling black ink patterns.  

You were too stunned to scream, mouth hanging agape.  You urged Louie back to shield him with your legs.  You saw the long, dark hair next, pooling over bare, tattooed shoulders; it was messy and unkempt, littered in bits of fauna and a few empty clam shells, one side matted with blood.  

Before your brain could throw the alarm that this might be dangerous, you were already speaking.  “A-are you alright? Do you need me to get help?”

That was when his head snapped up, and wide, all-white eyes regarded you with malice, lips curling back to expose a mouth full of pointed teeth.  He growled at you, and Louie growled back, but then, after a second, the monster's face softened.  The milk white eyes behind tendrils of hair shifted to brown, human irises, and he cocked his head a few times at you, as if trying to understand what you had just said.

You should have fainted.

You should have turned and run screaming in the other direction.

But, for some reason, neither one of those even occurred to you.  

You came around to get a better look at him, down along where the water lapped at your boots, and took in the rest of his body; he was tangled up in a crude net from the waist down.  He wore a necklace that appeared to be made of intricate fish bones and coral, and shark tooth earring dangled from his ear.  The tattoo patterns ran all along his chest, stomach, and legs.  You released Louie’s leash, and he sat right where he was told, while you crouched down to meet Eddie’s curious gaze that never strayed from you.

“Will you let me help you?” You asked.

Eddie was in love.

He never believed the stories he’d been told about the imprinting and immediate bonding that happened when you met your mate.  He wasn’t just any Merman, he was a Siren, and as a soldier of the dark forces of the sea, he figured he didn’t have time for frivolous things like romance.

But this took no time at all.

You were meant to be his, and he didn’t care who he had to kill to keep you.  

He studied your face as you worked to free the wet knot of seaweed tangles on the net, freeing his thighs from the heavyweight, gasping and averting your eyes at the way your touch made his cock twitch and swell.  You helped him to sit up, noticing what appeared to be gills on his throat and sides along his ribs.  His flesh was similar to that of a human, but also not.  It had a thick, rippled texture, like the belly of a snake, and it seemed to glow with a soft blue fluorescence.  His muscles were tight and lean, and he didn’t even bother to shiver as a cold wind made your teeth chatter. 

You told him your name as another seagull cawed overhead, and asked what you should call him.  

His eyebrows clenched together, tilting his head a few times, watching your mouth as you spoke.

“Do you speak English?”  You asked it in a cringe way, with a loud voice, as if a higher volume could break any language barrier.  

He brought his webbed hand up to touch your face, and you jerked away at first, but then you let his scaled knuckles graze your cheek, the legs of your jeans soaking wet now as you knelt there with what could only be described as a figment of your imagination. 

He spoke a word in foreign language, his voice a deep whisper.  You remembered how solid white his eyes had been before when he thought you were a threat, but now they were honey brown, almost cat-like in nature as they softly adored you. 

“I-I don’t understand,” you breathed, unable to comprehend the time it took for his mouth to find yours, to plant wholesome kisses, to taste you.

You might’ve been in love with him at that moment too, but your jaded heart refused to let yourself believe it.  

You did, however, feel the arousal blossom at your core as his tongue fluttered against yours, whimpering with a little click in his throat like a sea lion at the way you returned his kiss.

The urge to mate you, to officially make you his, was too strong for Eddie to take into regard any of the formalities of courtship.  Once your hand found his generous girth and began to stroke, encouragingly, that was all it took.

You skittered backwards up onto the semi-dry sand, unzipping your jeans and pushing them down to your ankles as you went, and Eddie followed, bracing himself on top so he wouldn’t crush you, desperate to find your mouth again. His powerful hips bucked against you, and you held him by the neck, begging for more while he spoke to you in that foreign tongue, staring into your eyes, willing you to understand him.  

Wanting you to know that no one would ever love you as much as he did; that he would be your one and only mate until the darkness took you both.  

The position felt awkward, but there was no time to take your boots off as your hole clenched the air, desperate to be filled.  You spun around to get on your hands and knees, and Eddie buried his cock in your wet heat with one swish of his muscular thighs, throwing his head back in a bark of triumph.  

You pushed back against him, needing him to move, to stretch you and own you with each push, your fingers clawing into the sand as you whined.  

Nearby, Louie cocked his head and tried to lift one floppy ear, but then he turned his face to the sea, trying to give you some privacy.

You’d never been fucked by someone as strong as this sea monster, and your whole body jerked and vibrated under the impact of his deep thrusts.  “Yesyesyes…oh fuck!”

