#salt spray and gulls

[punk-in-docs]

A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

~

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

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[pretzel-box]

Summary: You're a mortal fisher that catches the attention of an ancient sea god without knowing it.

Tags: Some 'fluff', mortal reader, sea god sebastian

Words: 2,6k

There was a small village that was cradled on the edge of an unknown island like a forgotten secret among humans, made out of solid stone, earth and sand while being shaped by the restless waves of the deep ocean. Narrow cobbled streets would wound between the homes of sun-bleached woods and weathered bricks while fine smoke curled up from the going chimneys, mingling with the salty sea air. Many signs of a life gathered around this place despite its unknown status.

The endless ocean surrounded the village on all sides, an eternal sentinel, its deep blue waves gently lapping at the shoreline as if it were whispering ancient lullabies. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and lavender, where the horizon blurred into a seamless meeting of sea and sky. The sound of gulls crying in the distance echoed through the air, carried by the wind that rustled through the tall grasses and wildflowers growing at the island’s edge.

Farther out, where the cliffs rose jagged and defiant against the endless ocean, the waves crashed with a furious roar, sending white spray high into the air. Yet here, within the village, the sea was gentle—a mirror reflecting the sky’s fading light.

Small fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, tethered to wooden posts worn smooth by years of use. Their painted hulls were chipped and faded, yet they held a quiet dignity, as if they had borne witness to centuries of tides, storms, and the steady rhythm of life. Nets hung drying on the docks, draped like lace over the old wood, waiting for the morning light to send the fishermen back to the open sea.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and damp earth. A few villagers, their faces lined with age and the sea’s touch, gathered in quiet conversation near the docks, their voices low, as if unwilling to disturb the peace. Lanterns flickered to life in the twilight, casting a soft, golden glow over the village, like stars scattered across the earth.

As the day gave way to dusk, the village seemed to breathe, a living thing, connected to the ocean and sky in a way that was timeless. The sea, the cliffs, the forest—they were all one with the village, woven into its very being. And as the stars began to emerge, one by one, above the endless horizon, the island seemed to settle into itself, cradled by the ocean’s eternal embrace, waiting for whatever secrets the tides might bring.

"Listen, my child. Our story began long ago, when the gods still walked the earth and the stars were young."

Once upon a time…

The land was molded by the hands of glorious deities, their fingers painting the skies and carving the rivers. They placed the sun on the horizon and the plains upon the earth. The world flourished, but with its growth came envy, as some gods overshadowed others. To gain power, they created life—humans, born from their desire for control.

At first, humans worshiped their creators with devotion, pledging loyalty to one deity, then betraying the next. They defiled the divine in their thirst for more, striking down gods one by one. Until, at last, only humans remained, reigning over the world they had once been given. The gods, once mighty, were destroyed by the very hands that they had shaped.

The lesson was clear for the mortals: gods could not be trusted.

You grew up in the small village, cradled by the sea, raised between the wind and the waves as if you were a child of nature itself. The first thing you learned was your origin, that you were descended from the gods—gods who were flawed and fallible. Your grandparents told you stories of your ancestors, how they fought with their lives for the right to live on this island, battling forces far beyond their comprehension.

Ages ago, a fierce god named Solace ruled over these waters. His rage, directed at both his siblings and their creations, churned the oceans into relentless fury. Your ancestors tried to cross the waters for months, many drowned and many got sacrificed to soothe the will of the deity that ruled in the waters. His anger blinded Solace, his envy and his feelings were like a sharp sword, pointed at himself. Your ancestors tricked him, like they did with so many other deities before. They sealed him into the ocean, robbing him of his necklace that he wore. And after they triumphed over him, the ocean came to rest. All thanks to the necklace that secretly holds Solace his powers.

A necklace that rested around your neck, a family piece that was given down as the generations passed. It was a sea shell pendant, reflecting in beautiful blue-silver hues as if the sea itself was placed upon you. And you wore it with pride.

Your mother gave it to you the day you joined the family tradition, stepping into the life of a fisher. It was a simple gift, passed down through generations, as much a symbol of your heritage as the sea itself. You learned to live in harmony with the waves, to respect the life beneath the surface, and to take only what was needed. Your family had always been blessed by the ocean, and so would you. It was honest work—give and take—where you not only harvested from the sea but also protected it, keeping it clean and honoring its depths.

"Keep calm," you murmured to yourself, the words a quiet mantra as you sat in your small boat. The sun was warm on your back as you focused on tying the loose strings of your net, the gentle rocking of the boat a familiar comfort.

Your mother had taught you to knit the nets in the old traditional way, every knot a connection to your ancestors. Your father, in turn, had shown you the art of fishing—how to hunt with respect, how to make the death of the fish swift and painless, and how to use every part of it in reverence for the life taken. A true fisher never wastes, for the sea gives generously but only to those who understand its balance.

The rhythm of your hands, the whisper of the wind, and the quiet lap of the waves against the boat—they all wove together like a song. You were part of something much larger than yourself, connected to the ancient currents of the sea, just as your family had always been.

You lifted your finished net, admiring the neat knots with a smile of quiet pride. A rush of happiness filled your chest as you hugged the net, feeling accomplished. You had honored the legacy of your ancestors, crafting the tool with care, just as they had done for generations. It was a simple but profound joy, knowing that you were connected to something so old and enduring.

With a steady breath, you prepared to cast the net into the water, hoping for a good catch to feed your family tonight. The gentle hum of the waves blended with your thoughts, and as the net unfurled, you missed the soft snap of a string breaking. But the sudden blue shimmer at the corner of your eye did not go unnoticed.

Your heart dropped as you realized it was your necklace—the one your mother had given you. Somehow, it had tangled itself in the net, and as you began to fish, it slipped from your neck effortlessly, tumbling into the water before you could react. You watched in stunned silence as the delicate jewelry disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths in an instant.

The sea, ever so calm just moments ago, now seemed impossibly vast and unyielding. That necklace was more than just a piece of jewelry; it was a part of you, a part of your family. And now, it was gone.

It sank slowly, the glimmering stone catching the last rays of sunlight as it shimmered just beneath the surface, suspended in the water like a delicate promise about to be broken. You watched, helpless, as it drifted deeper, the blue hue of the ocean swallowing it whole. Your heart pounded in your chest, a heavy sense of dread filling you as the necklace—your link to your family, your ancestors—vanished silently into the dark water below.

Your hands slackened, the net forgotten, slipping from your grasp into the boat. Without a second thought, instinct took over. Before you even realized what you were doing, you dove headfirst into the water, chasing the fading glint of silver.

The coldness of the ocean hit you like a shock, but you didn’t care. You kicked your legs, your arms pushing against the water, desperately reaching for the necklace as it continued its slow descent. The light above you grew dimmer as you sank deeper, the world around you a muffled echo of the surface. You could barely see now, the shimmering silver reduced to a distant gleam.

The water pressed in on you, chilling your skin and constricting your lungs. Panic began to claw at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. It was more than just an heirloom; it was the weight of your ancestors’ blessings, the legacy of your family, and it was slipping further and further away.

Your lungs began to burn, the pressure of the deep water pressing against your chest, but still, you reached out, fingers stretching into the darkness. The necklace was now just a faint blur, fading into the abyss. Desperation surged through you as your arms flailed in the icy depths.

The darkness was overwhelming, the cold water pressing in on all sides as you sank deeper, the faint shimmer of your necklace vanishing into the abyss. Your chest burned, lungs screaming for air, but your limbs were too heavy, too numb. The weight of the ocean dragged you down, and for a moment, you felt yourself surrendering to the pull, the necklace gone.

But then, something strange happened. A warmth surrounded you, gentle and reassuring, cutting through the icy water. A firm hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you upwards with a strength that felt both human and not. Yet, the darkness caught you and you passed out.

The first thing you felt was a pair of warm lips on yours, innocent, shy and yet somewhat dedicated. A wet hand was placed close to your throat. Then your head shot up as reality caught up to you, the water in your lungs creeping up your throat as you coughed it all out.

Coughing, disoriented, you blinked away the saltwater from your eyes, the world around you blurred. As your vision cleared, you found yourself being held by a man—no, something far more. His eyes, a deep and endless blue, locked onto yours. His presence was as overwhelming as the ocean itself, powerful and ancient, yet there was a softness in the way he held you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The stranger's arm was still wrapped around you, steadying you against the gentle rocking of the waves. His dark hair flowed around him, as though it were a part of the sea, and his skin, shimmering faintly in the light, seemed to glow with a quiet radiance. He wasn’t human, no, but he felt familiar.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice like the soft murmur of the tide, calming and steady.

You did, drawing in deep, shaky breaths, your heart still racing from the shock. “Who… who are you?” you stammered, your voice weak, barely above a whisper.

He gazed at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with something tender, something that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "Sebastian," he finally said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I live within these waters."

You nodded slowly, still dazed, as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. The cold of the water, the rush of drowning, and now… this.

Then, the realization hit you like a wave crashing over your head. “My necklace,” you breathed, panic swelling inside you again. You turned to look down into the water, but there was no shimmer, no sign of the silverish blue. “It’s gone… my necklace… I lost it.”

Sebastian’s eyes followed yours, and for a moment, a flicker of something like regret passed over his face. “The sea does not return everything,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of sorrow that seemed to echo from somewhere deep within him. "Not all that it takes can be given back."

Your heart sank, the weight of his words settling heavily inside you. The necklace—your family's necklace—was gone, lost forever to the depths. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you fought them back, not wanting to break down in front of this strange, beautiful man who had saved your life.

Sebastian’s gaze softened as he watched you, and before you could react, his hand reached up, brushing gently against your cheek, his touch feather-light. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and you could hear the sincerity in his voice, the sadness that lingered in his words. “I wish I could have saved it for you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, though the ache in your chest was still raw. “It was my family…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It was important.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply letting his fingers linger against your skin, his presence steady, grounding. “Your family's memory doesn’t live in that necklace,” he said softly, his eyes searching for yours. “It lives in you. In everything you carry with you. That cannot be lost, not to the sea or anything else.”

His words, gentle and warm, wrapped around your heart like a soothing balm. You nodded again, still feeling the loss, but somehow, in his presence, the grief didn’t feel quite so unbearable.

For a moment, you simply floated there together, the waves lapping gently against your bodies, the sun casting a warm, golden light over the surface of the water. Sebastian’s hand stayed close to yours, his touch lingering, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you go.

“Why did you help me?” you asked after a long silence, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you wanted the answer.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered, his deep blue eyes searching yours. “Because,” he said softly, a hint of something more in his voice, something unspoken, “I couldn’t let you go.”

There was something in the way he looked at you, an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t understand it, the pull between you two, but it was undeniable. He had saved you—not just from drowning, but from something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name.

For now, you let the quiet peace of the ocean surround you, content in his presence, even as the necklace drifted farther into the depths, lost but somehow no longer the most important thing in your heart.

You finally took the time to admire his large form, he was as pretty as the mermaids from the childhood stories, as gentle looking as the ocean and his eyes, his eyes were like the ones of a god. You never saw someone like him before, but he mesmerized you.

He had placed you back into your boat, his hand lingered a bit longer on your cheek than anticipated and you could feel a mutual spark between you two.

[hellinistical]

fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 5375 a/n: ty for the support <3 additionally, there is now a map! its on the masterlist

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V: LOOSE BARREL

The northern beaches were a desolate expanse of jagged cliffs and weathered stones, where the cold wind howled and the sea churned angrily. The water, an icy shade of steel gray, lashed against the unforgiving rocks with a relentless fury, spraying salt into the air. There was no warmth here, no gentle sand to soften the harsh edges of the coastline—just sharp, uneven terrain that seemed to mirror the chaos of the storm brewing far in the distance.

The tide surged and withdrew, erasing any sign of life that might have dared to cross this isolated stretch of land. There were no footprints, no remnants of human presence. Only the sea claimed this place, its wild energy unchecked by time or tide.

Above, the sky hung low, cloaked in heavy clouds that promised no reprieve from the cold. Gulls circled high overhead, their cries swallowed by the crash of the waves below. In the distance, the faint silhouette of a ship bobbed on the horizon, but it was moving away, as if even the sailors knew better than to linger here.

The only sound was the relentless slap of the water against rock, an unending rhythm that seemed both soothing and ominous. This was a place that belonged to no one—untamed, unyielding, and as timeless as the sea itself.

Beneath the tumultuous surface of the northern waters, the world transformed into a murky graveyard. Twisted remnants of mankind's carelessness floated aimlessly, forgotten nets tangled with drifting planks, and rusted barrels spilled their secrets into the currents. Among the debris, a ship loomed in the shadows, its once-proud hull now a skeleton of rotting wood and corroded iron.

The ship's figurehead, once carved in intricate detail, was eroded beyond recognition, its haunting form half-buried in the silt below. Seaweed clung to every surface, swaying like ghostly tendrils in the cold currents. Portholes gaped like empty eyes, staring into the abyss of the deep.

Schools of fish darted through the wreckage, weaving around shattered beams and the skeletal remains of the cargo hold. Barnacles encrusted the jagged edges, and anemones pulsed with eerie life, taking refuge in the decay. The ship, forgotten by those who had once sailed it, had become part of the underwater ecosystem, a silent testament to humanity’s indifference and the ocean’s relentless claim over all that entered its domain.

Above, the faint shafts of light from the storm-darkened sky barely pierced the depths, leaving much of the wreck cloaked in shadow. But if one were to look closely, they might notice something unnatural moving among the ruins—something that didn’t belong to the sea or the remnants of mankind’s negligence.

The creature moved with an elegance that belied its brutality, each motion fluid and deliberate. A finned hand reached out lazily, snatching a fish with practiced ease. Its other hand deftly plucked the fins from the squirming prey, casting them aside to drift aimlessly into the watery void.

With sharp teeth glinting faintly in the dim light, the being bit into the fish. The snap of fragile bones and the crunch of cartilage echoed faintly, muffled by the dense water. A bloom of red blossomed from the wound, spreading like ink in the surrounding currents.

Its body moved like silk through the water, iridescent scales catching the faint light and shimmering in hues of blue and lavender. Long strands of violet hair floated around its head, framing its otherworldly visage like a halo of deep sea fog.

The creature paused mid-bite, its slit-pupil eyes narrowing as it surveyed the wreckage around it. The rhythmic motion of its tail was the only sound as it hovered silently in the darkened expanse, a predator perfectly at home in its haunting domain.

It cast aside the half eaten fish, moving along to inspect the ship more closely. 

The half-eaten fish drifted downward, its lifeless body caught in the slow pull of the ocean's depths. The creature moved on, its sleek form weaving effortlessly through the water, tail undulating with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

The rotting ship loomed before it like a forgotten monument, its decaying wooden beams splintered and overgrown with barnacles. Rusted metal fittings clung stubbornly to the remnants of the hull, and torn sails fluttered faintly in the water’s currents like ghostly shrouds.

It reached out, a webbed hand trailing along the wreck’s surface. Wood crumbled beneath its touch, breaking apart into a fine cloud of debris. The ship reeked of human folly—bottles, rusted tools, and broken chests lay scattered like remnants of a forgotten life.

The creature's gaze narrowed, sharp eyes scanning for something unknown. It paused to pry open a cracked crate, its claws making quick work of the weakened wood. Inside, a glint of metal caught its attention—useless trinkets to some, but perhaps not to it. The faint movement of a crab scuttling into the shadows drew no reaction; this was no scavenger hunt.

The ship was a tomb, but there was something here worth finding. Something it sought. It continued its exploration, movements purposeful and predatory, undeterred by the wreckage's quiet decay.

A series of sharp clicks and low chirps echoed through the water, reverberating off the broken walls of the sunken ship. The soundwaves danced through the gloom, painting a mental map in his mind—a predator’s sonar, seeking life or secrets hidden in the decaying wreck.

The clicks bounced back with muddled signals, disrupted by the ship’s rotting wooden beams and encrusted metal. But faint traces of movement flickered at the edges of his perception. Small fish, maybe, or something larger lurking in the deeper shadows of the wreck.

He moved closer, his iridescent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering from the surface above. With a flick of his powerful tail, he swam around a broken mast, weaving through a tangle of seaweed that had claimed part of the hull. The chirps grew sharper, faster, as he honed in on the disturbance—a lingering curiosity gnawing at him.

The water grew colder as he neared the heart of the wreck. A shadow shifted, barely visible. Something had been here, recently. He clicked again, the sound bouncing back with clarity this time.

He paused, narrowing his piercing gaze, the eerie calm of the waters around him amplifying the tension. Whatever was here might still be watching. Or waiting.

A series of sharp clicks and low chirps echoed through the water, reverberating off the broken walls of the sunken ship. The soundwaves danced through the gloom, painting a mental map in his mind—a predator’s sonar, seeking life or secrets hidden in the decaying wreck.

The clicks bounced back with muddled signals, disrupted by the ship’s rotting wooden beams and encrusted metal. But faint traces of movement flickered at the edges of his perception. Small fish, maybe, or something larger lurking in the deeper shadows of the wreck.

He moved closer, his iridescent scales shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering from the surface above. With a flick of his powerful tail, he swam around a broken mast, weaving through a tangle of seaweed that had claimed part of the hull. The chirps grew sharper, faster, as he honed in on the disturbance—a lingering curiosity gnawing at him.

The water grew colder as he neared the heart of the wreck. A shadow shifted, barely visible. Something had been here, recently. He clicked again, the sound bouncing back with clarity this time.

He paused, narrowing his piercing gaze, the eerie calm of the waters around him amplifying the tension. Whatever was here might still be watching. Or waiting.

The sharp clicks reverberated once more, only to be met with a flash of movement. A female siren emerged from the jagged opening in the rotting wood, her sleek form twisting gracefully through the water. Her iridescent scales glimmered faintly in the muted light, but her toothy grin was anything but serene.

"Fancy seeing you here," she crooned, her voice lilting and sharp like the edges of broken glass. She twirled lazily, her fins brushing against the algae-covered hull as if mocking the ship’s demise.

He huffed, his irritation palpable, bubbles escaping his lips in a flurry. Clicking his tongue sharply, he folded his arms, his tail giving an annoyed flick that stirred up silt from the seabed.

"Do you ever have anything better to do?" he asked, his tone as cold as the deep-sea currents swirling around them.

Her grin widened, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. "Oh, but this is far more interesting than anything else. And you—you’re always so fun to watch when you’re brooding."

"Go play somewhere else," he snapped, his voice carrying the faint edge of a growl. "I don’t have time for your games."

She tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "Always so serious," she mused, clicking her own tongue in a mocking imitation. "What are you even doing here, hmm? Looking for scraps, or just sulking by the wreck?"

He turned away from her, his patience already threadbare. "None of your business."

Her laughter rang out, a haunting melody that echoed through the water. "Oh, but it is my business when you’re in my waters," she teased, gliding closer. "Careful, or you might make me think you’re hiding something."

Her laughter softened, curling around her words like seaweed around driftwood. Gliding closer, she plucked the discarded fish from where it floated lazily in the water, its half-eaten form a morbid offering.

"Tell me," she began, sinking her sharp teeth into the remains, a burst of crimson clouding the water around her lips. "How has it fared, hmm? Your meals so graciously given to you by that man?"

He stilled, his broad shoulders tightening at her words. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, flicked toward her, annoyance flashing in his bioluminescent eyes. "What are you trying to say?"

She chewed slowly, her grin widening as if she savored not only the taste but his irritation. "Oh, nothing," she replied with mock innocence, flicking her fins playfully. "Just curious. You’ve been... preoccupied lately. Swimming in circles, perhaps hoping for something new to fall into your net?"

His tail lashed, and the water rippled violently around him. "You don’t know anything," he growled, voice low and dangerous.

Her chuckle was dark, almost conspiratorial. "Don’t I?" she cooed, brushing a strand of violet hair from her face with a taloned hand. "Oh, I’ve seen you. Darting around the shallows like a curious pup, chasing a shadow that doesn’t belong in the water."

"Stay out of it," he snapped, his voice cutting through the water like a blade.

Her grin only grew sharper. "Touchy, touchy," she said, tossing the fish’s hollowed carcass aside. "I wonder what would happen if that little secret of yours found its way to more... eager ears."

He moved in an instant, closing the distance between them with a speed that made her flinch, his hand gripping her wrist tightly. His face was inches from hers, his voice a venomous whisper. "You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you."

For the first time, her grin faltered, though she quickly masked it with a sardonic smirk. "Fine," she drawled, twisting free of his grip. "But you should know, secrets have a funny way of slipping through the cracks—just like water."

Above the sirens, vibrations rippled through the cold, murky waters—strong, deliberate, unmistakable. He froze, his sharp gaze shifting upward as the disturbances sent faint currents cascading around him.

A ship?

It wasn’t unusual for the occasional vessel to drift far from its intended path, but here? In these treacherous Northern waters of Chronosia? No human dared venture this close to the Anbusas coast, not if they valued their lives. The stories alone were enough to keep even the most intrepid sailors away—rumors of sharp rocks hidden beneath the waves, sirens with haunting songs, and ancient, cursed tides.

And yet, the vibrations were undeniable, the slow, steady rhythm of oars or an engine cutting through the water, bringing the presence of something very alive—and very human.

