#for their-seafaring-ways

[anmylica]

Like Slow Spinning Redemption Chapter Six: Epilogue

Tagging the Usual Crew: @kmomof4 @snowbellewells @sotangledupinit @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @deckerstarblanche @their-seafaring-ways

Want to be added? Send me an ask!

Read on AO3

Read on FFN

Catch up here: 01 02 03 04 05

Killian stood there by the edge of the water until the rowboat got out of sight and the water receded back into liquid fire.  Though he would miss Liam terribly, he knew that he would one day see him again.  It wasn’t Killian’s time to move on.  Not without Emma by his side.

After the scene retreated, he left the cavern and made his way as quickly as he could back to the mansion where he had last seen his lover.  He couldn’t go any longer without resolving their disagreement.  She had come down here just to save him and bring him home.  The least he could do was make that easier for her.  Besides, he didn’t really want to be without her, anyway.  Not if it mean having to leave her behind.

Sprinting faster once the mansion came into view, he hoped she hadn’t left yet.  He bounded up the stairs and into the house.  He tore through the rooms, stopping short when he finally found her in a sitting room, looking frustrated and vexed.  

Upon hearing someone come in, she turned and faced him, her eyes widening upon seeing him there.  

“There you are!” she exclaimed.  “Where the hell have you been?”  Her voice sounded breathless, as if she had been running laps around the mansion.  “First you and Liam left, then Henry ran off somewhere.”  She waved a hand to indicate her lack of knowledge at where her son had gotten off to.  “I’ve been looking everywhere around this place for you guys.”

Killian stood still for a moment, drinking in the sight of her, no matter how annoyed with him she looked.  He couldn’t believe he had almost given up a life with her for moving on with Liam.  He meant no offense to his brother, but Emma was far easier on the eyes than Liam could ever hope to be.  He felt just as off kilter at seeing her now as he did when he saw her for the first time in the Enchanted Forest.  He couldn’t believe she had came to the Underworld for him.

She shook her head slightly and shrugged, obviously waiting for an answer.  

Killian smiled slightly and looked down at the floor.  He said, choosing not to answer her question and instead looking her in the eye briefly before looking away, “I'm sorry, Emma. You were right about Liam.”  He watched as her eyes widened at his words.  “He destroyed those pages because of a deal he made with Hades years ago... A deal that almost got us thrown into that boiling sea.”

“So that’s where you were?” Emma asked, concerned.  “Are you okay? Where is he?”

Killian nodded to indicate that he was fine before continuing. “He, uh, sacrificed himself, but his sacrifice helped a crew we once sailed with. They finally moved on, thanks to him.”

“Did he move on, too?”  Emma took a step closer to him, a step that he mirrored to her.

“He did... but he helped me see the truth before he went.”  Killian smiled and gazed into Emma’s eyes as hard as he had that day in this very manse when he had thought Emma would give up her magic, when he feared that she would be sucked into that damn hat.  He watched as her face brightened at the meaning of his words when he continued, “I'm glad you came down here, Emma. Perhaps I do deserve saving after all.”

Emma brightened and smiled softly.  She stepped closer, and Killian saw the visible joy in her features as she absorbed what he had said, and heated what he didn’t say.  She wouldn’t be his Swan if she didn’t push just a little bit more, though, if she didn’t make sure what he meant.

“Does that mean, when this is all over, you're planning to come home?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“Yes,” Killian breathed, beaming at her, which prompted her widened smile in return.  “Everything Liam did was to ensure that I had a future, and I damn well intend to have one.”

In a move reminiscent of their first kiss, though with the roles reversed, he grabbed her arm in his hand and used his hook to guide her hips as he tugged her into his arms.  He kissed her fiercely as he hadn’t allowed himself to since he had been reunited with her, not wanting to give into his need for her love, her closeness, after having nearly killed her family as a Dark One.  He had been afraid that she couldn’t forgive him, couldn’t let go of his betrayal (which had been so much worse than hers to him), but she had proved him wrong as always.

Emma kissed him back as fiercely as she had in Neverland, and it sparked in him an even larger inferno of heat, love, and desire than he had started with.  He didn’t know how he could have ever contemplated letting this go.  He had won her heart, as sure as he had claimed in Neverland, and he knew he wouldn’t give it up without a fight.  Let Hades try and separate them again.  Killian would make damn sure that the god never succeeded.  