It wasn’t long before Eddie clapped his pelvis flush to your ass and spilled inside of you, chanting foreign words, tilting his head to the sky, worshiping you with his offering.  He stayed locked there for a while, working his seed deeper with every stroke.  When he was done, he flipped you over with a feral urgency that sent sand into your eyes and nose, but you didn’t care, because now his mouth was on you.  

Your fingers sank into his matted hair, and that was when you felt the viscous patch and remembered he was bleeding.  His big, strong legs were a bit wobbly, and the thought occurred to you, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t accustomed to using them.  

But then Louie was barking in the other direction, and you both turned your attention to see a figure appearing from out of the mist.   A middle-aged man in a pageboy cap and a trench coat; he was already too close before you knew he was there, and he dropped the walking stick in his hand, his face frozen in shock and terror.  

Eddie smelled the foul human approaching and the familiar bloodlust roared in his veins. The fin on Eddie’s back bristled as he rose to a crouch with a ferocious growl.  You shuffled as far as you could against the rock, trying to pull your jeans up and cover yourself, not sure what to think of Eddie’s reaction.

Eddie bared his mouth full of sharp teeth in a sneer at the man, his eyes going completely white again.  A storm seemed to hit the beach all of a sudden at Eddie’s command, dropping down a gust of wind that rocked the waves and sent the man stumbling off his feet as if the world tilted on its axis, trying to hold his hat on against the force of it.  A low, rumbling wail came from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest as you tried to shield your face from the whips of sand stabbing like tiny daggers in your flesh.  Eddie appeared to be sucking the life out of the man from his distance; the human’s body lifted up in the air and bent back.  You thought you heard something crack.  

It was only a matter of seconds before the man crumpled to the ground, unresponsive, and then Eddie settled, and so did the air around him.  After a few heartbeats, there were only the crashing waves and the birds once again, and Eddie’s head snapped to you, searching, making sure you were okay.

He held his arms out and you scrambled over, burying your head in the crook of his neck, letting him cage you, letting him have you.

Louie went over to sniff around at the man on the ground, wondering if he had any treats, and then he lifted his leg and let go of a stream of urine onto his shoe.

—-----

Murray Bauman slammed the paper onto Hopper’s desk, forcing a gust of wind into his face and a couple of yellow sticky notes to go flying.

Murray waited, hands on his hips, the door to the office wide open behind him.  Hopper took a deep inhale and flicked a few bored glances from the cover of the Seaside Review back up to Murray’s severe expression.

“Is this your way of telling me you're taking a vacation?” He guessed, shifting back in his squeaky chair.

“This,” Murray jabbed his finger in the direction of the paper.  “Is what I’ve been trying to tell you about.”

In the mood to humor his old friend, Hopper bent forward, furrowing his brow, taking a closer look at the headlines.  

Murray continued, pacing in front of the desk as he did so.  “Merpeople don’t exist? Well then, explain that to me.”

To the right, at the top of a long column and a sketch, was the headline: Reclusive artist survives a Siren attack on the beach and lives to tell: Merfolk exist.

Hopper cleared his throat.  “This is a drawing, Murray.”

Murray stopped his pacing, inclining his head, adopting a sarcastic tone.  “Notice anything familiar about that likeness, Jim? Does any part of it ring a bell? The white eyes, maybe? The teeth?”

“Sure,” Hopper picked the paper up and plopped it down, further away from him.  “It looks like Elvis.  Call The Inquirer.” 

Murray flopped in a chair facing the Chief’s desk with a huff.  He’d keep talking about it even if it fell on deaf ears because he knew he was right.  “The migration of the Sirens.  Enki, Poseidon, Amphitrite, the legend of the skin-shedding Merfolk who can walk on land for 7 days during a blood moon.  Humanoids.  Cannibals of the sea—-”

“Stop,” Hopper put his hand up palm out. “Just, stop. Is any of this supposed to make any sense to me? Why are you here? What have I done to deserve this?”

Murray rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, intertwining his fingers.  “The drawing should look familiar to you, Jim, because it’s just like the one I saw when I was a teenager, and three summers ago when I was on that death-trap Alaskan cruise.  I told you all about it.  I told you that I was—-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hopper interrupted.  “But again, I’ll ask—why are you coming to me with this? You think I’m going to arrest a fish?”

Murray rounded his shoulders.  "I know that Sirens exist, Jim.  There’s more than enough evidence out there, and I’m going to prove it to you, if not the world.”