The female siren reemerged from the shadows, her earlier amusement replaced by curiosity. "Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice now low and wary, her playful demeanor vanishing like a ripple dissipating on the surface.

He nodded, his gaze narrowing as he tilted his head to the side, listening intently. The clicks and hums of the ocean around them were muffled by the heavier, alien sounds above—a steady thrum of wood and iron clashing against the restless sea.

"No human comes this far north," he murmured, his tone more to himself than to her. "Not willingly."

"Yet here they are," she replied, her own bioluminescent eyes gleaming in the dim light as she swam closer to him, tension vibrating in her every movement. "Brave, aren’t they?"

"Or foolish," he muttered darkly.

The vibrations intensified, and a faint shadow passed over the water above them—a long, hulking silhouette cutting through the waves like a predator stalking its prey.

"Should we?" she asked, her sharp grin returning as her fingers flexed, claws gleaming.

He hesitated, his tail swaying as he considered the possibilities. It wasn’t fear that held him back; it was calculation. A ship this far north couldn’t just be a coincidence.

"Not yet," he said finally, his voice firm. "We watch first."

With a flick of his tail, he moved toward the ship’s path, disappearing into the murky depths as the vibrations continued to rattle through the water, signaling the approach of something unknown—and potentially catastrophic.

***

Above the waves, a massive ship cut through the restless waters, its size and grandeur almost defiant against the foreboding backdrop of the Northern seas. The hull was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, each plank carved with intricate designs—swirling motifs of sea serpents, storm clouds, and gods in battle, their forms interwoven in a way that seemed alive, almost breathing with the motion of the ocean.

The ship’s grandeur was undeniable, its towering masts stretching high above the dark water, sails taut and glistening with rain. Ornate lanterns hung from the railings, their flickering flames casting ghostly reflections across the wet, polished deck. This was no ordinary vessel; it was a thing of beauty and power, a stark contrast to the hostile waters it dared to traverse.

The ship’s bow was crowned with a figurehead, a towering depiction of a siren—beautiful and terrible. Her carved expression was one of agony and wrath, her arms extended toward the sea as though in a plea or a curse. Gold and silver accents glinted in the dim light, betraying the wealth of those who had sent this ship into such dangerous waters.

The crew aboard moved with purpose, their shouts carried faintly by the wind. They weren’t simple merchants or fishermen; their uniforms, weapons, and coordinated movements suggested something more deliberate.

An air of tension hung heavy over the deck, the men glancing uneasily at the churning water below and the storm clouds gathering in the distance. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, stood at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel with knuckles pale against the wood.

"The ship is too damn big for this," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"And yet here we are. Tell it to the captain." another man replied, his voice laced with dry humor, though his hand lingered nervously on the hilt of his sword.

The ship groaned as it pressed forward, the waves slapping against the intricately carved hull as if the sea itself were trying to push it back, to warn it away from the dangers it did not yet fully comprehend.

Marlon, a gruff man with sun-scorched skin and a permanent scowl, spat over the side of the ship, the wind catching the fleck before it disappeared into the sea. Rolling his strained shoulders, he muttered, "The captain won’t listen. Says it’s too good of a hunt waitin’ out here. Still don’t make sense why we took this boat—got imperial sigils all over it."

His tone was sharp, dripping with disdain as he jerked a thumb toward the intricately carved hull. "Like we ain’t already makin’ ourselves a big enough target just bein’ here."

The other man leaning against the railing with a hand near his sword, Ryder, chuckled humorlessly.  "A hunt, he says. As if the sea gives a damn about our quarry. Imperial sigils or not, these waters’ll swallow us whole if they’ve a mind to."

Marlon grunted, his brows furrowing deeper as he scanned the horizon. The heavy clouds above mirrored the unease in his chest. "Hunt or no hunt, I’m tellin’ ya, we should’ve stayed south. Ain’t no fish worth pissin’ off what lives under this stretch of water."

The other man didn’t reply, only tightening his grip on his weapon. The air seemed thicker here, heavier. It wasn’t just the threat of the storm—it was something deeper, something ancient. Even the ocean spray felt colder, biting through their thick coats like icy fingers.

Marlon’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. "And this boat? It’s too damn pretty. Too loud. If we’re not careful, it’s gonna bring somethin’ outta those depths we don’t wanna see."

Marlon turned at the sound of the low, gravelly voice, his eyes narrowing as Luke and Kieran approached. Their crow masks gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished beaks lending them an eerie presence.

"Gentlemen," Luke began, his tone cool and measured. "A problem?"

Kieran tilted his head slightly, the hollow sockets of his mask staring straight at Marlon, who felt a chill race up his spine despite himself. Ryder, the younger of the two men at the railing, cleared his throat nervously, but Marlon wasn’t one for being intimidated—not by masks, and not by men who thought them fancy.

He spat over the side again, the sound of it sharp against the restless waves. Straightening his back, he gestured toward the ornate ship with a rough hand. "Yeah, a problem. This whole setup’s a damn problem. I don’t like this boat, I don’t like these waters, and I sure as hell don’t like the captain’s obsession with huntin’ here. We’ve no business in these parts, imperial sigils or not."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable behind the dark visors of their masks. Kieran’s voice came low and slow, deliberate in its weight. "The captain’s orders aren’t up for debate. You’ll follow them, just like everyone else on this crew."

"And what’s the captain chasin’ that’s worth endangering us all, huh?" Marlon shot back, his tone sharp. "You can’t tell me he doesn’t know what’s down there."

Luke chuckled softly, the sound unsettling as it escaped the beak-like mask. "You think too much, Marlon. It’ll get you into trouble."

"Thinkin’s all that’s kept me alive this long," Marlon snapped.

Kieran stepped closer, his broad figure casting a shadow over Marlon. "Then think about this. You’re on his ship, in his waters. If you’ve got doubts, you’re welcome to take your chances overboard. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut and do your job."

The two masked men lingered for a moment longer, their presence suffocating. Then, without another word, they turned and disappeared into the ship’s shadows.

Marlon shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Damn fools are gonna get us all killed." Ryder, still tense, exhaled shakily beside him. "They might hear you," he whispered.

"Let ‘em," Marlon grumbled, though his eyes kept flicking nervously toward the dark waves below.

But just then-

A thunderous boom reverberated through the ship, sending Marlon and Ryder stumbling backward. The entire vessel groaned as if in agony, the sound of splintering wood rising above the waves.

"What in the hells was that?!" Marlon barked, clutching the railing for balance as the ship rocked violently.

Ryder scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed, his gaze darting over the edge of the railing. "Something hit us! Something big!"

The crew erupted into chaos, men shouting orders and curses as the ship listed dangerously to one side. The ornate carvings along the hull cracked and splintered, some breaking off entirely to be swallowed by the churning sea below.

From the shadows of the deck, Luke and Kieran reappeared, their crow masks gleaming ominously. Luke’s voice cut through the clamor like a blade. "All hands on deck! Arm yourselves!"

Kieran strode to the center of the chaos, barking orders with precision. "Secure the cargo! Watch the waterline!"

Another jarring thud rocked the ship, this time sending a shower of seawater and debris over the deck. Marlon gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles white as he scanned the dark waters below.

And then he saw it.

A shadow, massive and serpentine, slithered just beneath the surface, its form too large to comprehend fully. The water churned violently in its wake, glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue-green light.

"By the gods," Marlon breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. Ryder, standing frozen beside him, followed his gaze and let out a strangled gasp.

The shadow moved again, circling the ship with an unsettling grace. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human—or anything else Marlon had ever seen before.

From the depths, a deep, resonant growl echoed, a sound that sent shivers through every man aboard. The ship groaned once more, the ancient wood seeming to protest the presence of the beast.

Kieran’s voice boomed above the chaos, his calm veneer beginning to crack. "Stand your ground! Whatever it is, it bleeds!"

But Marlon wasn’t so sure. 

The crow's nest, high above the chaos, swayed dangerously with the ship's violent rocking. Its once-proud occupant, a large black bird, was nowhere to be seen—likely seeking refuge with the captain below deck, if not having flown off entirely.

Luke’s sharp tone snapped through the din. "You there! Secure the starboard side before we lose it altogether!" His crow mask turned sharply toward the men scrambling with ropes and barrels.

Kieran, ever the strategist, stood at the opposite railing, assessing the situation with an unshakable focus. "Reinforce the hull breach!" he commanded, pointing to where seawater was beginning to seep through splintered wood. "We’re not sinking on my watch!"

Another thunderous crash rattled the ship, the force throwing several men off balance and scattering loose cargo across the deck. The sound of grinding wood and the eerie groan of the hull filled the air.

Ryder stumbled, clutching Marlon’s arm to steady himself. "This thing’s playing with us," he muttered, voice trembling. "It could’ve sunk us by now if it wanted to."

Marlon gritted his teeth, his eyes darting to the waterline. "Don’t say that out loud, boy. You’ll give it ideas."

The shadow beneath the waves appeared again, circling slower this time, almost taunting. The glowing bioluminescence trailing behind it cast an eerie light on the ship’s underside, illuminating the intricate imperial sigils etched into the wood.

Luke’s head snapped toward the bow as the shadow moved. "Keep your weapons ready!" he barked. "No hesitation!"

Kieran turned sharply to face the gathered men. "We’ll lure it out," he said, his voice low but carrying over the chaos. "Make it show itself. Harpoons ready. Aim for the head or whatever it calls a heart."

"But what if it doesn’t have one?" a voice called out, trembling with fear.

Kieran’s masked face turned toward the voice, his tone icy. "Then we make one."

The ship groaned again, the vibrations resonating through every plank and rope. Whatever circled them wasn’t just a beast. It was something far more intelligent, something testing them. And it wasn’t finished yet.

A hand, slick and glistening with seawater, reached out and tightened its grip on the wooden rail, long claws digging into the soaked wood. The faint bioluminescent glow along the webbing pulsed like the heartbeat of the sea itself. With an eerie smoothness, it pulled itself up, revealing more of the creature that followed.

A scream tore through the night, sharp and panicked, as one of the crew caught sight of the intruder. "By the gods!" he cried, stumbling backward and tripping over a coil of rope.

The figure loomed over the rail now, its upper body humanoid yet alien. Iridescent scales shimmered in hues of violet and blue, reflecting the dim lantern light. Long, sleek strands of lavender hair clung wetly to its face and shoulders, framing angular features that were both beautiful and unnerving. Its eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing faintly, scanned the deck with an unsettling intelligence.

Luke and Kieran froze for a moment before snapping into action.

"Ready the harpoons!" Luke shouted, drawing his blade.

Kieran stepped forward, his stance steady even as the deck pitched beneath him. "Stand your ground! It’s just one. We’ve faced worse."

The creature tilted its head, watching the chaos it had stirred with an almost amused expression. Water dripped from its elongated fingers, each ending in a sharp claw, as it gripped the rail tighter.

Another man screamed, clutching a makeshift weapon—a gaff hook—and stepping back in terror. The creature’s gaze snapped to him, its lips curling into a sharp, toothy grin.

Marlon spat again, though his hand trembled as he held his harpoon. "Ain’t no fish I’ve ever seen."

The creature finally spoke, its voice resonating like the deep echo of waves in a cavern. "You... should not have come here."

The words sent a chill through the crew, the weight of their mistake crashing down on them like the waves below.

“Shuveyr… Shuveyr save us,” 

The hand, slick and glistening with seawater, tightened its grip on the wooden rail, long claws digging into the soaked wood. The faint bioluminescent glow along the webbing pulsed like the heartbeat of the sea itself. With an eerie smoothness, it pulled itself up, revealing more of the creature that followed.

A scream tore through the night, sharp and panicked, as one of the crew caught sight of the intruder. "By the gods!" he cried, stumbling backward and tripping over a coil of rope.

The figure loomed over the rail now, its upper body humanoid yet alien. Iridescent scales shimmered in hues of violet and blue, reflecting the dim lantern light. Long, sleek strands of lavender hair clung wetly to its face and shoulders, framing angular features that were both beautiful and unnerving. Its eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing faintly, scanned the deck with an unsettling intelligence.

The creature tilted its head, watching the chaos it had stirred with an almost amused expression. Water dripped from its elongated fingers, each ending in a sharp claw, as it gripped the rail tighter.

Another man screamed, clutching a makeshift weapon—a gaff hook—and stepping back in terror. The creature’s gaze snapped to him, its lips curling into a sharp, toothy grin.

Marlon spat again, though his hand trembled as he held his harpoon. "Ain’t no fish I’ve ever seen."

The creature finally spoke, its voice resonating like the deep echo of waves in a cavern. "You... should not have come here."

The creature's lips curled further, the expression both amused and terrifying, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth that gleamed like polished bone in the dim light. Her iridescent scales shifted with an unsettling fluidity, as if her body was part of the ocean itself. Her eyes—deep, endless pools of violet and pink—locked onto the man who had invoked Shuveyr, a slight glimmer of recognition flickering within them.

"Shuveyr?" Her voice was soft yet resonated with an eerie echo, as though the very sea had spoken. "A goddess to call upon in your desperation?" She tilted her head, her hair falling like strands of dark silk, glistening with droplets of seawater. "She does not dwell here... not where I reign."

The crew was silent now, the weight of her words sinking in. The terror among them was palpable, as if they were standing on the edge of something ancient and deadly. The deck creaked ominously beneath their feet, and the winds picked up, howling with the ferocity of a storm on the horizon.

"You’ve ventured too far," the creature continued, her voice lilting as she stepped forward, her webbed feet soundless against the wood. Her gaze flicked to the ship’s stern, where the rest of the crew stood frozen, some still clutching their weapons, others too afraid to move. "There is no safe haven in these waters. No gods, no prayers can protect you from the depths of the sea."

Marlon swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he gripped his harpoon tighter. "What do you want from us?" His voice cracked, and despite his bravado, the terror was evident.

The siren's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Your lives are forfeit. A small price for trespassing in these waters... but perhaps," she mused, her tone shifting to something more calculating, "perhaps I could offer you a trade."

The men exchanged uncertain glances, some hesitating, others desperate to find a way out of the nightmare unfolding before them.

"What trade?" Luke dared to ask, his voice steady despite the fear twisting in his gut.

"Let me think," the siren said with a tilt of her head, her smile never wavering. "You can give me what you value most—your pride, your treasure, or perhaps... your very souls."

Her gaze swept over the crew, pausing on each man for just a heartbeat too long. "Choose wisely," she added, her voice softening into a whisper, "for I know what lies beneath your skins."

The wind howled again, drowning out the crew's responses, and the ship creaked louder, as if groaning under the weight of its impending doom.

A heavy silence settled over the ship, thick and suffocating. The men stood frozen, eyes wide, hearts racing, as the siren disappeared beneath the waves. Her haunting eyes, filled with unspoken promises, faded into the deep, leaving only the echo of her voice hanging in the air like a curse.

For a moment, there was nothing—no movement, no sound save the relentless crash of the waves against the hull. The men held their breath, waiting, uncertain of what would come next. The stillness was so profound that it felt as though time had stopped.

And then, the barrels, unsecured by the chaos, began to shift.

A low groan from the ship's timbers echoed, the sound growing louder as the barrels, laden with supplies, began to roll and tumble across the deck. The men, still in shock, moved hastily to prevent the containers from sliding off the ship, but it was too late—several rolled to the edge and crashed overboard, splashing into the water below.

From the depths, something stirred.

The water around the ship churned violently as if something large was moving just beneath the surface, circling, waiting. The men froze again, eyes darting toward the waves, but there was no sign of the siren, no sign of what was to come next.

Then, the sound of creaking wood—a deep, groaning sound—came from beneath the hull. It was as though the ship itself were buckling under some unseen force, its timbers straining against the pressure.

Luke, his face pale, looked toward the horizon, his voice barely a whisper. "We're not alone."

And before anyone could respond, the sea erupted.

Massive, dark shapes shot up from the water, enormous and terrifying, their forms shifting in the shadows beneath the surface. Tentacles, black and slick, coiled and lashed against the ship’s sides, pulling with unimaginable strength. The ship lurched violently, a deep, ominous growl vibrating through the planks.

The crew scrambled, shouting orders and fear-stricken prayers, but it was clear that whatever had risen from the depths was far beyond their control. As the ship groaned under the assault, the unmistakable sound of tearing wood filled the air, and the men knew—this was no ordinary storm. This was the wrath of something ancient, something that had waited in these waters for far too long.

But  something else. The raven had made its appearance, cawing. Heavy foot steps sounded- thud, thud, thud. 

The captain was here.

“Grab the nets.  I want a siren.”

copyright © 2024 Hellinistical all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

[nevadancitizen]

-> PROLOGUE: THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA

synopsis: you meet with a mysterious woman on an old californian dock.

word count: ~850

ships: Arthur Morgan/modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw !! go read their modern reader fic i really like it. also we'll be getting into the actual time travel stuff after this teaser lololol :3

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s a bracing, misty evening – supposed to be spring, but doesn’t feel like it. The waves are choppy and the gulls are huddled on the pylons with their beaks tucked under their wings, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. 

Three hulking great ships, all freighters, are tied up on the beat-up dock. This isn’t one of those fashionable wharfs with dockworker unions or passenger liners – no pretty girls on their balconies, clinking champagne flutes to celebrate the start of the cruise. Just a couple of red-faced salts in pea jackets tramping by, trailing cigarette smoke, boots crunching on dried-up gull shit.

They spare you glances as they pass by, surely wondering what you were doing here in the early hours of the morning. Were you waiting for someone to get off work? Were you waiting for a drug deal? Or were you just admiring the way the waves spray water onto the dock?

(In reality, it was none of those. You’re waiting on something much worse.)

A woman, sleek and modern in style and rugged and worn in looks, approaches you. She has a quiet intensity about her — something about the way she squints against the ocean spray mixed with the permanent-looking scowl on her face. 

She tilts her head toward you, and you nod. You walk towards her and meet her halfway, leaning in close on her insistence. 

“You’re the one in need?” She asks softly. You just barely hear her over the waves crashing against the dock.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, just as soft. “It’s my sister’s daughter. My eleven-year-old niece. She’s… she’s in a really bad way.”

“What does she need?” The woman asks. 

“A pancreas,” you say. “She’s got acute recurrent pancreatitis. There aren’t a lot of affordable child-sized organs lying around. God knows I’ve turned not just California, but the entire Mojave upside-down trying to find one. I’ve called hospitals in Arizona, Nevada, even New Mexico. I – I’m not asking you to kill a child! I just… I need the money for the operation. It’ll put her on the waiting list, and… once we show the hospital we have the money, I’m sure she’ll be okay. Somehow.”

The woman narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you just take out a loan? Or take on debt?”

“I can’t,” you say. “None of us can. I foreclosed on my last house. My sister has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, counting all the interest. Please, just trust me when I say I need this money. I don’t think anyone has nearly half a million dollars in their junk drawer. If I did, why would I be here, asking you for it?”

The woman looks you over and tucks her jacket closer around her. The outline of a gun at her hip becomes glaringly obvious – she wants you to notice it.

“Ma’am, I’m begging you.” You clasp your hands together as tight as you can. “I come from a family of deadbeats and addicts. I was an addict myself, and I quit just to save money for her operation, but it’s just not enough. I need this money. I won’t misappropriate these funds – won’t use them to pay off other debts, won’t use them for drugs. Just… please, miss.”

The woman holds up her hand. “Stop groveling.”

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! You shout in your head. I need money, and you’ve got the money! My niece is going to fucking die if I don’t get it!

Instead, you just nod politely and put your hands behind your back. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies. I’m sure you can understand my desperation.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman hums. “I can get you the money. Just give me your banking details and I can wire it to you.” 

You pull out a pre-prepared index card with your bank information written down. The woman checks that it has your full name, address, account number, and routing number before speaking again.

“Do you have life insurance?” She asks, as if offhandedly.

“Uh, yes?” You say, unsure. “It won’t come out to a lot, so I couldn’t have an “accident” at work. Maybe just under 200,000 dollars? Nowhere near enough to cover her operation.”

The woman hums and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Thank you so, so much,” you say. “You have no idea what this means to me – no idea what you’ve done for me and my family.”

“I have some idea.” The woman’s hand lingers at her waist. It takes you a few seconds too long to notice that –

A loud sound. A raging pain. The bullet hit something vital, but doesn’t grant you the mercy of dying in that instant. 

You stagger back, holding yourself. “What…”

“You’re dumber than you look,” the woman says, her voice fading in and out. “I’m just helping your family.”

You inhale shakily and take a step back. There’s a sense of falling, and something cold surrounds you, but you can’t make out much of anything in this condition. 

The last thing you think before the black takes you? It’s May. Who the fuck gets shot in May?

[sylviesoothsayer22]

Lured Deep Beneath The Waves (Complete)

He Xuan x Wei Ying

In order to save their worthless lives, Wei Ying's village offered Jiang Yanli up on a silver platter to a beast, only for her little brother to step in and oh so nobly take her place. Forcefully whisked away from his -ahem- not so peaceful living situation, he now finds himself in a queer place, looking like the spoiled wife of a dotting lord, wondering what he ought to do with his new circumstances.