They slowly broke apart, their lips barely separated from the other’s as they rested their foreheads together, breathing heavily from the attraction that always buzzed just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” Emma said softly, and Killian’s smile widened at finally hearing he words given freely from the love of his life.

“I love you, too,” he replied, kissing her softly once more.

Of course, their sojourn to the Underworld did not go as planned.  Though he had never, in his wildest dreams, thought that Emma would end up being his True Love (a failed attempt at a True Love’s Kiss tended to take away one’s belief in that), let alone that they would be vetted by the gods in a way that none of the other true love couples they knew had been, they had not been able to succeed in returning him to life.  Neither the heart-split nor the ambrosia had been able to work, and they had once again been separated.  

Killian had truly thought this was the end of their story.  As Zeus had stood before him, he had tried to make peace with the fact that his doing as Emma requested would mean that he would never get to see her again.  His heart ached at the thought, but a promise was a promise, and he didn’t want to break his last to her.  He hoped that she could continue to go on and eventually find love again, to be happy for the rest of her life as she deserved.

So it was a great surprise when he opened his eyes and saw that he was in the lushly green, damp, rainy cemetery that Storybrooke boasted, his True Love just in front of him, her golden hair pulled back into a ponytail and damp from the rain.  Their reunion was one borne of the desperation of never thinking they’d see each other again, a great relief washing over them as their hearts were returned to the place where they were meant to be: side by side.

Their trials weren’t finished, though.  Not by a long shot.  Emma still had to go through the final battle and learn the price that all saviors paid.  They got through all of those trials the same way they had gotten through the previous ones: together.  Finally, their story ended with a wedding and a life shared in the house that he had chosen for them all.  Eventually Henry left to seek out his own story, but his departure came with the arrival of a little girl, and Killian’s heart was so full he thought it impossible that it hadn’t yet burst with love for his family.  His home.

He hardly spared a thought for the happenings with his brother in the Underworld.

That wasn’t the case for Emma, though.

Once Emma was back in Storybrooke and her family was again safe with Killian counted firmly among their ranks, her life was much the same as it had always been: dealing with crisis after crisis. Due to the chaos with the Evil Queen and then Gideon and the Black Fairy, she hadn’t been able to come to terms much with how she felt about Liam’s abrupt goodbye and his subsequent moving on, as much as Killian tried to assure her that Liam fully acknowledged how wrong he had been. Every time she thought back to her last conversation with Liam, she felt vaguely dissatisfied, or maybe let down, that their last interaction had been so negative.

She regretted leaving things with Killian’s brother the way she did, even if it hadn’t been because of her doings.

Killian had told her about what happened after he was dragged off with Liam by their old crew. He told her about how they wanted to send him and his brother both into the boiling sea because of Liam’s choices that resulted in their deaths. He told her how he tried to change their minds, to encourage them not to pursue vengeance, but he had failed, and because of that failure, Silver had been condemned to living with the reality of his thirst for retribution for all eternity. He told her of how Liam finally decided to make things right and accept his fate, that his hand in their deaths had earned him an eternity paying for his crimes. He told her that that was what had enabled Liam and the rest of his old crew to move on into the next stage of their afterlife.

He had told her his last farewell to Liam, and how they had finally gotten the closure they both had desired for so long. 

Emma was happy that Killian had gotten that opportunity, that he had gotten to say goodbye to his brother after Liam had been so tragically torn away from him before. It seemed to have healed some part of him that was torn apart and suffering. He was different, changed in some fundamental way. Perhaps he was more settled in who he was and who he had been?  

Whatever it was, Emma was glad for it. But she still felt dissatisfied with how things had ended between her and Liam.

She had been to Archie about it, and he believed that it was a reaction to wanting Liam’s approval and not getting it directly from the source. She wanted to be accepted by her love’s family, but she hadn’t exactly gotten that.  Archie had tried to work through the issue with her, and she was definitely in a better place than she had been during their misadventures in the Underworld, but she still felt the way she did about the whole thing.  She had resigned herself to never getting any kind of closure from Killian’s older brother, and for the most part, she had come to accept that.