That sounds like one of those questionable novels I'd catch jiejie reading. Also, I didn’t exactly ‘step in’ of my own accord.

At least the clucking hens back at the village now have new writing material to work with.

Author's Note:

The idea for this work came to me when I had a mental health retreat by the sea a few months back. Told some discord friends about it and it sorta snowballed to this. Also, I was accused of having a Hua Cheng-bias and needed to clear my name. *shrug*

This fic may or may not have some Deadpool & Wolverine humour here and there. Oops.

Anyways! This whole premise will eventually turn into a series of instalments that deal with HeXian's marital life. Now, onto the first fic!

He would’ve done it had she just asked. Madame Yu really didn’t need to go through all the trouble.

Wei Wuxian had been kneeling for so long that his legs had already gone numb. The cliff he was on faced the roiling, blackened sea, stretching out as far as the eye could perceive, so much so that he was unable to differentiate between the darkened waters and sky. He could taste the bitter salt in the air, the sea-spray clinging to his clothes, the chilling breeze, which forced his body into sporadic shivers. Not a single gull dared to caw, no fishermen hollering at each other to go home before curfew or paddles splashing against the water’s pull. Aside from his own breathing, the only other sound Wei Wuxian’s ears knew were the roarous crashing of waves smashing into the rocks of the cliff that he was chained to. 

It was already nighttime, a smattering of stars splashed across the sky, the crescent moon hung high like an arced axe about to fall on his head at any moment, its subtle glow barely providing him any light for his surroundings. Not that Wei Ying could see much through the stupid veil.

All this over some moronic ritual that should’ve died out in a bygone era.

It all began with a rumour. Black Water Demon Xuan was looking for someone, a woman, with hair like shadow, a face as fair as snow and eyes so bright they reflected the night sky. Said rumour trickled its way into the tiny fishing villages located near the South Sea, where the fabled Black Water Demon Lair resides. This led many to believe that he was looking for a wife, a concubine or perhaps just a bed-slave. As you can imagine, it resulted in numerous families offering up their daughters to the Water Demon, praying that it would spare their village from the Calamity’s dismay. 

The act of ‘offering’ one’s daughter to Black Water had become so common among the five villages that, throughout the centuries, it warped and spiralled into a ritualistic sacrifice where, every ten years, one fishing village out of the five, Lianhua, Huīshuǐ, Lántiān, Rìluò and Jinyǔmáo, had to place a fair maiden, dressed in the most elaborate bridal robes each village could afford, upon the Weeping Cliff, named after the silently weeping brides who would be carried there. The most hysterical bride would find themselves chained to the cliff in order to prevent them from escaping or even finding a way out of the marriage by plunging themselves into the watery depths below. 

Each village has their own method of choosing a bride, ensuring that it was random to make it ‘fair’. For Lianhua village, it was through a single pearl. As soon as it was Lianhua’s turn to sacrifice one of their own, the unmarried women of their village would gather at the main square, there they would find a bucket filled with perfectly round white stones and an opalescent pearl hidden among the identical rocks. Upon the ringing of a bell, each maid was forced to step up and dig deep into the bucket, as it was forbidden to pick anything from the surface, until one woman was saddled with the unlucky pearl. This year’s chosen maid was unfortunately none other than his jiejie, Jiang Yanli. 

Well, she wasn’t Wei Wuxian’s actual sister, as the lovely Madame Yu was keen on reminding him every damn day. 

Wei Ying’s parents were wandering cultivators that got killed on one of their hunts while he was very young. By some miracle, Wei Ying managed to find his way back to Lianhua where village head Jiang Fengmian recognized the lost little boy as the son whom his parents helped the people of Lianhua deal with some pesky water ghouls a few months back and so, decided to take Wei Ying in as a way to pay his debt to the boy’s parents. 

Of course, the Dear Madame Yu didn’t like how her husband seemingly favoured Wei Ying over their son, Jiang Cheng. Going out of her way to belittle every single achievement Wei Ying ever made while growing up. Oh, Wei Ying far exceeded Jiang Cheng in their studies? Madame Yu would give Jiang Cheng a scolding so severe that Wei Ying started deliberately underperforming just so that there would be less friction between mother and son. Wei Ying tied fishing nets faster than Jiang Cheng? Any praise given to him by Jiang Fengmain would be met with an equal amount of derision from his lovely wife. Wei Ying caught more fish than Jiang Cheng? He would wake up the next day and find his fishing tools tampered with to which Wei Ying chose to keep his mouth shut and carry on with his day.  

Wei Ying can easily forgive and forget all these little transgressions. After all, he was just an interloper, an orphan who was saved from a life on the streets thanks to the Jiang family’s pity. The least he could do was keep his head down and not offset the delicate balance among his hosts. 

However, Wei Ying drew the line at Madame Yu’s ill treatment of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze’s memory. The woman would go out of her way to stamp out Wei Ying’s tendency to emulate his parents, as in whenever he tries practising the cultivation techniques that the two wandering cultivators taught him. The same techniques that helped Wei Ying survive on his own until he managed to find his way back to Lianhua. Even going as far as to disparage any attempted meetings between Wei Ying and rogue cultivators that found their way into the fishing village. All Wei Ying wanted was to follow in his parents’ footsteps, but the mere idea of him being better than the blood-son in anything was enough to set Madame Yu off a bunch.

Needless to say, once he was old enough Wei Ying spent most of his days out of the Jiang household. Only ever using the residence as a place to sleep or shelter from harsh weather. Wei Ying only hoped that he could make it until he found a wife and finally moved out of that dreary house. 

Perhaps if Wei Ying was around more often, he wouldn’t be in this mess or at least spare his jiejie some grief. 

I could’ve convinced her to hide out in one of the neighbouring villages until the ritual was over. Her idiot betrothed would’ve certainly helped. Or tamper with the selection process. Or or-

Aiyah, he was overthinking again. Now, where was he?

Ah, yes. His current predicament.

To Madame Yu, it was bad enough that her husband barely paid attention to their son, but finding out that she’ll lose her only daughter to a Calamity of all beings, was the last straw. She secretly hired the Wen Gang to capture Wei Wuxian-Really, Madame? Really?! Of all the scum you could’ve hired to do your dirty work, you chose the bullies notoriously known for encroaching on the villages’ fishing territories and beating up the weak?! Come on, Madame Yu! Have some class! 

Anyways, the hired help managed to sneak up on him (Wei Ying blamed it on the wine he drank to drown out his sorrows), knocked him out by a swift log to the head, dressed him up as the bride and chained him to the damn cliff.

Shackled to this lonely rock while bedecked head-to-toe in wedding garb, Wei Wuxian resembled a royal bride shipped off to an ill-fated marriage. He wore scarlet robes with a long gradient train, the colour blending from crimson to sunset red, his shoulders padded and decorated with dangling golden chains, teardrop shaped lapis lazuli dripping at the tailends of the delicate metalwork. Water dragons stitched with silver thread, serpentine jaws open in defiance, their long bodies coiling around his front and waist. Each dragon sporting eyes embroidered with golden thread, glinting eerily. His hair was held up by two golden criss-crossing hair pins. The metal of the pins twisting and bending like roots, the stems cradling shining red flowers nestled within raven tresses. Were one to look more closely at the pins, they’d see that the ‘petals’ were in fact seashells painted in red lacquer, carefully arranged to look like blooming flowers. Hanging off his pale arms were long, billowing sleeves made of satin with a silk, semi-transparent outer layer, offering a ripple effect akin to low tide. The bridal veil had a similar, wave-like pattern at the edges. Underneath it, his ears sported red-pearl earrings with arced silver fishtails attached at the bottom end. Each fin studded with tiny diamonds. His fair face had a light layer of makeup. Bow-shaped lips coated a deep red, golden eyeliner emphasising the silver in his eyes and a soft pink blush dusting his cheeks, completed with the huadian of a lotus flower in full bloom, its soft petals unfurling, beguiling in its simplicity. 

For all their atrocious behaviour, Wei Ying had to give it to the Wen Gang. They knew how to dress up a bride. Top marks for their efforts. Truly.

The Madame spared no expense, he was almost flattered! Wei Ying knew he could never afford a single piece of jewellery on this accursed outfit were he to start saving up until he was ninety.

Except for one, miniscule flaw in this elaborate plan:

Wei Wuxian wasn’t a woman!

Sure, he looked like a bride befitting an emperor, but no amount of polish will turn a rock into a diamond! For the past -who knows how many- centuries, all of the sacrifices have been women . What’s stopping Black Water’s displeasure at finding a trussed up male dressed in wedding robes as opposed to a beautiful maiden? What’s stopping him from showing that displeasure to Lianhua village and -potentially- the other villages as well? Would he curse the village heads and all their future descendants? Would he stop providing them with fresh fish and clear waters, have the villages slowly starve to death as they lose their primary food source? Or would he simply drown them all in a fit of rage? 

Outcome after outcome flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last. The wound on his temple, where the idiots smashed it with a log, throbbed painfully. Wei Ying was about to slam the back of his head on the rock behind him to stop his spiralling thoughts before remembering the hair pins. Deciding it wasn’t worth stabbing into his scalp, Wei Ying lowered his chin in defeat and sighed.

With his luck, maybe the Water Demon won’t even bother showing up and leave Wei Ying chained here until he dies from thirst, turning the expensive wedding robes into his funeral shroud. Or maybe Black Water will take a liking to him and turn Wei Ying into a trophy wife. Forbidden from leaving the Calamity’s side until he was old and wrinkled, a used-up, shrivelled thing tossed into the sea like trash once his natural good looks fade with age. 

By the heavens, if this backfires, he’ll haunt Madame Yu for the rest of her miserable life.

Look on the bright side, he thought glumly, at least you finally got away from that house. Potentially forever.

Wei Ying just hoped that jiejie was alright.

Ignoring the pins and needles running up and down his legs, Wei Ying shifted into a more comfortable position and decided to pass the time by squinting through the veil, counting the stars. 

He was on star number thirteen when it suddenly disappeared, like a candle flame swiftly blown out. One by one, the stars winked out of existence, the shadows shaping the moon into a crescent drew back like soundless curtains, until it resembled a great, lone pearl stitched upon endless black cloth. The crashing waves slowly fell into a murmur and Wei Ying was left with his own blood pounding into his eardrums.

SPLAT!

He startled. Back going ramrod straight. 

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

Wei Ying felt his body break out in cold sweat. Adam’s apple bobbing painfully as he swallowed.

Someone or some thing was climbing up the cliff.

Wei Ying slammed his eyes shut and started doing what he hadn’t done in years. Pray.

Who should he be praying to?! The Flower Crowned Martial God? No. That doesn’t make any sense. He could hardly call himself a cultivator let alone a warrior.

Should he pray to Crimson Rain for luck? Best not. The Ghost King was pretty finicky and he might end up displeasing Black Water if he started praying to a rival Calamity.

Water Master Shi Wudu? Oh, now Wei Ying was asking for eternal torture. It’s no secret that Water Master and Demon Xuan had a rivalry as tumultuous as a ship caught in a malstrom. 

Which of the thousands of negligent, apathetic gods is more likely to show Wei Ying a shred of pity? Maybe-

An overwhelming coldness washed over Wei Ying, as if he had just been doused with seawater, the wetness seeping into his skin. Whatever breath he had in his lungs was viciously expelled.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that the figure had stopped just a foot away from him. 

Wei Ying felt more than saw the hand slowly reaching out towards his face, long fingers grasping at the sheer red veil, carefully moving it out of the way.

The flimsy barrier between bride and groom disappeared. Wei Ying blocked out the feeling of goosebumps rioting all over his skin. With one final prayer for strength, he cracked his eyes open.

What stared back at him had his heart hammering against his chest cavity, ready to burst.

Yellow eyes as bright as molten gold, ever-changing and malleable, reminding Wei Ying of the precious metal’s capacity to shift into whatever form or role the owner fancies. There was a cool temperance behind that hooded gaze, it bespoke of someone who witnessed centuries-worth of depravities, followed by the painstaking build of calculated viciousness to counterattack, of hard-won strength carried with ease, lurking just beneath the surface of faux-boredom. It made Wei Ying think of the sea during sunrise, when the yellow rays have barely touched the darkened waters, still and inviting. Teasing onlookers to take one little dip, since it looked so relaxing, so easy , only to stray too far and get struck by a sudden riptide, dragging down the ignorant into a watery grave. 

It was terrifying, it was beautiful . Doubly so when those eyes were all that Wei Ying could see. 

He couldn’t make out the being’s face nor his figure. Not when it was enveloped by a mist so dark that the only form of light capable of piercing through were those golden eyes. It wasn’t too dissimilar to squid-ink, now that Wei Ying thought about it. Plumes of blackish-blue clouds engulfing any unsuspecting swimmers, knocking them off course, unable to tell which way was up or down, to move forward or back. 

Wei Ying subconsciously leaned forward, a helpless moth in the face of an inviting flame, so enthralled was he by the sight, that he did not pay any heed to the brief flash of recognition, of disbelief, in those golden depths. Did not pay any mind to the smooth, pale hand faintly brushing against his cheek, achingly familiar. Long fingers traced the path of dried blood running down the side of Wei Ying’s head, until they were softly tapping at the wound on his temple. 

Wei Ying had been staring into the abyss for so long, he failed to register those two points of light blinking back into the shadows.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

It took a while for his mind to crawl back to consciousness. Wei Ying fully expected for there to be a godsforsaken ache equivalent to a pickaxe slammed into his skull or a gnawing, persistent throbbing in his temples demanding attention the moment one opens their eyes. 

Instead, when Wei Ying’s moonstone eyes cracked open, he woke up feeling rejuvenated and fully alert. Like long-awaited rain washing over a cracked and withering field.

It was easily the best sleep of Wei Ying’s life. 

Feeling that both his hands were now free, wary fingers prodded at the bump on his temple, checking for any damage. 

Only to be met with smooth, unbroken skin.

Wei Ying shot up, pupils blown wide. Head veering left and right, wildly taking in his new surroundings. 

He was sitting on a bed covered with pitch black sheets made of satin, the canopy drawn, but Wei Ying could still see through the azure, silken sheets. 

It was a windowless bedchamber, five times the size of his pitiful, dingy room back at the Jiang household, with muted grey walls and flooring, seemingly made out of stone. 

The closets, nightstand, chairs and low table looked as if they were also made out of this mystifying grey stone, protruding from the walls and floors, completely carved from the material. The bronze mirror appeared to be the only piece of furniture not made out of stone.

Looking down at himself, Wei Ying finally registered that he was no longer wearing those suffocating wedding garments along with another peculiar observation.

To be fair, he didn’t put up much of a struggle, but his movements while chained did result in his wrists to turn raw and swollen, yet Wei Ying could only see unblemished, milky-white skin. 

Did… he heal me? He wondered, lightly stroking his fingers against the no-longer-tender skin. Why? To earn my favour? Ensure that I warmed up to him quicker?

Then again, if he was powerful enough to change the sky, healing a few bumps and bruises would be childsplay. 

Maybe Black Water just didn’t want any defects on his new merchandise. Wei Ying thought, distantly. Caught between incredulity and exasperation. Now realising that he was put into yet another fancy outfit.

Tentatively drawing back the curtains, feet now on the ground, Wei Ying crossed the cold, rugless floor to the bronze mirror, gauging his current appearance. 

Ocean blue outer robes with hints of seafoam green and inner robes the colour of midnight starting from the top, turning into lighter, daytime shades as it reaches the bottom. Leaping fish made of silver and dark blue thread were stitched on the outer robes’ wide sleeves and shoulders, some fish holding what looked like seaweed in their mouths, while the ends of the robe had more seaweed embroidery, appearing as if they were swaying with the water’s currents. He had on a bright blue belt with silver accents and…a fish’s spine overlaying the sash, the bones of its caudal fin curled around the start of the spine like a claw. Blue and grey tassels with white and black pearls dangling off the belt.

Carefully running his hands upon the spinal segments, Wei Ying felt a strange-yet-pleasant shock zap through his skin. As if he had just brushed against a metal pole whilst a thunderstorm was churning above him. 

Attempting to move past how off-kilter he felt, Wei Ying looked back at the bronze mirror. 

Still gawking, Wei Ying gingerly grazed his fingers against the new accessories cradling his ears. Pearlescent ear cuffs in the shape of fish with long curtain-like fins, the ones that only emperors and nobles would keep as decorations in their private ponds. Their billowing tails delicately wrapped around the shell of his ears, the fins resting beneath his lobes. Lightly turning his head to the side, Wei Ying noticed that his hair was mostly let down, only timidly gathered at the base of his neck, a seaweed-shaped hair clip practically draped across his nape. 

At least it’s comfortable. Wei Ying thought, perturbed and somewhat annoyed. To think that he was dressed up like a doll while unconscious, twice in one day. 

Is this to be his life now? Dress in whatever manner that pleased his new husband with no sayso? Hanging off his arm like a kept-woman, a walking art piece with no thoughts or opinions of his own, that wasn’t expected to do more other than breathe and warm his bed?

Husband…. His mind numbly echoed. Wei Ying tightly gripped the mirror’s frame to prevent himself from swaying on his feet.

Oh gods. He was married. And to a temperamental water demon at that. 

In order to protect their worthless hides, Lianhua village offered Jiang Yanli up on a silver platter to a beast, only for her little brother to step in and nobly take her place. Now whisked off from his -ahem- not so peaceful living situation, finding himself in a queer place, looking like the spoiled wife of a dotting lord, wondering what he ought to do with his new circumstances.

That sounds like one of those questionable novels Liu Mingyan would lend out to jiejie. Also, I didn’t exactly ‘step in’ of my own accord.

At least Mingming now has new writing material to work with. 

His thoughts were taking such a leap to the absurd, Wei Ying felt the unbidden laugh sputter past his lips before quickly slapping a hand on his mouth.

Silver eyes darted towards the only entrance to the room, almost waiting for some kind of demonic servant to knock on the stone doors to deliver Wei Ying to its master, like some prized cargo. 

Isn’t that how those stories go? Wait until your newest guest wakes up before sending them off to the host with no warning?

Okay. Stop….

One breath….

Two…

..three….

By the time he reached a hundred, Wei Ying’s white-knuckled grip around the mirror’s frame loosened. By a hundred and two, his body started uncoiling bit-by-bit.

No knock ever came. That didn’t mean he was going to drop his guard, though.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Wei Ying started pacing around the room. There was quite a lot of ground to cover. How generous of Demon Xuan.

Could…could it be possible that he was just…forgotten? Merely tossed into a spare, impersonal room, while his new husband had some pretty little concubine to keep him entertained? 

Did he already displease his husband before he even had the chance to greet him properly?

No. He wouldn’t have bothered healing me or letting me sleep if that was the case. Wei Ying thought, mind still racing. Not to mention the attire….

Wei Ying let out a long sigh, which echoed back to him in this grand chamber. Shoulders drooping, he leaned his forehead against the bed frame, its solidity grounding Wei Ying.

He didn’t ask for this! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the village, sitting on the beach with jiejie and her giggling gaggle of friends by her side, a pot of lotus pork soup simmering above a fire.

Maybe if I earn husband-dearest’s ‘affections’, he’ll let me visit her….

Only one way to find out.

Squaring his shoulders, Wei Ying marched towards the wide stone doors, hand poised to push them open, halting just a hair's breadth away at the last second.

Wei Ying instinctively knew that he stood at the edge of a precipice. That the moment he opens the door, he will be sent careening straight into uncharted territory.

A part of him wanted to stay. To keep floating in this pool of uncertainty, at least here, it seems as if he won’t have to keep swimming into the unknown.

But Wei Ying was no coward.

He layed both hands flat on the cold stone, ready to push the double doors with all his might -the stone looked incredibly dense, it would’ve taken at least ten men to make it budge!

Yet, as soon as his hands touched the lifeless grey surface, there was a faint grinding sound as the doors smoothly slid against the hinges. As though this unfamiliar stone recognised Wei Ying as its master. That the lightest of touches was more than enough to make it obey him.

The double doors gradually split open and what met his gaze beyond it seemed so vast and unfathomable that it took Wei Ying a moment to process what he was seeing. 

A sprawling hallway lined with numerous stone doors not too dissimilar to the main entrance of the bedchamber he was in.

The hallways were lit by large crystal formations growing out of the hall’s ceiling and floor, the shape and size reminding Wei Ying of some of the underwater caves he was reckless enough to explore, of stalactites and stalagmites, except unlike them, these crystals didn’t have a rippling limestone appearance, but bear more of a resemblance to frosted glass that contained their own soft, eerie light. Bright enough to illuminate his path, but dull enough to leave the high-ceiling and distant halls in shadow. 

It made Wei Ying compare these crystals to the ones he saw during one lonely winter night. After an argument he had with Jiang Cheng, what was the fight about, he can’t even bother to remember, all he knew was that he stormed out of the Jiang household to cool off and was met with a world of pure white. The entire ground was covered in soft powder akin to crushed diamonds, deep blue icicles dripping off the edges of every roof, the light of the full moon shining down and reflecting off the ice. 

Yet, unlike that night, where the subtle white light brought him peace of mind, these crystals gave off a more distant, melancholic feel. Of providing you with the false assurance of knowing where you’re going, but were in fact, wholly lost and directionless.

The more Wei Ying walked, the more it felt like he was treading a perpetual lane with the same doors, the same walls, the same crystals. Still , he was able to catch a few, minute differences that assured him he wasn’t going in circles. Each door was the size of a palace gate, likely the same width too, all with their own intricate carvings etched into the smooth grey surface. Ships caught in storms with waves as high as mountains aggressively crashing into them from all sides, giant sea serpents locked in territorial fights as they catch each other hunting the same prey, haunting imagery of the seafloor with decaying sunken ships, their wooden skeletons slowly overtaken by seaweed, corals and other forms of aquatic flora, nature gradually staking its claim on those lost vessels, providing a new hub for smaller, more vulnerable creatures. 

He took a left, then a right, then another left, climbed ten flights of stairs, turned one more corrido- and I swear to all the gods twiddling their thumbs up in Heaven, if I find any more stairs I’ll tear all my hair out! Then Demon Xuan will have a bald bride to deal with! Does this hallway even have an end?! Should I just take my chances and go through the next door I see? 

Why does Demon Xuan even need all this space?!

After walking for what felt like hours, Wei Ying finally found a passageway that wasn’t lined with gargantuan doors. The left side of the hall was a smooth, dull grey wall like any other, whilst the right appeared to be made of glass, from floor to ceiling, segmented by oddly-made pillars with strange patterns.

They seem familiar…. Wei Ying thought, running his fingers into the etches and groves of these pillars, images of stalactites and stalagmites flooding his mind once more. Of how the two halves would grow, one from the ceiling, the other from the ground, both simultaneously dragged downwards and reaching up, eventually meeting in the middle till they entwined as one immovable column. 

Only what was beneath his fingertips, what was meant to be dripping water, meant to show signs of steady growth, of life , felt cold, still and dead. Forever petrified where it stands, no longer able to evolve into something more. 

Unnerved by where his thoughts were heading, Wei Ying decided to shift his focus on the glass from which these odd pillars were attached to. The more he looked, the more Wei Ying felt disheartened. Keen eyes attempted to parse through the darkness. There were no signs of a faint moon glow or even the glimmer of a single star. 

No wonder this place seems so melancholic. If my mere existence would result in the sky blotting itself out, I would feel pretty gloomy, too.

Now wondering what time of day it was -perhaps he slept through the night- something…unnerving caught his gaze. It was bizarre, completely alien, so utterly outside the realm of possibility for an orphaned fisherman like him to see outside of exaggerated illustrations, yet there it was. 

A long, skeletal fish about the size of a cottage, slithered past the window. Its head was the ugliest thing Wei Ying had ever seen. Broad, pushed back and slanted with what appeared to be a highly flexible jaw, giving it the ability to swallow prey as big as a horse with one gulp, its teeth were narrow and sharp with large gaps in between, allowing it to slice tender meat between their lips to bits. The creature’s entire body emitted a sinister radiance, its hollow eyes housing twin spectral lights. The behemoth was followed by a school of smaller bonefish similar in appearance, presumably its brood. 

It was the cold press of grey stone onto his spine that snapped Wei Ying back to the present. Realising that he’d been backing away from the window that whole time, the reality of his situation finally sunk in. 

I'm not looking at a veiled sky. Wei Ying thought numbly. I’m at the bottom of the sea.

The chasm between all that he knew and where he was at now was only getting wider, to the point that Wei Ying wondered if he’ll still be able to leap back. If he would ever be permitted to. 

Just as when it seemed like he was about to slip into another panic-induced spiral, something cool and slippery licked the back of his hand.

Wei Ying could’ve sworn that his very soul jumped out of his skin and crumpled up like wet paper. He probably lost ten years of his life from how startled he was.

Praying that this wasn’t something that was sampling him, beads of sweat trickling down his brow, Wei Ying creakingly twisted his head to the thing’s direction, trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling his mind for what felt like the nth time in this bizarre place.

A glowing, iridescent, bell-shaped body, resembling water droplets capturing all the colours produced by the sun’s light, shrinking and expanding like the beatings of a heart at ease,  curly tendrils as long as a man’s legs swaying just beneath its body.

For the second time that night, Wei Ying felt a slight, hysterical laugh squeeze past his lips.

A jellyfish… floating in the air.

Sure. Why not? This place is chock-full of eccentricities. Best that I get used to it, since this seems to be my life now.

There have been far too many surprises for him to even care that it just brushed its potentially poisonous coils against his bare hand. 

Maybe Wei Ying should just call it a night and slink back to his new room. Crawl into that comfy bed and, with luck, he might be able to convince himself that this was all a dream.

The jellyfish was observing him (Wei Ying wasn’t sure how he knew that, it’s not like he can see the thing’s eyes ). It started floating around him in slow, languid circles. A part of him felt like he should still be on guard, but the way the creature was acting seemed guileless, dare he say almost child-like.

As it made its turns, the gelatinous surface glowed brighter, one dominant color sprouted from its head in misshapen splotches, spreading all over the creature’s body until it was coated in varying shades of blue. 

It stopped right in front of Wei Ying, wiggling its body back-and-forth, tendrils swishing in the air with every sway, as if it were showing off.

Is it…trying to say we match?

“Uhh…It looks good on you..?” Wei Ying mumbled, feeling ridiculous after saying that. Maybe he should get his head checked. Who knows if this thing even understands human-speech.

The jellyfish-thing-spirit(?) trembled excitedly, its bell-shaped body inflating the way a child would proudly puff out their chest after winning a silly game.

Its odd behavior felt somewhat endearing that Wei Ying couldn’t help the breathless chuckle from coming out. The tension between his shoulders easing. 

Finally, a moment of sweetness in the midst of all the muffled bitterness and uncertainty that threatened to swallow him whole.

The jellyfish drifted closer, gingerly wrapping itself around his arm, having learnt its lesson on not to startle him. 

It started tugging him away from the windows, Wei Ying let it guide him to a different hallway. Adding its own bright light among the dim crystals’ glow decorating their path.

Must’ve taken too long. Black Water probably sent this thing to come find me. He thought, studying the spirit. Whilst its body seemed wet and cool, none of that dampness seeped into his new robes and it seemed much more approachable compared to the other sea creatures under his new husband’s command.

Hopefully those bonefish weren’t also air-swimmers like his companion here. Wei Ying would rather have meters’ thick glass between him and them whenever they choose to grace him with their fleshless presence, thank you very much. 

“You know…out of all the grotesqueries I’ve seen in this place, you are by far the most friendly-looking. Maybe I can convince my lord husband to let me keep you.” Wei Ying mused out loud, mostly to fill in the silence. 

The creature appeared to approve of the idea, judging by how it eagerly squeezed itself around his arm, practically hugging the limb.

They eventually stopped at a set of doors that were easily double the size of the previous ones Wei Ying had seen. He took a moment to study the iconography, an emperor, his wife and what looked like their two daughters, in the midst of a grand feast. Oddly enough, the seat meant for the heir was left empty.

The dining hall. 

He’s in there. 

The jellyfish gently detached itself from him, hovering by his side now. Beads of sweat ran their cold fingers down his back. 

It wasn’t the journey that made Wei Ying’s heart constrict, but what lay waiting for him at the end. He took a deep breath and was about to knock on the door, to wait for the inevitable clipped voice to tell him to ‘enter’.

His new companion stopped him, softly nudging away his raised fist. The creature brushed one of its coils against the grey surface, taking cues from Wei Ying as if it were his own personal servant, wanting to open the door for him.

(You need not stand on ceremony nor feel like a stranger in your own home. His lord husband would eventually remark to Wei Ying later on in their marriage, a harsh edge lurking beneath whispered-tones. You are this Manor’s master just as much as me. Act like it.)

The colossal doors let out a low yawn as they split down the middle and Wei Ying was bombarded by an assortment of scents. 

The savoury aroma of smoked fish and chicken roasted on a spit, coupled with whiffs of enriching herbs and seasonings, their distinct citrus notes lively and invigorating, titillating Wei Ying’s vacant stomach. Traces of floral scents interwoven with the striking, yet delectable smell of freshly baked cakes that he could almost feel their honeyed flavours dance across the surface of his tongue. The heady fragrance of various wines, their familiar woodsy undertones tickling his nostrils. 

Wei Ying’s mouth started watering. Very much aware of the fact that hadn’t eaten in hours.

He clenched his hands, digging his fingernails into his palms to get himself back to focus.

A great, pillarless chamber capable of hosting a great army while also leaving plenty of room for servants to scurry around at their beck and call. Yet, there was only one Western-style long table as opposed to the standard low dining tables arranged in neat rows. 

And a lone occupant sitting at the helm.

Their eyes locked as his host stood and Wei Ying felt all mental faculties screech to a grinding halt.

Wei Ying needed a moment to simply take in this Calamity, this man, this husband of his…..

He had thought those molten pools of gold for eyes would be the most bewitching feature, he couldn’t be more wrong. Flawless ivory-white skin that would enrage even the most regal of princesses, a deceptively wiry frame that reminded Wei Ying of a fragile willow branch, but knew he should never take it at face value. A smooth mouth and brow with no laugh lines or forehead wrinkles to be found, perfectly straight nose, pointed ears and sharp angular features, as if he were an impeccable bust cut and carved from the purest of jades, straight ink-black hair that flowed downwards to the small of his back. 

The top of those dark locks were encircled by a golden dragon-shaped guan, holding a gleaming pearl between its jaws. The dragon looked as if it were swallowing the moon. A groom’s wedding robes that were mostly red, embroidered in golden thread were majestic phoenixes, their bright wings spread in triumph, a stark contrast to the vermillion outer robes, whereas the inner robe seemed to be made of a different material all-together, of small, rigid plates seamlessly overlapping each other, reminding Wei Ying of finely crafted chain-mail or fish scales. The top of the inner robe seemed to be a red that matched the outer, yet as it flowed downwards, the shade changed from vermillion to ruby, to mahogany until the slitted edges appeared as if they were dipped in ink. Completed with a pure black belt studded with squared-golden plates that had water dragon motifs engraved into the precious metal, red and white pearls artfully looped around the belt, their tail ends dangling from it like chains. 

The surface of Wei Ying’s tongue had suddenly gone dry, breath shuddering, struggling to swallow around the lump in his throat.

What the hell was that back at the cliff?! There…..there’s no way that this is what he actually looks like, right?!

Yes! Yes! That’s right! Ghosts and demons can be such vain creatures….only shifting into forms that suit their own self-absorbed tastes…. 

So caught up in his new groom’s appearance, he almost didn’t register the other man glide his way towards him till there was only a foot of space between them. Golden eyes meticulously studied his form. 

Black Water started speaking.

His mouth is moving! He’s talking to you! Snap out of it, Wei Wuxian! 

“-any discomfort?” 

Wei Ying blinked owlishly and in his infinite wisdom decided to reply back to the clear question with a:

“Huh…?”

That smooth brow furrowed in what looked like slight concern, but Wei Ying was sure it was annoyance. Their first exchange and he was already making a fool of himself. 

Wonderful.

Maybe he needs to start laying it on thick? Does he have to make himself look pitiful to this Ghost King and beg his forgiveness for not paying attention? Should he put on a coquettish mask? Start cooing and twittering like a brainless little bird?

Many men never tire from listening to songs that boast of how great and merciful they are. Was Black Water one of those men?

The older male stepped right into his space, close to the point that they were almost nose-to-nose. Wei Ying stiffened, biting his tongue so he wouldn’t dig himself a deeper grave.

He shut his eyes.

Might as well get it over with….

Fully expecting Black Water to steal a kiss -along with whatever else that was demanded of him- Wei Ying instead felt a slim finger delicately stroke his now-healed temple in what almost felt like a lover’s caress. 

Moonstone eyes fluttered open, confused.

Black Water wasn’t even looking at him. Too occupied in assessing whatever damage was left to meet his new bride’s perplexed gaze.

“I was asking if your injuries are still causing you any discomfort? Healing has never exactly been my specialty.” He answered Wei Ying’s poorly phrased question. His words quiet and rich with a touch of gruffness, the deep bass almost caused his skin to vibrate from how close both their faces were. 

Wei Ying’s breath hitched, goosebumps breaking out for a different reason now.

Frowning at Wei Ying’s lack of response, Black Water started reaching for his wrists to inspect them.

“No need for that!” He blurted, stuffing his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robes, like frightened snails ducking back into their shells. He rocked backwards, balancing his weight on his heels, hoping Black Water wouldn’t notice his ‘subtle’ attempt at giving himself more space. 

Doing what he does best, Wei Ying plasters on his winning smile and starts blathering:

“Lao Gong is so proficient! More than capable of erasing every scrap and bruise on this delicate wife!” 

“.........”

The longer the silence went on, the more Wei Ying could feel his very soul start wilting, like a plucked flower that was left to dry out in the sun for too long. 

The elder’s brow furrowed deeper as a complicated look crossed his face, but Wei Ying couldn’t possibly discern if Black Water was pleased with the compliment or not. He might have better luck deciphering the symbolic meaning behind every carving that he walked past in his nerve-wracking journey to get here.

Their sudden muteness could have gone on indefinitely were it not for the abrupt break in tension.

A mortifying gurgle rumbled through the lofty chamber, its echoes reverberating back to Wei Ying’s burning ears.

Wei Ying slapped a hand on his hollowed stomach, as if that would silence its cries for food. He started praying for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Oh. Just put me out of my misery already…! 

“Pfff-!” Black Water just barely managed to stop his laughter from escaping. Covering his mouth and giving an utterly convincing performance of ‘Oh, dear! It seems I’ve suddenly got the coughs!’. 

Laugh it up now , you bully! Wei Ying mentally whined. What kind of host stuffs his gullet while leaving his guest, his new wife , to wander around his home without at least feeding them first?! 

If Wei Ying weren’t keeping himself in check, he would’ve thrown a fit and cussed out Black Water straight to his face. So focused was he on not vocalising his wounded pride, that Wei Ying couldn’t stop his lips from pouting slightly.

Noticing his new bride’s upset, He Xuan promptly wiped away any traces of humour on his face and cleared his throat. 

“What a relief. It seems I’m not the only one with a voracious appetite.” He gestures to the awaiting feast. “After you, Lao Po. ”  

End of Part I.

Worldbuilding Notes for this AU:

1. WWX DOES indeed have some cultivation training, but it's half-assed and incomplete. Essentially a hodgepodge between some techniques his parents taught him, tips that he got from some generous rogue cultivators and what he learned on his own. He barely has any knowledge of ghosts, demons and anything spiritual-beast related. Good thing he married a scholar!

2. The five fishing villages are a direct homage to the five clans in MDZS:

Lianhua = Lotus Flower/Jiang Clan

Huīshuǐ = Grey Water/Nie Clan

Lántiān = Blue Skies/Lan Clan

Rìluò = Sunset/Wen Clan

Jinyǔmáo = Gold Feather/Jin Clan

3. Before ya'll got on my case and ask how the hell did HX acquire all those expensive jewellery/robes, etc. The sea IS his domain. I can totally see him ordering his Bonefish to gather all the oysters and mussels they could find for the pearls. The rest have an in-universe explanation and/or HX just increased his debt to HC tenfold.

4. Lao Gong = Husband / Lao Po = Wife

My justifications for the jellyfish-spirit...? WWX needs a friend. Ya'll want him to wander around Nether Water Manor all by his lonesome while hubby's out..? Even XL can just go talk to Yin Yu and/or Ghost City residents whenever HC's not around!!

WWX is confused. WWX is panicking. He be asking: "Should I be wary of this man or jump his bones...?" Who knows?

Now. This whole thing was mainly setup, but there ARE plot-related reasons as to WHY there's a ritual and why HX seems completely okay with his marriage to WWX specifically. If ya managed to catch some of the hints, congrats. If not, stick around for the next instalment.

Hope you enjoyed! If ya did, please leave a like/comment! Many thanks~

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @filigreeing​ based on this photoset.

Fili/Kili, G

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3.

Brine

—

The air is thick with the tang of brine.

The morning is cold, the kind of cold that seeps through all of your layers, clawing its way into your bones. A sullen sky hangs low above the sea, the clouds pregnant with rain but hesitant to fall. The wind carries the bite of salt and the faint screech of gulls, skimming low over the dark, restless waves.

Fíli walks quietly along the pebbled beach, the stones crunching softly under his boots. One hand stays buried in the deep pocket of his oilskin coat, the other holds Bryn’s leash, though the loop hangs loose and unattached around his wrist.

Ahead, Bryn bounds effortlessly across the rocky shoreline—a streak of black fur against the muted world. Her powerful paws send sea spray scattering, and her panting breath clouds the air with happy huffs. She looks at home here, as if the sea is stitched into her very being; a true sea dog, each wave calling to her heart.

Fíli watches her go, a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, something caught between affection and weariness. His world has shrunk to the hum of the tide, the bite of the wind, and Bryn’s quiet companionship—and until today, it has been enough.

A low bark—‘uff’—pulls Fíli’s gaze up just in time to see Bryn gather sudden speed, ears perked, tail like a banner.

“Bryn, no!” Fíli calls, but it’s too late. She’s already tearing toward someone he hadn’t noticed before—a stranger crouched near the waterline, clumsily skipping stones. Most sink with short, graceless plops. The figure straightens, startled, just as Bryn launches toward him.

The man stumbles back, hands outstretched, but laughter tumbles out of him—bright and surprised—as Bryn plants her muddy paws firmly against his chest.

“Whoa there, buddy! You’re friendly, huh?”

The stranger scratches Bryn behind her ears, grinning broadly. His hair is dark and wild, tousled by the wind, and a heavy mustache hides his top lip. His cheeks are wind-flushed, and his eyes—a deep hazel brown—sparkle with the kind of light that Fíli hasn’t seen in a long time.

Fíli approaches, grimacing at the mess Bryn’s made. Muddy paw prints are stamped across the man’s thick woolen jumper.

“Is he yours?” asks the man.

“She,” Fíli corrects, as he snaps the leash to Bryn’s collar, pulling her gently back. “Sorry about that. She’s not usually so… boisterous with strangers.”

The man doesn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, he grins wider, crouching down to give Bryn another vigorous scratch. “What’s her name?”

“Bryn,” Fíli says gruffly, avoiding the stranger’s gaze.

“Bryn,” the man echoes. He looks up at Fíli, his face still bright with laughter. “Well, she’s lovely. And friendly. Do you live out here?”

Fíli nods back toward the lighthouse, the stark white pillar standing against the grey sky. “I’m the keeper.”

“Keeper,” the man repeats, as though turning the word over in his mouth. His voice softens, thoughtful. “Sounds… lonely.“

Fíli shrugs, uncomfortable. He keeps his eyes on Bryn, who’s now wagging her tail furiously, oblivious to the shift in the air.

“The dog keeps me busy,” he mutters.

The stranger’s grin lingers, but there’s something softer in it now—a quiet understanding that Fíli finds difficult to face.

“Well, I’m glad she doesn’t mind company,” the stranger says lightly. He winks, turning back toward the path that winds up from the shore. “See you around, Keeper.”

Fíli watches him go, dark hair and muddy jumper disappearing into the misty distance. Bryn huffs and nudges Fíli’s hand with her nose, as if to ask What just happened?

Fíli has no answer for her.

The storm comes late one afternoon.

Fíli stands by the window of his small kitchen, a mug of tea cooling in his hands. The rain batters against the panes in furious sheets, and the wind howls like a living thing, rattling the wood around the salt-crusted glass.

Bryn lies sprawled by the door, but her ears perk at every creak of the storm’s anger. Fíli stares out at the grey world, following the frantic sway of the grass and the churn of the dark sea beyond. There’s comfort in the chaos—a kind of order in the relentlessness of it all.

Then he sees him. A figure at the edge of the light, huddled against the rain—a black shape, barely more than a smudge againt the dark.

Fíli frowns, setting down his mug.

“Stay,” he tells Bryn firmly, though she whines in protest as he pulls on his coat and opens the door. The wind roars, biting and sharp, clawing at his clothes as he steps outside. The storm swallows sound, but he shouts anyway.

“You’ll catch your death out here!”

The figure lifts his head. It’s the stranger from the shore. His dark hair clings to his face, rain streaking down pale cheeks. “Thought the weather would hold!” he calls back with a sheepish shrug.

Fíli sighs, already wet to the skin. The treacherous weather has caught many an ignorant visitor short. “Get inside,” he mutters, jerking his head toward the cabin.

The stranger hesitates for only a moment before bounding up the path, his energy absurd against the weight of the storm.

Inside, the cabin is warm, the wind muffled to a distant howl. The stranger shrugs out of his sodden layers with a grin, water dripping from his hair onto the wooden floor.

“Cozy place you’ve got,” he says, voice a little breathless. He looks around, taking in the cluttered shelves and old, well-worn furniture. He picks up an old radio that Fíli has stashed on one of the shelves but rarely uses outside of listening for the shipping forecast.

Fíli snorts softly, he takes all sodden layers, both his and the stranger’s, and sets them in the wet room that doubles up as his bathroom. Then, moving to the stove he nods to the table and two chairs. “Sit down. I’ll make tea.”

The cabin is small, the narrow kitchen smaller still. With Fíli and Bryn, it’s just about big enough but it’s a struggle to fit any more bodies and Fíli is so unused to company.