Only now, she and Killian were married and talking about expanding their family. And she realized that, even though she hadn’t needed that last conversation with the man who had been half the reason her husband became the man he was, she still would have liked to have had it with Liam. Not being able to directly make peace with the man who had long since been able to move on was one of the things Emma regretted about the whole sojourn to the Underworld.

After an evening spent with her two True Loves, she climbed into bed, exhausted from another day of typical sheriff's duties and feeling vaguely nauseous like shehad for the last couple of weeks. Her head hit the pillow and it was as if she had pricked her finger on a spinning wheel, she was asleep so fast. Her husband’s warm form was cuddled around her as it was every evening, and she had never felt so safe and content. 

Her dreams that night were nondescript in the sense that, if she dreamed of anything prior to this experience, she didn’t recall it. She floated through the stages of sleep much like always, but before long her dreams shifted.

She was on a raft in the middle of the ocean, floating along and staring up at the night sky.  It was a vast ocean of stars, each one so bright and close that she felt as if she could reach out and touch one.  The constellations were strange to her, but familiar at the same time; they were the ones visible from the Enchanted Forest.  Emma looked around her, taking note of her clothes (she was clothed in her pajamas from earlier with her hair pulled back into a ponytail), and noticed the emptiness around her.  Emma was alone in the raft, which had shifted into a sort-of dinghy in the time it took her to notice what it was she was floating upon, but she didn’t feel afraid.  She felt at peace.

After an immeasurable amount of time passed, she felt the need to paddle.  Emma was, by nature, a person who had always been on the move, so to be stationary while floating wasn’t a desired state for her. So Emma grabbed the oars and began to row her dinghy along, feeling the sudden need to get to a destination, though she couldn’t have said which.  After rowing for just a few strokes, she saw a beautiful tall ship appear as if out of nowhere, and she hastened to get to the side where she knew the ladder lay. Once there, she clambered aboard, not worrying about the dinghy, for it had seemed to disappear once she had climbed on the ladder.

There was no one on deck for the night watch, a fact which, under normal circumstances would have concerned her (for how many times had Killian extolled the virtues of having a good night watch aboard a ship?), but for now just made her smile at how she had the whole deck to herself.  She glanced up at the night sky, which seemed to glow with an unearthly happiness due to the amount of stars, and she smiled.  The sails flapped welcomingly in the wind, rattling the many ropes and pulleys and lines in a way that reminded Emma of all her time spent aboard the Jolly Roger.  Her heart seemed to sing a magical song, reaching a crescendo at the thought of her husband, that the sky responded to with a brightening of the starlight.

`

“I was hoping you would come aboard, lass,” came a voice just behind her.

Emma didn’t startle, for she knew this voice and was glad of its timbre.  She turned and observed the man to whom it belonged.  “Hello, Liam.”

Liam was dressed in a naval captain’s uniform (Emma assumed that this was similar to what he would have worn during his time of service to the immoral king he had first served under, and she had the sudden desire to see what Killian had looked like in his Lieutenant’s uniform).  The colors he wore were light blue and white, though Emma didn’t know what the significance of those colors were.  His hair was shorn at the same length as it had been when Emma had last seen him in the Underworld; in fact, he looked like he hadn’t changed a bit since their last meeting.

Liam smiled.  “Hello, Emma.  It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Is this your new ship?” She gestured to their surroundings.  Liam nodded his head without moving his gaze away from hers.

“Indeed.  Zeus saw fit to show me favor in the after life.  She’s a fine vessel, finer even than the Jewel of the Realm.  The crew I sailed with as an indentured servant has consented to sail along with me, and I couldn’t have a finer crew.”

Emma nodded.  “I’m glad for you.  I’m glad that you found peace.”

Liam looked at his feet a moment before looking back up at her.  “It’s all thanks to you that I have this.”

Emma tilted her head, considering him for a moment.  “I think you would have gotten there, eventually.”

Liam chuckled.  “No, I wouldn’t have.  I was too stubborn to admit that I had committed a wrong, that I had strayed, myself, from the hero’s path that I so desperately wanted Killian to follow.  He strayed from that path because of my choices and mistakes, but he returned to it because of you.  He convinced me to forgive myself because of you.  He convinced the rest of my crew to forgive me because of you.”

Emma shook her head.  “It wasn’t me; it was Killian all along.  I just gave him a reason to be the man he always wanted to be.”

Liam shook his head and gazed at her fondly.  “You still don’t see the effect you have on people, do you?”