The stranger squeezes by him to move to the table, their shoulders nearly touching. Fíli presses back as far as he can against the sink, avoiding the stranger’s gaze.

The stranger sits, tucking himself into the small kitchen’s corner as Fíli busies himself with making tea. He empties out the cold remains of his last brew and has to dig a spare mug out from the back of his cupboard, giving it a quick rinse in the sink.

Bryn pads over to the stranger’s side and drops her heavy head into his lap. He laughs, the sound bright as ever, though softer now—a glow rather than a spark.

“She likes me,” he says, scratching her ears. “I guess she must like everyone, though.”

Fíli glances over, surprised to find the stranger watching him. He looks away quickly, focusing on pouring the tea.

“Not everyone,” Fíli murmurs, though his voice lacks its usual gruff edge. He hands the stranger his mug of tea then takes his own, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Where’s your car? Or do you just make a habit of wandering aimlessly in storms?”

The stranger laughs. “I’m renting a cottage down in the village. But yeah, mostly wandering.” He wraps his fingers around the warm mug. “My name’s Kíli, by the way. Do you have a name other than Keeper?”

“Fíli.”

Kíli nods, takes a sip of his tea. They can hear the wind howling outside and the steady pattering of the rain.

“It’s quiet here,“ Kíli says then. “Guess that’s why you like it.”

Fíli shrugs. Bryn ambles over to him with a clacking of claws on wooden floorboards and bumps against him until he unfolds his arms and rests a hand on her warm black head. “Quiet’s not so bad.”

Kíli studies him with that same easy smile. “Until someone barges in and ruins it.”

For the first time, Fíli smirks faintly. “Until then.”

After the storm, Kíli begins to make visiting Fíli something of a habit.

Fíli finds Kíli impossible to predict—he arrives without warning, bright as the sun and wild as the sea, filling the silence with easy chatter.

The first time Kíli shows up unannounced, Fíli is out by the shoreline, fixing some old fishing nets with the help of Bryn, which means Fíli has to also work on untangling the netting from Bryn’s paws.

“You sure work hard for someone who lives in the middle of nowhere,” Kíli’s voice breaks through the wind. Fíli glances up, squinting at the figure approaching across the shore.

Bryn barks happily and barrels toward Kíli—again. Fíli sighs. “Bryn’s going to knock you over one of these days.”

Kíli drops to his knees, undeterred, ruffling Bryn’s ears. “Nah, she’s just enthusiastic—like me.” He grins at Fíli, bright-eyed and windblown. “Need a hand with that?”

“I’ve got it,” Fíli replies quickly, but Kíli flops down onto a rock nearby anyway, watching with casual interest.

“You always this stubborn, Keeper?”

Fíli shakes his head but hides a faint smile. “I’m not stubborn. I just work better alone.”

“Sure you do.” Kíli whistles softly, looking out at the sea. “Nice view you’ve got. Mind if I stick around?”

Fíli doesn’t answer immediately, but when he finally does, it’s quieter than expected. “Suit yourself.”

The next time Kíli arrives, it’s a grey afternoon. He lets himself into the lighthouse’s kitchen, announcing himself with exaggerated cheer.

“You know, you could lock the door once in a while,” Kíli teases, depositing a paper bag onto the counter.

Fíli raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table, hands coated in gore as he fillets a fish. “What’s that?”

“Pastries. You’re a man of simple tastes, yeah? Figured I’d save you from eating canned soup or… whatever it is lighthouse keepers survive on.”

Fíli looks pointedly down at the fish in his hands.

“Man cannot live on fish alone,” Kíli says smoothly. “Get washed up, I’ll clean up and put the kettle on.”

Fíli mutters something about not needing saving, but the sharp edges of his grumbling have softened. He takes himself to the small bathroom while Kíli sets to clearing the table of fish guts and scales and setting the kettle on the stove.

Once Fíli has finished scrubbing his hands clean, Kíli has two mugs of tea and two fresh pastries on plates he’d procured from the cupboard set out ready. They sit across from each other at the small table, sipping tea and picking at their pastries, each of them occasionally accidentally-on-purpose dropping scraps for Bryn to hoover up.

Kíli starts talking, the way he always does—rambling stories about his times traveling through small towns, odd jobs he’s picked up, and people he’s met. His words are animated, hands gesturing wildly when he gets particularly excited.

Fíli doesn’t say much, just listens. He notices the way Kíli lights up when he talks about photographing abandoned houses or how he slept under the stars “just for fun.” He wonders how someone so untethered can seem so content.

“You’ve seen a lot,” Fíli finally says, surprising himself.

Kíli’s expression softens, though he hides it behind another grin. “Sure. But it’s only glimpses, isn’t it? Snapshots, really.”

Something in Kíli’s tone makes Fíli glance up. Kíli’s staring out the window at the grey sea, and for the first time, his energy has faltered—a fleeting moment of stillness. Fíli takes a bite of his pastry to distract himself.

Kíli breaks the silence first. “What about you? Have you always been here?”

Fíli shakes his head. “No.”

“Where’d you come from?”

Fíli hesitates. “Somewhere I didn’t want to stay,” he says finally.

Kíli tilts his head, as if weighing whether to pry further, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back in his chair and whistles for Bryn, who had settled curled around Fíli’s chair with her head resting on his foot. Bryn jumps up eagerly.

“C’mon, Bryn,“ Kíli says, grinning. "Let’s get Keeper here out of his head and go for a walk.”

Fíli grunts, but he follows them out into the wind anyway, their half finished tea sits forgotten on the table, between the flaky remains of the pastries.

At some point, Kíli begins showing up in the evenings, when the light outside turns a golden shade of amber, streaming through the salt-smeared windows.

He usually brings something with him—a new photograph he’s taken, its edges slightly warped from the misty air, an old book he found in the village shop, or a fresh story spun from his meandering wanderings. The objects are always humble, but he brings them as though they’re treasures, offering them with a lopsided grin that makes them feel like they truly are.

On this particular evening, they sit in Fíli’s front room, stretched out in mismatched chairs before the wood-burning stove. Bryn lies curled between them, bridging the gap between the two, her warm weight pressed against Kíli’s shin, her chin draped over Fíli’s foot. Outside, the wind hums along the walls, a lonely note in the darkening quiet.

Kíli flips through a book of sea legends, reading aloud in an exaggerated, dramatic voice.

“‘And then, the sailor heard the siren’s song—’” Kíli pauses, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think they mean sirens like the wee-ooo kind.”

Fíli smirks faintly, leaning back in his chair. “No, probably not.”

“Good. That would ruin the romance of it.” Kíli laughs, and it fills the room like a breaking dawn.

Fíli surprises himself by laughing too, a low sound he barely recognizes. He catches himself, startled, but Kíli notices, he always notices. Kíli’s grin softens then, the edges easing into something fond, something gentle.

“You’ve got a nice laugh, Keeper,” Kíli says softly. He closes the book in his lap, the sound a soft thud against the growing silence

Fíli’s smile falters, as if the moment is too much—a weight he isn’t sure how to hold. He clears his throat, his voice rougher than he intends. “I’ll… check the light upstairs,” he mutters, already standing, the chair creaking beneath him.

Kíli doesn’t push. He simply watches as Fíli steps into the narrow stairwell.

From the landing, Fíli pauses, his hand on the worn railing. He can still hear Kíli—his voice now a stage whisper, words carrying soft and sure through the quiet: “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll get him to smile again tomorrow.”

Fíli closes his eyes for a beat, breathing in deep. He doesn’t say it aloud, but Kíli’s visits have become a part of his day he looks forward to—more than he cares to admit.

Some weeks later, another storm comes to the coast. This one arrives with a fury that feels older, like it belongs to the bones of the sea itself. The wind howls against the lighthouse walls, rattling the windows and wailing through unseen cracks. The rain lashes hard, a thousand sharp fingers drumming against the panes, while thunder rolls low and restless over the water.

Inside the little cabin is a refuge of warmth. The fire burns low but steady, its flames the only light as they dance across the walls and throw shadows that stretch and shrink in time with the crackling logs. The smell of burning wood lingers, mixed faintly with salt carried in from earlier walks and the peaty scent of whiskey they share between them.

Bryn lies once again sprawled on the rug between them, the soft rise and fall of her chest and her gentle snores a reassuring constant. It’s a routine now, these evenings—one they’ve fallen into so naturally that it unsettles Fíli if he examines it too deeply.

For a long time, they sit in silence, each holding a tumbler, the amber liquid inside catching the firelight like liquid gold. Kíli tilts his glass in slow, absent circles, staring into the flames as though they hold answers he’s been searching for.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asks suddenly, his voice a rough murmur, barely rising above the storm’s din. “The solitude?”

Fíli doesn’t answer right away. He studies the fire, watching the way the flames curl and snap over the logs. Finally, he says, low and measured, “Sometimes.”

He turns to look at Kíli then, their eyes meeting and Kíli’s expression is warm, searching, unflinching. Outside, lightning flashes, painting the room in a split-second glare before plunging them back into soft shadows. “Why’d you come here, Fíli?”

Fíli hesitates, the question feeling too close to the raw edges inside of him. But Kíli’s gaze doesn’t waver, it never does. Finally, Fíli answers quietly, voice a hushed confession. “I needed somewhere the world couldn’t follow.”

"I think I understand that.” Kíli nods, smiling faintly. There’s something bittersweet in the way his lips curve, a quiet ache. “Guess I was never good at staying in one place.”

“You don’t seem lost.”

Kíli chuckles softly, the sound low and frayed at the edges. “I am. I just hide it better than most.” He looks at Fíli again, his voice barely above a murmur. “It doesn’t feel so lonely here, though.”

The fire crackles in the quiet between them. Fíli exhales slowly, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble. His hand rests on his knee, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to reach out.

“Stay tonight,” Fíli says quietly, surprising even himself.

Kíli doesn’t move for a moment, his expression softening. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

They walk along the pebble beach at dawn. The storm has passed and the sky is streaked with lavender and gold.

They walk side by side, their boots crunching softly against wet stone, their shoulders brushing every second or third step. An accidental touch that neither shies from. Kíli’s camera hangs loosely around his neck.

“You ever think about leaving?” Kíli asks.

Fíli shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I wouldn’t know where to go.” He glances sidelong at Kíli, something like nervousness in his expression. “Are you? Thinking about leaving?”

“I don’t always want to leave,” says Kíli. “I think I’ve just been going to places looking for a reason to stay.” He stops then, and Fíli stops with him. The wind stirs around them, carrying the faint cry of gulls and the rhythmic pull of the tide.

Fíli turns to face him fully, the morning light painting Kíli’s face in soft, golden strokes. There’s a pause, and then Kíli smiles—bright and certain, like the sun breaking through a storm-torn sky.

“I think I found one.” Kíli says to him.

He takes Fíli’s hand, squeezing gently. His fingers are smooth against Fíli’s rough and calloused ones. They continue walking then, their hands lingering together. Above them, the sky brightens, turning from lavender and gold to the soft blue of another day.

Bryn runs circles around them, barking wildly as the tide chases her paws. And in that moment Fíli allows himself to smile. A real, unguarded smile that feels like a release.

[marigold-hills]

Curlew’s Call

I am a woman living in the North Sea, surrounded by water, on an island smaller than some cities. We have a pub, and a shop. Once a week, if the weather is good, a boat comes with food. When the weather is bad it doesn’t come: that’s why I have a garden.

I raised my children here, wild children, with wild, tangled hair, taking half after me and half after their father. They play in the rolling hills and on the cliff side, swim in the water when it doesn’t beat the shores too hard, when the waves aren’t too tall. I know this, because this is their land – they respect the sea, they know the sea. The sea belongs to them.

The sky belongs to me. When it’s grey and low it is mine, when it pours rain for days unending it is mine, and in those rare moments when the sun comes out and warms the earth - it is mine.

When my children play, they could be gulls, curlews. They fly through the spray. The cold of water is nothing to them. I dress them in thick, woollen jumpers which I knit in the night.

When they come home, they warm their feet by the fire, dry their socks by the hearth. They bring me heather flowers and I put them in ceramic vases, or press them between pages of books until dry and crumbling. I brush their hair until the salt crystallises on the teeth of the combs, and the waves of them are soft again.

And they tell me things – stories of what they had seen, of what they had found. Sometimes, it’s a lizard’s nest, sometimes the treasure untold of a pirate who once came to bury it, then lost his way back. One time, and one time only, it was a cavern, deep and hidden from the eyes, accessible only at low tide, then flooded at high. The earth had come away in the storm, eroded into the sea.

 They told me about it then, too, in a curlew’s call, in a gull’s cry. They belong to the sea. I belong to the sky.

@hoje--aqui you were so lovely about the last one so here is another ❤️

this was inspired by an article on the presence of black people in the rural English communities but I’ve lost the article :(

[starqueensthings]

The Influx

Summary: Wrecker is down bad for the fisherman’s daughter, though he hasn’t been able to summon the bravery to approach her… until tonight.

Rating/WC/POV: Teen because of kissing, I guess? 5700ish, 2nd.

A/N: not proof reading before posting because it’ll take me 726 years until I’m happy. Damn my perfectionism.

Divider by the lovely and talented @saradika

The din of Kamino’s waves crashing against the towering spindles of Tipoca city had always managed to mollify him. The rhythmic lullaby of that treacherous tide licking the belly of the building was amplified even further if the ever-shifting cold front overhead had crafted a storm; that booming thunder providing a near-perfect percussion for the music of the sea, and it was a song that saw him snoring within minutes of tucking his toes into bed. Yet the stillness of the ocean here on Pabu somehow also commanded the power to soothe his soul, and it was a calm that he hadn’t initially recognized; the lingering repose that dichotomously accompanied the constant ebb and flow of the Pabuan sea was as foreign to him as the warm embrace and unconditional welcome from the island’s citizens.

If you asked him what it was that kept him returning to the pier every morning, he’d hitch a quirky smile to that scarred face, and toss his hand in a wave of casual dismissal before launching into a myriad of superficial reasons: the smell of the salt in the air, and the way the sun baked the taste into his lips so that every word spoken between departing the dock and stepping into the refresher tasted like the remnants of a pleasant day. He’d remark that the radiant warmth of the beaming sun never had him itching against the unwanted beads of sweat that had a tendency form in the center of his back, the breeze off the water mercifully preventing the heat from becoming all-consuming and rendering him uncomfortable like so many of his previous missions on desert planets. He’d point upward to the sky where the flock of gulls swooping overhead never abeyed their cries of delight as the salty spray tickled their webbed toes. He would tell you that the hobby of fishing had anchored him in a way that nothing else ever had, as his years of enlisted service had never awarded him the luxury of leisure time, the chance for a hobby, or the opportunity for quiet, reflective solitude. And it was all so foreign… so foreign and so wonderful, and he’d happily spend eternity dangling his feet over the end of that old, sunburnt pier if the universe would allow it.

And while all of the aforementioned reasons were undoubtedly true, and while Pabu’s casual ethos had offered him a sense of comfort that Kamino’s oppressive rigidity never had, the true reason behind his continued return was something he would continue to keep close to his chest.

It was you.

The sight of you. The thought of you. The ringing music of your laughter and how it relentlessly raised the hair on his arms despite the breeze having carried it several dozen feet down the pier. How the dazzling sunlight danced across the surface of the water and set your eyes aglimmer. The way you never failed to lose your footing and stumble as you stepped into the hull of your father’s boat, the goading churn of the water momentarily robbing you of the innate poise that had Wrecker nearly certain you were an angel. The way your brows furrowed in exertion as you unwrapped that weather-worn rope from its elegant coil around the wooden post anchoring your vessel to the dock and looped it carefully over the intriguing slope of your shoulder. The sound of that elated sigh pouring from your lips as you departed the pier for the solace of open water, arms thrown wide to embrace the wind as your father engaged the throttle…

But mostly it was the way his chest seemed to hollow and ache as your figure retreated toward the horizon. That unexplainable feeling of missing you despite hardly knowing you. The longing that lingered beside his heart in the wake of your departure. The potent elation that ignited like a fire in his gut as the bow of your boat reappeared amongst the orange glow of the setting sun, and the twitter of anticipation in his gut that simply refused to subside until your features were near enough to exude the pleasant exhaustion mirrored by your father.

Today, however, had brought an unprecedented and unwelcome deviation to Wrecker’s routine, and something near a debilitating disappointment sat heavily in his chest as the sun neared the apex of its journey across the sky. Despite the spotless curtain of blue overhead intensifying the enamouring hue of the water, there was no sign of you. Every gentle swell of the sea below the solemn swings of his feet saw your empty boat knocking rhythmically against the legs of the pier like a tantalizing reminder of your absence. The bountiful schools of exotic fish drifting merrily in the current below his perch only intensified his disdain as they refused to offer even a moment of consideration for the sparkling lure he’d lowered into their depths some hours earlier.

It wasn’t until the perseverant pangs of hunger swelled to waves of nausea did he finally concede to that sad sense of defeat and pull his bait from the water, shouldering his rod and retreating to the familiar cool, ionized air of the Marauder.

“What’s up with you?” Hunter probed upon his arrival, cocking an eyebrow at the chagrin ghosting behind his brother’s heavily scarred features.

“Nuthin’,” Wrecker fibbed with a halfhearted shrug. “Just overdue for some grub.”

His teeth sunk eagerly into the tangy flesh of the meiloorun Lyanna had tossed him from behind a stall at the market yesterday, but the sweet nectar pooling around his lips and dribbling down his chin only managed to only partially lift his sodden, dour spirits despite placating the emptiness of his stomach.

“No sign of your girlfriend at the pier today?” the sergeant jeered, leaning casually against the backrest of the navicomputer chair, folding his arms across his broad chest and surveying his brother with a knowing smirk.

“She’s not my g— wait, how’d you know?” Wrecker wiped the stray juices from his lips with the back of his hand before tossing the pit of the fruit out the open door of the ship, and into the seemingly waiting beak of a white gull.

“We bore witness to her participation in a tree planting ceremony this morning, down in the lower hills,” Tech offered from the cockpit, his interjection muffled by the abrasive whirring of the condenser perched precariously on his knees, his beloved spanner clutched tightly in a hand smeared with dark, oily coolant.

“Looked awful purdy too,” Hunter added with an infuriating wink, jestingly punching his brother's elbow before clunking down the ramp and into the last of the afternoon sunshine. “Woulda chatted her up myself if I didn’t think you’d knock me out for it…”

Wrecker’s lips had barely parted to confirm that violent notion when the sound of a sharp gasp sent his shoulders jerking in alarm, and a tiny hand immediately encircled the crook of his elbow, drawing his attention downward to the blonde bundle of joy bouncing up and down on her toes.

“Wrecker!” Omega shrieked, her free hand balled into a fist of glee and hovering in front of the radiant smile that had crinkled her big, brown eyes. “You have a girlfriend?! Who? Where? Can I meet her? Let’s go!”

“I would surmise that based on Wrecker’s continued, futile attempts at secrecy and the lack of colloquial interaction between parties, the female in question is not yet aware of his affection.”

As if the strenuous task of prying the cover plate from its position over the condenser's maze of copper tubing hadn’t rendered his features utterly demented by the duress of his efforts, Tech spoke characteristically passively. “And Wrecker,” he continued as the cover plate clattered to the floor at his feet, “You may be interested to know: Pabu’s current obtuse positioning in relation to its moon, combined with the planet’s 11 degree axial tilt, is due to largely shift the dynamic of the sea’s undercurrents. It is an anomaly known as ‘The Influx’ and it only occurs once every 12.63 years. While the effects of this deviation are negligible on land, the change in current will present a paramount opportunity for—”

“Ugghhh,” Wrecker groaned audibly, growing increasingly embarrassed that he hadn’t managed to conceal his crush as well as he’d intended. “Tell me later, Tech. I’m hittin’ the refresher.”

Ten minutes in the cool sonic and a mouth-wateringly fresh seafood dinner saw Wrecker nearly returned to the typical genial demeanor that had Pabu’s youth constantly prodding at his back. The intrinsic robbery of your absence that had simmered in his gut throughout the morning and mid-afternoon continued to dissipate the with diminishing daylight; the saturated hues of pink and orange sweeping across the sky as the sun began its nightly kiss atop the horizon felt like a divine reassurance that everything was precisely as it should be.

Barely an hour after their squad arrived in the courtyard for a much-discussed night of music and dancing, Shep and a handful of his closest friends emerged from behind the Tree of Life; their broad shoulders slumped under the weight of various musical instruments, and the smiles on their sun-kissed faces promised a evening of good tunes and wholesome merriment. A particularly mellow opening number saw Omega scooped into Wrecker’s large arms, her tiny hand enveloped in his as he waltzed them theatrically around in a circle, her giggles lost amid the obnoxious, off-key croon pouring shamelessly from his mouth.

“Wreck! 8 o’clock!”

Detecting the familiar urgency in his sergeant’s voice, Wrecker ceased his boisterous serenade and craned to peer over his left shoulder.

A tingle erupted underneath his skin upon seeing your figure retreat behind the tall, stone handrail of the grand staircase, and the serenity of which the sunset had endowed him was instantly swallowed by the ineffable desire to join you on whatever adventure had you bypassing a party and disappearing into the increasing darkness.

“Wrecker,” Omega whined, sending a sharp poke to his shoulder. “Why’d you stop?”

He shook the desire from his head and wrenched his unfocussed gaze away from the stone landing, and the contemplative hum pouring mindlessly from his lips as he hurried to redirect his thoughts into an excuse was, according to the blond bundle still perched on his arm, an inadequate replacement for his egregious singing.

“Because it’s my turn for a dance,” Hunter interposed, correctly recognizing the flummoxed expression on his brother’s features. “You can stand on my boots like last time. Wreck, why don’t you go down to the pier for a stroll?”

The implications of the wide-eyed, knowing glance that Hunter sent his way as he reached for Omega’s hands was not lost on the love-sick soldier, and Wrecker offered nothing more than an appreciative nod and a casual salute before lowering her to the ground and turning toward the stairs.

The pounding of his heart in his ears deafened him to the repeated clunks of his boots atop the stone, and the smattering of applause that succeeded the final ringing chord of the same song that had him unknowingly waltzing around the courtyard in front of your very eyes, offered a perfect distraction to slip, unseen, into the darkness.

But you were moving with intention, your purposeful strides hardly faltering in their cadence as you hopped down from the last step and headed along the same sandy pathway that Wrecker’s heavy boots traversed every morning. He stumbled slightly in his haste to catch you, adrenaline surging heavily through his veins as he recovered his footing and relaxed his grip on the handrail. “Cool it, Wreck,” he told himself, swallowing the lump in his throat and resuming his descent.

He, of course, knew your name, but he didn’t dare call for you; he wasn’t entirely sure what he would say if you acknowledged his summon and turned your beautiful eyes expectedly in his direction. Instead, he simply followed quietly in your wake, admiring the way the blossoming light of the full moon danced across your skin, and frantically trying to funnel the myriad of conversation starters whirling about his mind into one coherent salutation that he could offer when the time came.

“I thought that was you behind me, Wrecker.”

You spoke before he even had the chance, turning unexpectedly to face him when he’d reached a proximity near enough to hear you; the smile doming your freckled cheeks was a little too knowing to be effortless, though its unexpected emergence banished all hints of suspicion from his mind.

“Oh… uh…” he stammered, lifting to run a calloused hand along the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from yours and coming to rest upon the waistband of the cargo pants that hung just a little too nicely around your hips. “Yeah… I— I missed you this mornin’, and I saw you head down the stairs so I—”

“You missed me?” you interrupted.

He swallowed heavily again. Was it that tiny, innocent tip of your ear toward your shoulder that had his fingers fidgeting anxiously at his side? Or was it the gentle purse of those lips as you fought to repress that refulgent grin?

“Well… I didn’t miss you, miss you,” he digressed feebly, certain that the heat sending his cheeks aflame was also threatening to spout funnels of steam from his ears. “Well I did… but I didn’t see you this mornin’ is what I meant. I was here fishin’… and… and you were there… treein’.”

‘Way to be cool,’ he grumbled inwardly, only barely repressing a roll of his dark eyes as the music of your soft chuckle raised the hairs on his arms.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you assured him with a shrug. “My father’s back was giving him grief this morning. I was hoping a little rest might get him back to normal for the influx tonight, but he’s still pretty sore so I’m just going to have to put on my Captain’s hat and hope for the best.”

“The influx?” Wrecker repeated curiously, watching you step clumsily down into the hull of your teetering boat.

“Yeah,” you agreed once you’d regained your balance, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder toward the open water. “The undercurrent’s shifted south for the first time in years. Apparently it’s going to bring in some big fish from beyond the bay, and if I can wrangle at least a couple of them, it’ll give my dad the break that he needs.”

The ghost of Tech’s image flitted across Wrecker’s memory; his brows furrowed behind his goggles while he simultaneously snipped a copper cooling line and launched into a seemingly unimportant info-dump about an anomaly brought on by Pabu’s moon, and Wrecker was flooded with the irksome notion that maybe he should pay better attention to his brother’s verbose rambling.

“Well I’m not doin’ anything,” Wrecker offered with what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I can give you a hand, if ya want?”

His breath hitched in his chest as you paused, slender hand poised halfway toward the rope wrapped expertly around the post on the dock, eyes alight and twinkling as if impervious to the deepening nightfall.

“I would love that, Wrecker,” you finally admitted with an encouraging smile that sent his heart somersaulting into his belly. “Hop in.”

The moment he left the security of the dock and stepped carefully onto the rolling floor of the boat, his hands darted outward to steady himself. The addition of his weight in the vessel sent a cascading series of large ripples atop the surface of the water, and that moment saw him eternally grateful that none of his brothers were there to guffaw behind their hands at the way his knees wobbled with every step.

“Actually, would you mind driving?” you proposed as he turned and headed for the stern of the boat. “It’ll be faster if I unload the perimeter rods and fill the Livewell, as long as you’re comfortable behind the wheel?”

“Uhhhh, I don't know if you want me drivin’ to be honest,” Wrecker chuckled through an apologetic grimace. “My brothers are always tellin’ me I’ve got the spatial awareness of a blind bantha.”

The laugh that stole through your chest as you ignited a small lantern and placed it on the Skipper’s seat damn-near hypnotized him; that small shimmy of your shoulders under the exertion of your joy, the way your eyes crinkled shut to permit the expanse of your smile to dominate your features, and that absentminded little slap of the knee that gave away the authenticity of your mirth.

“Never heard that one before,” you chortled, sticking the Captain's key into the ignition and kicking the engine into life. “But I think you’ll be alright. Inside the bay is a zero wake zone anyway, so we can’t do anything more than glide until we’re out on open water. Just make sure to avoid the Narrows and we’ll be fine.”

Wrecker followed your subtle gesture toward the horizon, his eyes quickly falling upon the mentioned pairing of dark, jagged rock walls only visible by their stark contrast to the beaming reflection of the moon atop the placid stillness of the water.

“I trust you,” you added with a smile and an encouraging nod. “Come here. I’ll give you the low-down on how it all works.”

Inflated by your seemingly unwavering confidence in him, he returned your smile and trod carefully toward your position behind the wheel. It was a simple set up really, nothing like the vast array of intimidating controls distributed across the entire cockpit of the Marauder, and your gratifying gaze felt drastically less oppressive than the burn of Tech’s narrowed eyes every time someone other than Echo reached for the copilot wheel.

The Captain’s seat perched behind you appeared both squashy and weathered, the leather seat cracking and peeling in several places as its integrity failed to match the powerful union of saltwater and hot sun. The steering wheel near-perfectly matched its seat counterpart, worn in the two places where your father’s practiced hands had undoubtedly spent decades navigating the vessel. Perched on the dashboard was a small, primitive compass, its needle timidly reorienting as every churn of the sea below them shifted the vessel. On the left was the throttle lever, and immediately adjacent to that, a sonar screen of-sorts was already depicting various subaquatic movements of which Wrecker could make very little sense.

“Give me your hand,” you requested kindly, reaching for his palm without even a breath of hesitation.

Your touch was mystifying; as mesmerizing and powerful as a bolt of Kaminoan lightning, setting his very nerves aprickle as if waves of electricity were coursing under his skin from the place your fingers had touched his.

“Right now we’re in idle—”

He could barely discern your words over the pounding in his ears, yet he hung on every syllable as you gently draped his palm over the handle on the throttle.

“—first gear is one notch down, second is down one more, and then reverse at the bottom—”

Surely you could hear his heart pumping so thunderously against his chest? And if that beaming moonlight wasn’t exposing just how flushed his cheeks had become, he’d eat his own boots. Yet you looked upward at him with that same adoring smile, as if there wasn’t a force anywhere on the planet that could deter you from keeping your hand atop his.

“—stay in first while we’re in the bay—”

Was his touch sending your stomach aflutter too? Were you as enamored with his eyes as he was with yours?

“—once we get past the rocks, change to second and we’ll head a few klicks west to get to where the rock shelf drops off—”

Was it painfully obvious just how much he was struggling to focus?

“—I’ll give you a thumbs up from the stern when we’re in the right spot. Sound good?”

“Glide while we’re in the bay,” he somehow repeated, his self confidence failing to reach the same degree of your implicit trust in him. “Second gear once we pass through the rocks, and then go until you give me the signal. Got it.”

With a level of concentration typically reserved for manning the tailgun amid a firefight, Wrecker furrowed his brow and steered the boat from the dock as you stumbled toward the starboard side of the boat and began unlatching several compartments.

Gliding across the still waters of the bay, where his reflection shone as clearly atop the surface of the water as it would in the refresher mirror, offered him a sense of glorious insignificance. The expanse of the sea felt nothing like the immensity of the sky where the utter lack of organic life often felt suffocating and restrictive. Below the tipping hull of this old boat was a world of its own, teeming with action and eternally unaffected by the ruination of war and destruction; a self-sustaining paradise for every ecosystem that resided amongst the currents, and he knew instantly this was a sensation that would have brought all of his brothers to their knees.

Yet nothing commanded his admiration quite like you did. He watched in pure adulation as you pulled half a dozen rods from a hidden storage container and laid them carefully on the floor. Horrified that whatever pitiful remnants of his composure might simply abandon him, he enthusiastically averted his eyes as you bent forward and disengaged the latch in the Livewell tank, filling it with the cool water needed to keep your bounty fresh and preserved until your return to shore. Once certain that your rear end was no longer pointed high in the sky, he risked another glance in your direction, only to have that devastating sense of longing surge through his chest. Framed by the dark outcrops of rock now flanking you on either side, your posture nearly stole his breath; arms thrown wide, head tipped back, and hair blowing wildly off your shoulders.

He stifled a grin and dropped his gaze to the throttle lever still casually anchoring his left hand. A little downward pressure had second gear activated, the engine roaring into life, and a genuine chuckle pouring from his salty lips.

The innocuous licks of the water tickling the sides of the vessel quickly turned deafening as each rolling wave saw the floor beneath his feet heaving and crashing onto the surface.

His arms were soon drenched in sea spray, yet he refused to shudder at the sensation as being on the open water, away from the shelter of shore and the stability of land was a feeling unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t isolating as he’d expected… he felt wonderfully small and truly free.

“You good back there?” you called to him, your voice almost entirely lost amid the power of the wind dancing across his ears and around his neck.

“I’m great!” he shouted back, savouring the way you beamed at him.

He’d never know if it was minutes or hours until he caught sight of your promised signal, the roar of the engine subsiding to nothing but a quiet hum as he returned the engine to idle.

“I think we’re in the right spot,” you sang, excitement triggering you to rub your palms together. “Can you help me toss the lines out?”

“Now that I can do,” he chuckled, cracking his knuckles before scooping the lantern from the skippers seat and departing the wheel.

“As far as you can,” you encouraged, taking the lantern from him and exchanging it with the nearest rod. “There’s holders every couple feet. We’ll cast out and then cross our fingers.”

The praise that you bestowed upon him after every broad toss of the line into the water swelled his chest and widened his shoulders. It wasn’t until each rod had been situated carefully in a holder, and the lantern placed delicately on the ground between your feet and his, did Wrecker’s gut begin to simmer with nerves once again.

“Where are you from?” you asked through the ringing quiet, the only discernible noises above the rhythmic licks of the water were the tiny clicks of each reel unspooling more and more line as the turbulent waves pulled the lures deeper below the surface. “I see you every morning at the pier but we don’t ever get to talk much.”

“I’m uh… from Kamino.” He tore his eyes from the nearest rod and glanced bashfully in your direction.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” you admitted with a snort, hands reaching delicately for the nearest rod and slowly cranking the reel to recoil the line. “But my father and I landed on the island when I was a little kid and we haven't left since, so… I’m a little bit sheltered. What’s Kamino like?”

Wrecker let a contemplative hum issue from his nose, his mind whirring as he tried to find words to properly describe the insufferable sterility of Tipoca City, and the complicated relationship he’d had with it before its obliteration. “It’s… Kamino,” he finally replied. “And most of it’s destroyed now. It used to storm almost every day. If we got even a splinter of sun, we’d all fight to get to the windows so we could look outside. It was a water planet, so the cities were built up on tall towers in the middle of the ocean. But it's weird… the sea there isn’t like here. It was rough and dangerous, and so cold that every time you got splashed, it felt like you were getting stung by somethin’...”

“Was there no land?” you asked incredulously, those enticing lips parting just enough to distract him. “How did you get your hands dirty as a kid?”

“Well… we found ways,” Wrecker shrugged, looking downward at his palms. “Me and my brothers were always gettin’ into somethin’ we shouldn’t have been. I’ll never forget the time Tech asked me to hang him upside down by the ankles so he could crawl into the garbage chute. He… uh… he likes researchin’ things, and there’s not much else to research on Kamino. I could hear him gibberin’ on about compost while he was hangin’ there, but Nala Se snuck up behind me and scared me so bad that I let go.”

“Let go?” you snorted, eyes wide and sparkling. “You dropped him into the trash?!”

“Not on purpose,” Wrecker defended with a reminiscent smirk. “But yeah. It’s alrigh’ though. He was only mad for a few hours, then he paid me back by lecturing me about fruit flies and their ‘growth cycles’ for a week.”

“I like him already,” you grinned, turning your attention back to the spool in your hands. “He sounds kinda… different.”

“He is,” Wrecker affirmed with a nod, failing to stop that smile that always peeled across his face when he spoke of his family. “All of us are in our own ways.”

“Well, can I meet them?” you queried, glancing back at him with your eyebrows raised.

“You— you want to?” he stammered back.

“I’d love to… if that’s alright with yo–?”

A loud gasp fractured your sentence, the rod in your hand having lurched nearly entirely from your clutches as something below the rippling surface of the water bit down on the lure and took off. Your body leaped into almost masterful action, your hands intensifying their grip around that graphite pole while your left leg lifted to brace yourself against the powerful tug toward the water. Wrecker froze in place, his mind still twirling happily with the notion of you wanting to meet the people he loved most, and it wasn’t until you muttered a string of undignified curse words did he reawaken to the challenge at hand.

“Maker,” you gasped as you lost your balance, your foot slipping from its position perched on the side of the boat and sending your hip crashing into the wall. “Wreck! Can— can you grab the net?”

Wrecker swallowed at the sight of the rod in your hands bent nearly in half under the duress of the unseen prize still desperately fighting for its freedom in the depths of the dark water. “Wrecker! Net!” you urged as you stumbled again.

“Net…” he repeated frantically. “Right.”

It must have only been seconds… fractions of seconds since he stooped to snatch the tool from the floor, but by the time he’d straightened up, the entirety of your torso had disappeared over the side of the boat, the muscles in your legs still seizing in an effort to keep you upright despite that unrelenting pull downward.

“This— this fish is… huge,” you managed to choke out.

The next several seconds played out in half time; each moment lasting two, each movement lagging as if the events were truly happening in slow motion. Your feet departed the floor, the soles of your shoes rising to waist height… then higher… as your body teetered over the edge of the boat, anchored in place only by the bend at your waist, and even that feeble grip began to diminish as the struggle to subdue your monstrous catch continued. Wrecker acted without coherent thought, darting forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to secure you, lest you tip any farther forward and disappear into that surging sea.

Your addition of your weight was nothing to him, even combined with the efforts of the still unseen aquatic beast, but now free of the risk of toppling overboard you seemed to funnel every ounce of energy into rigorously cranking the line back onto the reel. He took a step backward and away from the water, determined to keep you safe and dry, but a foreign object had found its way into the path of his retreating boots, and his heel knocked heavily against something before his ears were met with a deafening shatter. The boat was thrown into darkness, and the pair of you toppled with a thunderous crash to the floor.

There wasn’t the time or the wherewithal to relish in the feeling of your body against his. He saw his hands clutching tightly at your hips before he even felt them under his fingers. He could smell the pleasant aroma of your hair in his nose before he’d even realized he was sprawled onto the damp floor with your body perched awkwardly atop of his, and that musical laughter began pouring from your smiling lips before any semblance of understanding returned to him.

And when it finally did? Panic… erupting inside of him like a volcano. He was holding you. You were on top of him. He could feel every swell in your body, every subtle shake of your laughing shoulders. He could count the freckles on your back. He could feel your hand placed gently atop his. The rear end that he’d deliberately avoided ogling at was now nestled securely in his lap and it threatened to utterly destabilize him.

“Maker, we botched that one didn’t we?” you chortled as you shifted your hips and tumbled off of him, rolling onto your back beside him and nudging the now shattered lantern out of your space. “I think I lost the whole rod.”

He attempted to clear the shock from his throat, yet his lungs seemed to be completely void of the breath required to complete the task and nothing but a strangled choke left his lips. His skin was on fire. Spiked adrenaline was threatening to set his hands atremble. Surely this is how he would die… lovesick to the point of suffocation. Not falling from a towering height like his nightmares had always imbued him with, but laying side by side with someone who he cared for so deeply that even breathing felt like a challenge.

“Thanks for saving my ass, Wrecker,” you spoke, nestling your head against his arm.

You shifted your gaze to look upward at him, that beguiling twinkle in your eyes somehow even brighter now that the lantern had been extinguished; those stunning glassy orbs sending his mind spinning near-painfully as he fought to find the cognition to answer you.

“You’re… you’re ass—” he stammered, feeling his face burn red hot. “I mean, you’re welcome!”

A delicate snort was your knee jerk response, and the silence that ensued afterward was so stifling… so insufferable… that Wrecker was half a heartbeat away from clambering to his feet and pitching himself headfirst into the water to escape the embarrassment.

“Wrecker…” you mumbled suddenly, breaking into his panicked thoughts. “Why did you come find me tonight?”

“Because…” he started quietly after swallowing heavily. “Well because I— I wanted to see you.”

“Do you maybe want to see me more often?”

He snapped his head in your direction, brows furrowed together as the implications of your questions flitted into his brain. “I want to see you all the time,” he answered, his gaze betraying him by darting back and forth between your eyes and your smiling lips.

“Me too.”

His lips fell open as those freckled cheeks drew nearer, your sparkling eyes disappearing as your lids fluttered closed. He froze, his own sight disappearing as your hand reached forward and cupped around his jaw, your lips descending slowly and tenderly onto his. An explosion unlike anything he’d ever crafted went off in deep in the part of his stomach where only the deepest and most intense feelings emerged; euphoria had him utterly floating. There was simply nothing else. No one else. No fish in the sea. No stars in the sky. Nothing but the warmth of your hands on his skin, and the gentle swipe of your tongue along his lip. His hand found the curves of your body without coherent thought, pausing to linger at the curve of your hip for only a moment before trailing softly up your back until his fingers wove themselves into your hair.

But it was over before it began. You pulled from him abruptly, head snapping around as three more rods suddenly began to whir and noisily unravel their tightly coiled spools of line. “Oh, Maker,” you sighed. “How about you reel them in this time, and I’ll net and tank them?” you proposed.

“Deal,” Wrecker answered, shaking his head in complete disbelief as you stood up and darted towards the farthest rod.

ragu list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @starrylothcat @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @echoqk @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @trixie2023 @mooncommlink @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz

[lady-phasma]

Hen embār masti (From the Sea We Came)

Part 1 of ? 2.7k words

Daemon Targaryen x Elaenya Targaryen (ofc) additional characters and family tree here

Warnings: none yet, slow burn, will be 18+ in future chapters

Prologue: In his 25th year, Prince Deamon Targaryen, with Corlys Velaryon, arranged to take the Stepstones from the Triarchy. Their forces succeeded and by 109 AC Daemon, age 28, styles himself Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He is to be crowned by Corlys, the Sea Snake, and then return to the Stepstones to take possession of the island Bloodstone. The coronation is to be held at Driftmark, celebrating both Daemon’s and the Sea Snake’s victory.

The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside calmed Elaenya when her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She could listen to the raging water for hours, watching the fishing boats in the distance, the gulls swooping and swarming around them. She would slip away at the first opportunity, before her morning studies or while the rest of the castle lunched. She and her older brother had duties and obligations, but were allowed free rein of Driftmark and its shores. Her mother, Maela, was the youngest of Corwyn Velaryon’s four children, and Elaenya and Laerys, his youngest grandchildren. They had fewer expectations thrust upon them. There were times when their station demanded they behave as a prince and princess ought, but that didn’t hinder them from exploiting unsupervised moments.

She thought back to times she and her brother had explored the cliffs and caves along the beach, how they would return to the castle with sand covering them from head to toe, pockets filled with pebbles and shells. She had a fortunate childhood in some ways, though not perfect, and had been spared the boring days at court in King’s Landing and the machinations of the royal family.

She stood up from her seat on the rock and dusted the sand from her breeches. The wind caught her silver hair and lashed it around her. She closed her eyes and relished the salt spray on her face. The sun was low on the horizon and the air had become chilled.