Emma’s response was just to look at him quizzically, and Liam laughed.

“You saved my happy ending, Savior,” he simply said instead of enlightening her.  “But ask Killian about the effect you have; he’ll know what I mean.”

Emma nodded. “Will do.”

“I seriously misjudged you,” Liam said after a moment’s hesitation.  “I projected my own pain and failures onto you, and for that I am truly sorry.  Can you ever forgive me for my transgressions, milady?”

Emma smiled.  “I can, and I do, Captain Jones.  I understand wanting to protect Killian at all costs.”

Liam nodded.  “I’m glad to know you do.  I hated the thought of you harboring any ill-will towards me.  I can sail the rest of my days knowing that all is right between us.”

The sun peaked its rays just over the horizon, illuminating the world in its light.  Emma blinked, dazzled for a moment, and turned to watch the sunrise.  

“Unfortunately, that means our time is nearly done.  Good luck to you Emma.  And to Killian as well.  I know you both have been considering having another child to add to your family.”

Emma turned to Liam, shocked.  “How did you know?”

Liam smiled.  “I have my ways,” he responded mysteriously.

Emma smiled, choosing not to comment, instead replying, “Maybe sooner than we think.  I don’t know for sure, though.”

Liam grinned broadly.  “Give my brother my love, and take care of him for me.”

“Always do.”

Liam took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth to press a kiss to its back.  “Thank you, Emma.  For everything.  The next time I see you, I hope to greet you and my brother aboard my ship after you both have led long, fulfilling lives.”

Emma smiled.  “I look forward to that day as well.”

The light shone brighter, and Emma raised her hand to shield her eyes.  When she removed her hand, she was lying in her bed, her husband’s arms wrapped around her, with the sun shining brightly through the window onto her face.  It was still early in the morning.  She smiled at the memory of her dream, her heart finally at rest knowing that she finally did have the approval of Liam Jones, even if it wasn’t real.  Rolling over in her husband’s embrace, she nuzzled against him, resulting in a half moan half growl from him, and she giggled.  

She looked up to see Killian’s ocean blue eyes staring back at her, darkened and heavy from sleep and the desire that always simmered between them no matter how long they had been together.  She pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his chest, and he pulled her in tighter to him.

“Minx,” he murmured as he nuzzled her neck and nibbled her ear.  

She ran her hand through his hair.  “Tell me about this ‘effect’ I apparently have.”

Killian’s brow furrowed in confusion at what she was talking about, but he didn’t comment as he pressed another kiss down her neck and pulled her in closer to him.  “Well, your effect on me goes a little something like this.”

They spent their morning together embraced in the heat of their love, thoroughly enjoying living their happy beginning, and Killian made sure to breathe the words in her ear every chance he got about the effect she had on others.  Though it wasn’t the ending Liam had wanted for him and his brother, the fact was the ending they both got was so much better than what they had always planned.

[roxanedrawing]

the difference a background will make for the atmosphere of a drawing!

(I made these for the cover of a publication – the full colour version was on the front cover, the simple line version was a small vignette for the back cover.)

[happyk44]

thinking about this very hypothetical child of Neptune (who I am definitely not thinking about writing a fic around) and she'll have to be a girl because of the established pattern (if you don't understand, just think about it for a min) and thinking about how she could turn fresh water into salt water with just a touch, and how she'd speak with an almost monotone, until she's really really fucking angry and then the cadence of her voice pitches and twists like the thrashing of the waves, and how her eyes would be almost as dark as Nico's, a dark blue-gray of storm clouds, an always clear threat, and how she'd be able to blend in easily with other people, appearing sweet almost, with a subtle air of danger around her that people ignore until it's too late, and how she'd rip the blood from someone's veins without batting an eye, and how she'd stand behind Percy encouraging him to let go, to give into the violent nature of the ocean in their blood, to cave to the riptide, to stop fighting and let everyone else drown.

If they wanted to reach the surface, maybe they should've swam harder.

[thevelaryons]

Marilda’s name doesn’t just mean ‘emerald’ but also ‘famed battle maid’, which appears to be a reference to the valkyries from Norse mythology. The valkyries carried out the duty of guiding fallen heroes into the afterlife, to the realm of the gods (the Æsir). Really puts into perspective Marilda transporting Corlys’ body on her ship called Mermaid’s Kiss, out to his ship the Sea Snake, and then having him buried in the Narrow Sea (domain of the god known as the Merling King).