Elaenya turned back to the castle, walking slowly up the beach. She still wore the leather pants and thick tunic from her training that afternoon. Being far from King’s Landing had many benefits, not the least of which was the small glimmer of freedom she was allowed. With a plethora of male cousins and her brother she had fought, quite stubbornly, to learn everything they learned. When her mother had finally acquiesced to Elaenya’s demands to learn swordsmanship, she had been inwardly overjoyed and outwardly unbearable for weeks. She wasn’t allowed to train as frequently as the boys, nor as fervently, but she had a natural talent and practiced on her own. She had held a sword in her hand nearly every day since she was three and ten years of age. She fingered the grip of Elēdrar as she started up the stairs. They were rough-hewn on this cliff face and weather worn and there were many of them. She took her time climbing, enjoying the changing hues of the sky presaging sunset. Well before she reached the top, a screech jerked her attention skyward. Crimson, almost black, against the orange sky, Caraxes dove and announced his arrival. Elaenya bounded up the remaining steps, paying no attention to the exertion.

The stair landing opened onto a flagstone courtyard. She was dizzy from her strained breathing but had room for only one thought. Daemon turned at the sound of her footfalls

“Cousin!” she nearly squealed, sounding much younger than her eight and ten years. He smiled at her as he removed his helmet. He ran a hand through it, mussing it after having his helmet on for hours. Elaenya stopped short.

“Yes, cousin?” Daemon grinned at her.

“Well, you,” she stuttered, then smiled back at him. “You seem to have lost some hair, my prince.” She winked at him. He closed the distance between them and scooped her up in an embrace that lifted her feet from the ground. She hugged him back. Still trying to catch her breath, she looked toward Caraxes. He was eyeing them both passively. The dragon was exhausted.

“Shall we get you both settled?” She took his helmet from him, freeing his hands to unpack his saddlebags. She looked at the soot and blood on it and smoothed the plume down. It too was filthy. She would summon a squire to take care of his armor for him.

Daemon patted Caraxes’s snout as they walked off. Their hair and clothes whipped in the air as the dragon ascended and left the courtyard. He would find plenty of sheep or goats to eat before he rested. Elaenya walked ahead of Daemon as they entered the castle.

She doled out instructions to a waiting maid and requested a squire to assist the Prince with his armor. Daemon watched her with a prideful smile, but his eyes were tired. The journey was two days by dragon.

“I’ve had a bath and supper sent to your room. I trust you remember where it is?” she asked. She beamed upon noticing the way he looked at her.

“You’ve become quite a Lady since I saw you last. It wasn’t so long as a year ago though it seems much longer,” he was genuinely impressed, but teasing Elaenya was something of which he would never tire.

“Lady!” she scoffed. “Hardly.” She grinned and gestured to her filthy clothing. “I suppose I need a bath as well. I forget how to be a Lady unless we entertain guests. And if the rumors are to be believed, we will be having quite a few guests tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.” Daemon’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I shall see you when we break our fast tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she replied. She kissed his cheek before departing for her chambers.

The fire helped to dispel the chill in the room but not entirely. It must have not been lit long. Steam rose from the bath water. Elaenya undressed impatiently. The evening sea air had seeped into her bones. She loved the way the water felt as if it burned when she first stepped into it. As she sank down into the tub, letting the day slide off her, she mulled over Daemon’s comment. She supposed she had become more confident with the servants and had learned more from her mother about her duties this year. This was inevitably the result of her mother’s intention to make Elaenya a desirable prospect as a wife. She groaned. She glanced to the corner near the hearth where Elēdrar was propped. Her Valyrian steel sword. It had been her father’s. There weren’t many in the family so when her brother had given it to her for her eighteenth name day she had been speechless. By all rights it should be Laerys’s.

It was a bit small for him. It had more sentimental value to him as he could remember more time with their father. However, Laerys had been bequeathed his own. His had come from the Velaryon lineage; Elaenya’s from the Targaryen’s. It fit her perfectly. She could wield hers one-handed if needed and could do great damage with two hands.

She let her eyes close as she rested her head against the back of the tub. She would wash when the water was cooler. For the moment she wanted to feel the heat. She gathered her silver hair behind her head, keeping it from the water and using it as a makeshift pillow. An unbidden memory floated behind her closed eyes...

Elaenya remembered how her sword had stopped midair, striking an unyielding object. She had turned around immediately and almost dropped it.

"Well, what do we have here?" The Dragon smiled down at her. All black armor and silver hair. He let the blade slide down his forearm, then gripped it, keeping it from falling to the ground. It had struck his vambrace when she had swung inexpertly.

She swallowed and was too embarrassed to respond. She could only blink up at him, then down at her sword in his hand and his helmet in his other.

She had been ten years of age the first time she had seen Daemon Targaryen up close. He tossed the sword in the air, flipping it to catch the grip. He turned it, making a show of inspecting the blade.

“They let you train with this, little one?” He flipped it again and handed it back to Elaenya, grip-first.

“Yes, only a bit, my Prince,” her mouth was dry. He seemed overlarge and certainly his reputation contributed to that.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your surroundings, cousin,” he grinned. “Watch where you swing such a deadly blade.” She laughed at this. They both knew it was a training sword with the dullest blade imaginable. “I shall leave you to it.”

He left unceremoniously. Young Elaenya watched him walk away until he entered the castle.

Elaenya made her way to break her fast the next morning. Her excitement propelled her down the corridors. The skirts of her pale blue dress flowed out behind her as she walked.

When she arrived at the hall, Daemon and her uncle weren’t present. She hid her displeasure with a genteel smile and walked toward the table.

“Good morrow.” She greeted her good sister, Rhanora, and brother, Laerys. She took her seat next to Rhanora as a servant brought her meal.

“You welcomed Prince Daemon last night, sister?” Laerys asked as he reached for the bread. He broke a piece off and handed it to his wife before taking some for himself, then handed the loaf to Elaenya. His eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as they met hers.

“Thank you. Yes, I was on the beach when he arrived.” She gave him an exaggerated reproachful look. “How is the babe this morning?” Elaenya nodded toward Rhanora’s rounded middle.

“He was quite restless last night, but seems to have calmed today. I am ready for the little prince to make his appearance.” Rhanora stroked her belly as she spoke. It would not be much longer. Perhaps only a month’s time according to the Maester.

“Hopefully you may both have some rest before the festivities this afternoon.” Without meaning to, Elaenya rolled her eyes. She immediately flushed, praying neither of them had seen.

“Do you not approve of our cousin’s new title, El?” Her brother graciously winked at her, relieving her of the guilt that had begun to creep in. Laerys chuckled but it was clipped off when he looked up.

Their mother, Maela, had entered the hall. She smiled at them as she approached the table.

“Good morrow, Mother.” Elaenya and Laerys spoke almost in unison. Elaenya giggled. They had acted like they were still children, caught up to no good. Her mother kissed her fondly on the forehead before she sat.

“Good morrow children, Rhanora. Was something amusing, my son?” Maela didn’t look up from her task of buttering her bread.

“Well… yes, Mother, in fact, El thought Daemon’s coronation a bit of a farce.”

“I-“ Elaenya began in a huff, but her mother and brother laughed.

“Perhaps you should keep your opinions of your cousin confined to this dining table, El, lest someone mistake you for an usurper.” Her mother smiled at her.

Maela was a delicate woman but strong and fierce and kind. Her outward appearance and demeanor were every bit as regal as was required to marry a Targaryen prince. Before their father had died, Maela had smiled more often. Since then these intimate moments were the only times she seemed to slip off the twelve years of mourning which she wore like a cloak.

Maela had loved Gaemon Targaryen, their father, regardless of the marriage having been arranged. She was devoted to her two children, often seeing their father in their humor and playfulness.

“You look lovely today, El,” she said as she appraised Elaenya’s hair and dress. “More excited for the festivities than Laerys would lead me to believe?” She smiled mischievously.

Elaenya shot a sour look at her brother. She would find a way to repay him for exposing her to their mother.

“They will be historic, Mother,” she replied, not attempting to hide her smile.

Daemon and Corlys didn’t join them. Elaenya excused herself after she had finished her meal. She decided to go to the terrace to watch the arriving ships and the dragons. They, too, needed to break their fast and could be seen diving in the sea for fish that they rarely had access to at their homes.

She walked the corridors in no hurry. As she passed the library she heard voices. The doors were closed and she didn’t enjoy eavesdropping but she couldn’t help but hear Daemon’s agitated voice interrupt Corlys.

“-to Bloodstone. Tomorrow.”

Elaenya heard boot heels approaching the door. She moved away quickly, on through the corridors.

The ocean breeze was warmer than she had expected. She took a seat on a stone bench near the parapet. The dragons keened above and below her. Caraxes dwarfed her Saelys by half. Saelys’s teal coloring shifted between blue and green as she flew in the morning light. She watched Caraxes dive and reappear. A couple of newcomers circled and dove with them.

Bloodstone. Elaenya thought. She supposed it had not occurred to her that Daemon would go away so soon. Of course he would. Driftmark was not his home and only the war with the Triarchy had caused him to visit during the last few years. He and the Sea Snake would convene here when they needed to regroup or plan a new offensive. Those times were rare. None of the visits were long but she had spent every possible moment she could listening to them discuss strategy and tactics. More than once she had been their cup bearer in these meetings. The years had seemed to pass slowly with nothing remarkable happening between Daemon’s appearances at Driftmark.

He had spent most of his time there focused on his duties but after the councils he would walk on the beach with Elaenya. He would ask her questions about her training or Saelys or walk in comfortable silence. She didn’t prattle like young women were wont to do. Yet in all that time she had never thought about where he would be after the war ended. He had been a constant part of her life for three years and three years could feel like an eternity when your days were monotonous.

Elaenya gazed out at the ocean and let her mind wander. Soon she would be required to attend her mother and brother. Alongside them she would represent the Targaryens at Driftmark. What an odd predicament, she thought, to be loyal to her uncle and cousin and yet claim to be loyal to the Crown. Surely Daemon’s and Corlys’s actions were treason but she would heed her mother’s words and keep these thoughts to herself.

That afternoon, Elaenya took her place next to her brother in the hall. They stood to the side of the dais. Their uncle Corlys Velaryon sat on the driftwood throne. Every Velaryon who resided at Driftmark was present. The hall was buzzing with conversation. A few younger men laughed, the sound echoing through the rafters. The celebratory mood overshadowed the fact that Daemon and Corlys we committing a minor act of treason. Looking at the faces around the hall, she didn’t see any that showed displeasure. Everyone in attendance reveled in the victory.

A voice was heard above the others, asking for silence, and a wave of shushing flowed through the crowd. Heads turned to watch the young prince enter. His short, silver hair was raked to the side. His violet eyes focused directly ahead, not looking at the spectators. He looked smug even without a grin, but surely that grin lay close to the surface, Elaenya thought. She allowed herself a tight-lipped smile.

Her cousin stopped at the dais, not mounting the stairs. Silence fell completely as the Sea Snake stood. He walked to the edge and a servant met him, holding out the crown. The polished bones curved like those of a man’s ribs. Elaenya swallowed dryly at the unsavory thought. Daemon didn’t kneel, only bowed his head slightly.

“Let all present bear witness,” Corlys spoke loudly to the onlookers. “Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” The Sea Snake placed the crown upon Daemon’s head. Cheers and applause sprang up from the crowd. Elaenya wondered if it wasn’t a bit forced, overly enthusiastic. Surely not everyone was excited to see her cousin become a king.

Daemon raised his head and began to turn to face the crowded hall. As he did he caught Elaenya’s eye and proffered her a smirk that fell away as quickly as it had arrived. Heat rushed to her face but Daemon had already looked away. That single look had confirmed her suspicions: he knew exactly how much of a farce this had become.

To be continued...

[balladofthewhitehorse]

Weekly Rituals

After Scotland is swept out to sea, England is taken by some kindly villagers to the sea every week; It is equal parts to grieve, as much as it is to ensure that he does not fear the sea.

‘’It’ll be okay, lad.’’ Sighed the sea, as it lapped patiently against the boat, in his brother’s voice.

The sky was drawn across the horizon like a woollen shawl, and the wind ran icy-fingers through his  hair. The wood creaked beneath the white of his knuckles - England’s eyes drawn and as miserable as oysters; watery, grey and dire. The miserable soul huddled at the end of the boat simply looking wretchedly towards the waning land - as they were both slowly swallowed up by the sea and sky (two halves of a jaw closing around them). Gulls wheeled overhead, lazy and lofty as they skimmed the bobbing waves with raucous cries, England propping his chin in the palm of his hand as they continued to sail through this world of blue, grey and white. A net strewn out from the side of the boat, lazily gathering reams of silvery fish that moved in sinuous, almost-hypnotising motion; The rivers had been dwindling lately, and England’s taste of fish was beginning to become increasingly confined to midday daydreams of carp and trout. ‘’Ælfric…’’ He whined plaintively, swaying from side-to-side as the boat rocked in the sea’s drifting motion, salt clinging to his cheeks. ‘’...I want to…I need to go back. Please.’’ They had been hunting for oysters and mussels and whelks, for samphire. And now…

The fisherman looked on solemnly, as the cliffs slipped further and further away. ‘’It’ll be okay. Just…’’ He sucked in a draw of air between his crooked teeth, as his passenger whined from the bow, a weariness set deep into the furrows of his face. ‘’...Just keep looking at the sea, Edmund.’’ It had only been a few weeks since the boy’s brother had been lost, swallowed in the night by pitch-dark waters. They weren’t farmers, not since the fields had been burned. ‘’Isn’t it beautiful, lad? Keep looking, it’s important.’’ A pale-white sun pierced the clouds, lifting the early morning drizzle from the surface of the waters, revealing a mosaic of greens and blues. ‘’Keep-’’ 

England squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. ‘’Take me back, Ælfric’’ Puffs of sea-spray tousled his hair, and the boat slowly took on a more brotherly motion (perched on Scotland’s shoulders, as they walked by the river - swaying lightly from side to side, the sunlight golden on their cheeks). ‘’Please.’’ England clenched his fists, nails digging into the soft palms of his hands, as the sea continued to roll the boat gently from side to side (his brother - walking again, telling him about the lines upon lines of neatly arranged soldiers he had faced down; Silver swords and brassy confidence) Most likely a story, some fib Scotland had told him to make him seem cooler - but, England missed those right now, with a stone-heavy ache in his ribs. ‘’I need to go back-!’’ 

An unexpected sob caught England in the chest, like knuckles meeting his heart.

‘’You can’t hide away from the sea forever-’’ Ælfric began with a grave frown, the keel of the boat cutting through the waves like a knife through butter, a silvery trail unspooling from behind them both. ‘’-Come on, Edmund.’’ The fisherman tutted, watching the young boy’s face shift from weariness to a bitter frustration as the sea sighed around them. ‘’It’s always going to be a part of your life, you’ve got to be able to face it.’’ Salt clung to peppery hair as the fisherman adjusted the rudder, turning the boat in a slow, lazy arc towards the pale, northern sun as it drifted by. ‘’Edm-’’ 

 England’s eyes flashed like a burning field, embers sparking in the green of his iris. ‘’I’m not hiding.’’ He hissed sharply, teeth bared in a snarl. His sister had told him, clutching the back of his shirt as she squeezed him tight, that they weren’t like other people. England had asked her what she had meant, but the woman had simply gone very quiet (a dragon, retreating to its lonely cave with a hiss of red scales). He hoped that it was something good - something that would keep the breath in his brother’s lungs a little longer. ‘’I need to find him!’’ He spat, nose wrinkled with fury. 

The fisherman regarded him with sad, grey eyes. ‘’He’s not there anymore, lad. He’s dead.’’ The sea burbled in agreement, dark swirls of malevolent green and white sending the boat drifting across the choppy waves. ‘’He’s dead.’’ The man repeated once more, frustrated strain making his words creak like age-old wood. ‘’Stop shouting at me. You’ll rock the boat.’’ Ælfric drew in a weary, impatient breath as Edmund’s expression contorted into anguish, then into anger. ‘’Calm down.’’ A strain crept into his voice, impatient (a sudden swell of wind that pulled the air from beneath a bird’s wings; England froze, transfixed and trembling with ire). ‘’Sit down. Calm down.’’ Look at the sea. 

[dujour13]

OC Kiss Week - day 6

A kiss for darling Lariel, who belongs to my friend @the-raging-tempest and exists in many incarnations across the multiverse 💜

Lariel’s skin prickles. It’s getting cold out here on the deck of the Bloodstone Rose and the salt spray has gradually soaked through her mourning dress, which will be even more uncomfortably stiff and edged with white when—or if—it dries. All the more reason to get rid of it, she decides, and the mental image of wadding it up and tossing it overboard gives her a small degree of satisfaction to distract from the stinging wind. Another itchy, constraining part of her old life to throw to the waves.

She’s reluctant to return to the cabin despite the chill, and despite that she’s all too aware she’s obstructing the sailors’ work and they don’t dare ask the weather witch to move aside. Inside it’s stuffy with beer and sweat and she feels even more of a nuisance in the narrow spaces, and besides, Zrise is more sullen than usual today. She wishes she had someone else to talk to. She wishes the sailors would dare speak to her, but they’re as aware of her social status as of her ability to bend the wind to her will and they just dip their heads and say “Miss” and hurry off whenever she opens her mouth. It only occurs to her this moment that Zrise may have done something to intimidate them, zealously protective as he’s been since they left the city.

She wanted to be happy out here on the open sea, but she feels just as trapped and useless and isolated as ever.

When a violent shiver runs through her frame she reluctantly turns to go inside, but catches sight of another passenger, the colorfully dressed bard, and is suddenly frozen in the grip of her loneliness.

Of course he won’t notice me, she thinks, a small, dark, shivering ghost in her ruined charcoal gown and mourning scarf.

But he does notice her. He grins and beckons. “Watch this.”

He tosses something into the wind and a gull stoops for it, and another gull sweeps in from below and steals it from the first’s beak, and the sky is full of their plaintive cries and frenzied flapping.

Then he hands her something and she reaches for it without thinking. It’s a slimy day-old shrimp.

“Go on,” he encourages her.

Lariel has no intention of tossing this shrimp feebly over the gunwale. She takes a step back, draws back her arm and whips it out as hard as she can. The shrimp arcs up into the gray sky. There is another angry, shrieking explosion of feathers. She and the bard laugh together and she forgets about the chill for a moment.

He nods toward the dark clouds on the horizon. “One of yours?”

“No,” she says. “A regular storm.”

“Oh no. Regular storms make me sick. You know what’s funny though? Yours don’t.”

“They don’t?”

“It’s weird. The ship pitches, but somehow knowing we’re in good hands and we’re headed somewhere makes me feel like it’s going to be all right.” He touches the pendant at his throat. “Kind of like Desna. Tymora, you call her here.”

“I wish I could tell you we were headed somewhere,” she murmurs, almost too quietly to be heard over the wind.

“You’re running from something.” As if it’s a joke he says this with mock gravity, although not without sympathy. “Let me try to guess. I’m an expert palm reader. May I?”

Lariel can only imagine Zrise’s reaction to this person prying into their affairs—but Zrise isn’t here, is he? She offers her small, cold hand.

“Hm,” he peers closely at her palm and pokes at the creases as if teasing out their secrets. “Aha. Here it is. Escaping an arranged marriage.”

Her eyes widen. She looks at her own hand. “Where do you see that?”

But when she glances up she realizes he’s laughing at her gently. “Your brother told me.”

“Oh.” She reddens but his teasing seems so friendly she can only laugh. “Wait—my brother told you that?”

“We talked,” he shrugs, as if it’s normal that Zrise would confide anything to anyone.

She frowns at him sidelong.

He misunderstands. “Don’t worry, this is not a bid to besmirch your honor. I’m not much for besmirching ladies.”

She remembers Zrise’s tirade about her naiveté with Venan and decides to stay on her guard, but it’s so nice to just talk to someone. “I suppose you’re running away from something too.”

“I like to think of it more as running towards something,” he says, looking hopefully out to the horizon.

“Towards what?”

“I’ll know when I get there.”

Lariel laughs with delight. “That sounds wonderful,” she says, but she’s unable to hide a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

“No reason you shouldn’t look at it that way too.”

He’s right, she realizes. Her mind has been so mired in that prison of a family manor and escaping from it that she still feels its drag on her every thought, the oppressive hands of the past pulling her under so she’s hardly had a moment with her head above water just to breathe. Unconsciously her hand goes to her throat.

Before she can answer, the cabin door slams open with a splintering crack and her brother Zrise stomps out, dragging something that turns out to be the scruff of the young redheaded sailor’s neck—the only sailor who dared speak to her once. He hauls the whimpering man like a dog toward the gunwale, and for a moment Lariel thinks he’s going to throw him to the gulls like a shrimp, but then Zrise notices her standing there with the bard and his face slackens from rage to an awkward, forced smile.

“Can’t take a joke, can you?” he snaps at the young sailor, dropping him to the deck like a rag. “I wasn’t really going to…”

Lariel expects Zrise to storm up and “escort” her back into the cabin but he’s gone an odd shade of his usual pale and seems… embarrassed? He’s wearing his stupid boots like he’s trying to impress someone. To her surprise he slinks back into the cabin without another word.

She and the bard rush to the aid of the sailor but as soon as he’s on his feet he’s away, and neither of them says a word about it as they go back to contemplating the horizon together.

When at last the chill starts getting under their skin they head into the cabin. The sailors are watching an approaching ship on intercept course and muttering about pirates.

“Looks like things are about to get even more interesting,” says Lariel, trying to feel optimistic.