[waywardsalt]

for some reason i only recently realized another fun aspect of bellum x linebeck, that being at its core it’s kind of like what if a sea captain fell in love with the kraken and vice versa

[hjbender]

As seen on an offsite character quote generator:

That's too bad, Officer Purity, 'cause that's exactly what I'm going to use it for now.

[blood-ology]

This song is so Izzy / edizzy to me :(

[bloomfish]

to be fair i was thinking about pirates or something before i saw this but i honest to god thought this was about boats. i'm cured

[mythvoiced]

@swansofmisery | Calypso

---

How often can he walk along the endless shore of this island before the sand will swallow him whole and the pebbles within will pierce and gauge his eyes out?

How often can he hope that might happen?

Staring out at the ocean has become a habit transcended from a hobby, as if having a hobby in the situation he's in is even something he could consider having. The ocean doesn't function as a sight to behold, the sand isn't something to stretch his toes in, the distance from the immortal's abode isn't gained on a whim or casually, these are all the actions of a man trapped, not one at ease enough to want to find ways to busy himself.

A caged animal pacing the length and width of his cage, nothing less.

When Odysseus doesn't have the beach to explore or the plans to make or the gods to hope for or his mistakes to bemoan or his family to miss, he only has... her.

And whatever she demands of him.

"Goddess," if only he can hope to never call her by name. He turns a piece of wood he'd found between his fingers. It was hardly more than a twig from her lush vegetation, but he finds tranquillity in having something to toy with, something to hold when he speaks to her, so that his hands may always remain busy.

So nothing may be asked of them.

He tilts his head to one side and offers a brittle smile.

"Come to accompany me on my walks, I gather?"

[crepegosette]

Since you have Nyo OCs, would it be alright to ask what are your thoughts and feelings on Nyotalia overall?

I have mixed feelings Nyotalia; on other hand, I kinda like how they're different from their original counterparts. I appreciate that they have their own identity, not just straight up "X as a man/woman." On other hand, it feels like they were created solely for fanservice and nothing more.

Imo I feel it can be used to explore character concepts that weren't explored in the original, or even different facets of the country they're representing (ex: I like the idea of Amy representing the "strength" of the US while Alfred represents diplomacy. Its true that those sides can overlap, but one suits the other side better) I kinda try to keep that in mind making my own nyos, (Normal Brazil represents our vibrant, energetic side, while Nyo!Brazil represents our "chill" side, how we don't want beef with anyone) It can be a good way to use traits that weren't picked up in the creation of the original character.

[anukkuna]

Day 11: Sleeping on the job

So, here's the obvious thing: there is a patron saint of those who sleep on the job and her name is Pia.

If you're feeling tired but you still have work to do, you may pray to St. Pia. Rest assured that there is a parallel universe where Pia will fall asleep in your stead (because, yes, that is how patron saints work. they mess around in parallel universes, although they sometimes switch. After all these centuries, their desktops are a complete mess.)

However, this is not the only way in which St. Pia will work her miracles. If you actually have some time to spare, she may grant you a well advised power nap, so you may wake up refreshed and ready to go.

If you don't have time to spare though (because, let's say, an important meeting is due) St. Pia will appear and wake you up, so you may not miss your appointments.

So, when considering which patron saint to invoke next, keep in mind that there is St. Pia. (Luckily, she isn't picky when it comes to offers, so snacks, coffee, fast food - anything is fine).

Praise be. 🙏

[silvershayde]

I’m so good at world building but trash at telling a story whoops

[questionable-doctor]

final attacks! normally i would post them all separately but these are intertwined... brothers in arms...

[aggravatedanarchy]

Favorite mode of transportation?

Honestly, I've only ever walked and been driven places before (cars and buses, but like, school buses- not public transport. I think you have to call people about that here if it's something you need/want.) In theory, it's trains though. I just think they're neat and I would probably enjoy myself on one.

OH WAIT. I have been on boats before- like, small ones. I get kinda nervous on them though. And seasick, depending on stuff. So trains still take the lead.

[slimebiter]

lrb theres no winch or nothing and theyre actively moving so i doubt thats an actual like. anchor anchor

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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

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