“I’m not worried. You have a damn good arm,” says Siavash. He kisses her on the cheek and she feels her optimism float up and crystallize. “It’ll be fine.”

[flashnthunder]

it's me, bel ep6bastogne, on my knees BEGGING for a crumb, a sliver, of webgott small town coastal mystery. i'm imagining broadchurch-style lieb a la grizzled DI hardy with web doing his best impression of intrepid local girl sidekick DS miller!!!

@ep6bastogne ahh okay what i had written for this wip is a little bit of a different vibe but i am now lowkey obsessed with that concept of a broadcurch-y lieb omg maybe i'll see if it goes in that direction

(snippet under the cut)

The pier stinks of fish. Gulls walk the far edge of the weathered wood, digging between the joints of crab shells and fighting over fish guts. There had been a time when Joe had hated them in the way everyone hates a pest that follows them. They were there from the moment he woke in the morning, following him out to his boat and never leaving as he worked until he went home in the evening. They followed boats out into the ocean when they stayed in sight of the coast. There was no point in trying to chase them off. He had long since learned to live with the noise and flap of wings, the extra stench they brought in with them.

Leaning against the old shed built onto the pier, he smokes until until the sun sags near the horizon. Eventually, even the birds will leave to roost for the night. Water licks up the sides of the posts that hold up the pier, salt spray coating the old wood. Joe can feel it down in his bones, the dry and cracking salt that permeates everything.

The only disturbance in the squawking of the galls is a footfall at the top of the ramp leading down from the shore. A man is standing at the top, looking down at the pier. He almost looks familiar, but Joe can’t quite place his face. Joe squints up at him, the dying daylight casting flickering shadows that warp off the water. He’s wearing a sweater, too clean to have just come off a boat. No one else has come in since Joe had moored his own boat half an hour before. He hasn’t heard any cars running up on the road either. The wind skims off the water and blows through his hair.

There are times when Joe can feel the air change. Not in a way he could ever explain to anyone, but the feeling of standing on a boat out in the unbridled wind and knowing it was pulling something along behind it. It was looking at low waves and knowing the next few swells would grow. It’s never a calm before the storm on the ocean, never perfect stillness like there is standing on land. It’s a change in the rhythm that is the tell instead. For some reason, he can feel it now like he’s looking out on the gray ocean with no land in sight. Something is wrong. The wind is screaming the warning at him, and his whole body prickles with it.

The man shifts but doesn’t move. He looks just as surprised as Joe is to see another living soul out. Slowly, Joe puts his cigarette out on the side of the shed that has more stripped wood than paint left. He flicks the butt into a bucket near his feet. He doesn’t know why, but something tells him to start walking back up. It’s the same thing that tells him when there’s a storm building and when to watch for the next surging wave to break into whitewater.

As if in a mirror image, the man starts walking too. The creaking boards under his feet sound louder with two pairs of boots on them. They stop near the middle and Joe can see his face now, easier to recognize with the distance closed. He’s seen him in town, or maybe outside of the little church that stands perched within walking distance of the old lighthouse. The kind of person who hasn’t stopped to give Joe the time of day, even if he had been in the mood to talk when they’ve crossed paths before. He's still striking enough to remember, and Joe can think of even fewer reasons for him to be at the pier this late. There is still a good ten feet between them where they've stopped.

There’s blood staining the collar of his sweater. Not that much, just a few drops bleeding into an off-white fabric that draws his eye. Joe notices that before he notices his split lip, still fresh enough to be welling up with more blood. There’s a bag tightly clenched in his right hand, fingers curled so hard into the fabric that his knuckles are white.

The gulls have quieted. All he can hear now is the waves lapping against the land.

[azvolrien]

Water, Wind and Wee White Lies

A week after Curlew departs for Stormhaven with Asta on board, Roan receives a very irritating visitor at the broch and her poker face is tested to the limit.

---

It had been another cold night. A light dusting of snow crunched under Roan’s boots as she walked; the frost coating the tough dune grasses brushed off on her gaiters. Gulls wheeled overhead, their high-pitched calls echoing across the clear blue sky above the crash of the waves against the coast. As Roan paused on the rocky pavement, adjusting the carcasses – two grouse, a pheasant and a rabbit – slung over her shoulder, a seal popped its head up from the water to inspect her. Not the cute rounded muzzle of a common seal like the one whose skin formed her cloak and whose skull sat atop her own, but the long aquiline snout of a big bull grey. She raised her spear in a salute regardless; the creature vanished beneath the surface again with a muffled grunt. Roan snorted a half-hearted laugh and kept walking, past the rocks to the beach where her boat shed stood, and further on until Dun Ardech finally loomed up ahead.

She drew breath to shout a greeting, but closed her mouth again when she remembered there was no longer anyone but the chickens there to hear it. With a sigh, she carried her prey into the workshop, where a bucket of salt waited to begin preserving the meat. One of the hens peered curiously around the door, then promptly lost interest and went back to the tray of feed outside the coop. Roan untied the cords from around the carcasses’ legs, laid them in a row on her worktable, and began plucking feathers.

It had been a week since Captain Steel’s ship had disappeared over the southern horizon, and she had lost count of the number of times since then that she had made some idle comment or asked a question, and somehow been surprised when there was no answer. Even now she had to remind herself that the only pair of hands around to sort the feathers was her own. She sighed again and made two piles on the worktop: one of long, stiff flight feathers to use for fletching her arrows, and one of the softer, downier ones that might make a good stuffing for a cushion or a quilt.

All the feathers were removed. She set the birds aside and drew her knife to skin and butcher the rabbit.

It had gone on for too long, she decided as she worked. Of the escapees and other fugitives who had stopped off at Dun Ardech at one point or another, all of the others had only stayed for a night or two before carrying on to wherever they went. Letting her stay for a whole month – well, that had been the biggest mistake. It had been inevitable that… that some attachment might form, and it had been foolish to let herself get attached to a woman she was never going to see again. Like getting too fond of a wild bird she had nursed back to health – it only made it harder for both of them when the time to let go finally came.

Besides… A bookish noble from the Imperial City and a battle-mad savage from the edge of the world? No, it could never have worked in the long run. She would be happier in Stormhaven, with its schools and its libraries and whatever else they had there, than she could ever have been at an old tower on the coast, miles away from the nearest neighbour.

Roan paused in her butchery, closing her eyes for a second. Funny. She hadn’t realised the wind had swept up so much spray from the waves, yet here she was with water dripping down her face. The tip of her tongue flicked out to catch a droplet as it reached the corner of her mouth. Salt.

Just sea water, of course. Nothing else. Just sea water.

Speaking of salt, she still had work to do. She gave herself a shake, took a handful from the bucket, and set about applying it to the meat. There was plenty of winter yet to go, and she didn’t want to have to go hunting again every time she needed to eat.

Eventually, she let herself back out of the workshop, scrubbed her hands under the tap at the base of the rain barrel, and dried them off on an old towel hanging beside it. Roan briefly blew on her hands to warm them and placed them on her hips, surveying the little courtyard around the broch. The hens had plenty of feed to keep them going. The vegetable patch was all but frozen, with no weeds poking through the soil yet. She knew there was plenty of firewood stacked by the hearth inside the broch. There was, it seemed, no more work that needed done, and it wasn’t even midday yet.

‘Needed’, maybe not, but there was always work to do. Roan ducked inside the broch, fished out the yarn basket and needles from where she had left them under the couch, and carried them up to the top of the outer wall to continue knitting a sock. Socks never went amiss, and the light would be better outside.

For a while, the only sound was the wind, the waves, and the constant tick-tick-tick of the needles, before something new reached her ears. At first, she mistook it for just some echo of the knitting needles, before it resolved into something else entirely coming from behind her, up the loch towards Auchtertan and the other towns beyond it.

Hooves.

Frowning, Roan set her knitting aside, stood up with her spear in her hand, and just watched as the little company rode down the bank of the loch, past the great bones of the long-dead leviathan sprawled across the rocks to stop just outside the wall. Seven people, each one astride a sturdy horse-like construct. Six of them were dressed much the same: sleeveless red tabards over simple padded jackets rather than mail shirts, and a sword sheathed at the hip. On the chest, each tabard bore an emblem of a hunting eagle inside a border made to look like a buckled belt, with the words ‘STRIKE FAST’ embroidered within. Even Roan, far away from their castle outside Duncraig, could recognise the crest of Clan MacArra. Her grip tightened slightly around the haft of her spear.

The woman at the head of the group was different. Her cloak was still red, pinned at her shoulder with a silver penannular brooch, but a deeper, richer shade with better dye. She wore it over a long coat of brushed leather and tough but well-made and expensive-looking canvas riding trousers, with polished black boots that came almost to her knees. She carried no sword, but a long whip was coiled at her belt and a crossbow and a quiver of bolts hung behind her saddle. Fair skin, with only a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, dark brown hair with a slight hint of auburn where it caught the light, and a pair of extraordinarily blue eyes. Roan might have thought her quite handsome, had it been less obvious who she was.

“You, there,” said the woman, clicking her fingers. “Are you the owner of this…” She cast an eye over the high drystone wall and the tower of the broch rearing up behind it, and settled on “…habitation?”

“Aye,” said Roan, after briefly considering several more sarcastic responses. One of the guards caught her eye and gave her an apologetic grimace. “How can I help?” she asked, forcing the civility past her teeth.

“My name is Lady Eilidh MacArra,” she said as if this should have resulted in instant fawning. Roan kept her face carefully blank. Eilidh frowned at her lack of response and continued. “We’re looking for my brother, Lord Darius. He came out here on a hired ship a little more than a week ago, looking for some property of his, and has yet to return to Castle MacArra.”

Roan rubbed her chin, feigning deep thought. “Darius, ye say? Mm, disna ring any bells.”

Eilidh gritted her teeth. “He may have introduced himself as ‘Daro’. A silly nickname, I know, but he insists on it. Our mother hopes he’ll grow out of it soon. He first rode out here roughly a month previously – five weeks, in fact – and said he spoke with a…” She trailed off, looking at Roan properly for the first time. “A strange woman wearing a dog skull on her head.”

“Ohhh,” said Roan, resisting the urge to correct her about the species of the skull. “Aye, I mind him. Tall lad wi a fancy construct. What manner o property wis he after, d’ye ken? He didna say.”

Eilidh made a dismissive gesture. “Just a slave girl he’d inherited,” she said. “He was so embarrassed, not that he admitted it; he’d only just got the girl back to Castle MacArra after sorting out some irregularity with our grandmother’s estate and given her a little reminder of her station, and somehow she managed to escape in the night. It’s immaterial – the girl may have thrown herself in the sea by now for all I care, but I would like to locate my brother. Have you seen him more recently than that first meeting?”

‘A little reminder’. Is that what you call it? Was it in front of the whole castle? Were you there, when he chained her to a post and tortured her until her back was a bloody ruin? Did you stand there with a nice glass of whisky in your hand and watch as she screamed? Aye, I saw your brother last week. I put my blade through his spine and fed his stinking corpse to the water horses, and if I could do it ten times over it would be less than he deserved for hurting her. “Naw, havna seen him,” was all Roan said aloud.

Eilidh muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘stupid teuchter’. “And the girl? If we had some idea of which way she went, perhaps we might…”

Roan sighed. “Wouldna ken. Out here on the edge, well… Folk turn up sometimes, eh? The way I wis raised, if a body comes stumbling in on a winter night and begs for a spot by the fire, well, ye dinna ask too many questions. Ye just give ’em a comfy seat and something hot to drink. Still, maybe she wis one o them. What’d she look like?”

“Oh, pretty enough if you like them timid, I suppose,” said Eilidh. “I can see why she caught his eye – that was always his type, the demure sort. Typical Kiraani looks, really. Brown eyes, sort of mid-brown skin. Nice hair,” she admitted. “Black – properly black, not just a dark brown – and straight as an arrow, down past her waist.”

Roan carefully laid her spear down at her feet on the walltop and folded her arms. If Eilidh noticed how hard her fingertips dug into her arms, she made no comment on it. “Aye, I did see the lassie now that you say that. She showed up a wee whilie after your brother left. Didna stay long, just long enough to warm up. But after she went back out…” Roan shook her head. “Couldna say where she went after that. North, I’d guess. No way she swam the loch, not at this time of year.”

“No, not in her condition, either,” said Eilidh thoughtfully. “North. Yes, that makes sense.” She lifted one hand in a signal to her guards. The one who had given Roan the commiserating look cleared his throat and Eilidh showed her teeth in a very forced smile. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll let you get back to your…” She trailed off, shook her head in poorly-hidden disdain, and spurred her construct into a trot with a jangle of tack, following the coastal track north. Her guards followed her single-file, the sympathetic one bringing up the rear.

“Between you and me?” he said in a low voice, well out of Eilidh’s earshot. “I won’t shed too many tears if we never find the bastard. I reckon that poor lass is well shot of him, one way or another.” Roan just smiled. The man grinned back, tapped his brow in a lazy salute, and rode after the others. “Next town to the north is about thirty miles on!” he shouted. “Someone there might have seen more.”

Roan waited until the sound of hooves had faded into the distance before she sat back down on the cold stone and went back to her knitting. Out past the edge of the rocks, a familiar shape moved in the water and Riabhach lifted his long head from the waves. His keen yellow eyes glanced up the coast after the riders and back at Roan. She imagined that if he were human, he might have raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“What, you think I should have killed her too?” asked Roan. The water horse heaved himself up onto the rocks and twisted his long body around to scratch the side of his neck with a hind leg. “The thought crossed my mind. It very much crossed my mind. But what good would that do? No. They’ll never find anything left of Daro, and she’s safe, well out of their reach a long way from here. That’s all that matters. No need for more blood unless they draw swords first.” She paused in her knitting again, watching Riabhach as he rolled around in a patch of seaweed. “Besides,” she said, needles clicking into motion once again. “Probably wouldn’t be great to let you get too much of a taste for human flesh.”

Daro’s final resting place snorted, wriggled around on the stone for a while longer, and plunged back into the sea. Quiet, once again. A lone raven let out its deep croaking cry somewhere. There was a faint splash as the great broad-winged form of a sea eagle skimmed over the waves and snatched up a fish in its talons. Then, nothing but the wind and the waves.

“Suppose that’s your lesson talking, old wolf,” she said to the spirit of her grandfather as she worked, as much to break the silence as anything else – and when had that started to be something she needed to do? “When our family was killed, you could have picked up your spear and gone hunting for revenge, but you stayed to look after me. To make sure the last of your pack was safe. Not something you ever said. Just what you lived, every day I knew you.”

The wind picked up from the north, bringing a breath of more snow with it. Maybe that was an answer of some kind; Aye, lass, so you look after yersel and get in out o the cold. Ye can mope some more once ye’ve got a fire going.

Roan sighed, got back to her feet, and retreated inside the broch to the waiting hearth. Dark and quiet, no sound but her own footsteps, her own breath.

But at least there was plenty of firewood.

---

Eilidh is very fortunate that Bruide spent as long as he did teaching Roan to keep her battle-madness under tight control, or this little meeting might have turned out very differently.

[applcrumbl]

Joy Rider

Just Friends

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader Warnings: Strong Language, Mention of abuse (no direct description, just in passing), Mention of ill mental health and suicidal thoughts, (again, only in passing), JJ just Pining over Reader. Word Count: 2K Author’s Note: please bare in mind that these are not chapters! You can read them however you like, skip the ones that don’t interest you etc. It’s okay not to read absolutely everything.

Summary: A glimpse into Reader and JJ’s friendship.

There is blue as far as she can see to one side, and the comforting scenes of Kildare island to the other. She can taste the salt from the ocean as it sprays her in its path up to the sandy shore. With it wafts the smell from the barbeque that her friends cook. She feels the cold water up to her knees, her inner thighs burning with friction from the board. Waves crash against sandy shores and the sound of gulls fly over her head. She sits on her board, back to the beach and once again in her own world.

It’s peaceful, relaxing, and exactly what she needs after a day out on the surf. The waves had died down now, so she only rocked gently on the water.

“Hey Reef,” John B shouts from the beach, tongs in hand like a proper BBQ dad, He calls louder, fighting against the sound of Kiara and Pope laughing, “Whaddya want? There’s a burger left?”

She doesn’t answer, not hearing the calls of her name from the coastline. 

“Y/N,” He tries again, to no avail, “Jesus Christ, will you go get her?”

“Why do I have to?” JJ asks, sipping his freshly opened beer, “I literally just dried off.”

“You’re still soaking wet.” Kiara deadpans, spooning coleslaw onto a paper plate.

JJ huffs and walks along the pier, handing his bottle to the girl before jumping off the end. He swims to her, hands clinging to her board for stabilisation.

JJ Maybank was a caring person, but never one that particularly showed it. He did everything for his friends, and would always be there for them, but he wouldn’t tell them that. He wouldn’t chase you up when you didn’t answer a message, but he would plan a stop past your house to invite you out. He wouldn’t specifically say to call him when you got home safe, but you’d know that you probably should. 

It was different with her, his twin flame, his best friend. They’d grown up together, she lived in the house next door to his. They were each other's first sleepover, first fight, first friend, first kiss - though She swears that hers was with Colton Ashby in the first grade.

She’d always been there, so there was no need for defensive JJ. She’d seen it all, and he’d seen all of her. Of course, there were secrets. She never knew how bad it got after his mother left, the bruises that littered his skin from the age of 13. He never knew about the nights she cried herself to sleep with the want to never wake up. But, neither of them felt like there was information lacking. They had one another, at any time, any place, any point.

He was more caring towards her than he ever had been towards the rest of the Pogues. And his opinions never changed when she moved from the cut to figure eight - despite his inherent hatred for the rich southern side of the island. He was happy that she’d crawled from the depths, and that her uncle had invited her to stay with him whilst her parents were gone. Gone where? Nobody knew. Yet she didn’t really care.

She was the glue that bound the group together. Without her, he never would have spoken to John B - much too territorial over his one best friend. If she hadn’t got her first job at Heywards, then Pope wouldn’t have been in the picture either. And even though he can’t quite remember how Kiara got involved, he’d happily put it down to her doing too. She was the exact definition of both a Kook and a Pogue.

He owed her everything, but she was the only person that he would ever let know that. But, even then his mouth kept shut.

“Foods ready,” he says, prodding her thigh on the open water, “time to come in.”

Her eyes don’t open, “Gimme 5 more Jayj”

“Dude, you’re literally turning into a prune,” he jokes, lifting her leg from the sea, toes wrinkled from the water, “Your age is finally catching up to the rest of us”

There were precisely 3 days of age between the pair of them, but JJ would never let her forget it. Probably because without her, then he’d be the youngest, and something about that just didn’t sit right with him.

“Stop, I'm gonna fall off my board,” She laughs, to which JJ makes a face, “Don’t-”

In one fell swoop, the blond lifts her leg higher, tipping over their buoyant aid, and knocking her into the water. She pops up from the depths, gasping for air.

He smirks, “I said it was time to go in”

The girl glowers at him, eyes thin and testing. She climbs back on the board and begins to paddle back to shore, leaving JJ in the sea.

“You can swim back yourself.” She shouts behind her.

-

“I don’t see what the problem is!”

“Of course, you don’t.”

“Then enlighten me, JJ.”

The Maybank boy scoffs, running his hand over an open jaw. “Colton Ashby?”

She doesn’t reply with words, instead an expression on her face. ‘Yeah, and?’ It reads, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide.

“He’s a Kook!”

“I’m a Kook?”

“You haven’t always been, you don’t count” He bats back her attempt to change the conversation topic, “I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Colton fucking Ashby. That is so dumb.”

Her eyes roll so hard to the back of her head that it looks as though they may never come back around again. “Oh my god!” She exasperates, “It is not dumb! It’s sweet, and I’m excited to go.”

JJ sits on her barely-made bed. Her family circumstance may have changed, and he uncle may have provided a new life for her, but nothing about the girl had changed. She was still the same messy teenager that she’d always been. She grabs the dress laid out on her desk chair. She was never one for dresses on a casual day, but that night felt special. She wanted to put in the effort.

“He was my first kiss, y’know” she points out, sliding into her bathroom to slip into her outfit. “It’s like a full circle moment.”

“First of all, he wasn’t your first kiss. I was. Second of all-”

“You were not my first kiss, stop saying that!”

“Uh, yes I was. We were 4 and sat on your old tyre swing.”

The bathroom door opens, and She steps out, clothes in hand. She dumps them in the hamper next to her. “I smell bullshit.” She sits at the vanity direct from the bed, watching JJ in the mirror. He takes in her floaty dress, almost shocked to see her ins something so, girly.

“I smell truth-shit” He tries to counteract but fails miserably. “So many women would kill to say that they kissed me. You should really jump on that. Maybe you’d get a better date than Colton Ashby”

She stops her lipgloss application to eye him in the mirror. “This is really bothering you.” She observes, smacking her lips together and reapplying the cap. 

“I don’t want my best friend running off with some Kook, just because he was her first kiss” He moans, throwing his body back onto her bed, “By that logic, you should be running away with me.”

‘Yeah and I’d bet you’d love that,” she replies, “Can you put this on me?

She holds out a necklace. Small, golden, expensive from afar. But, up close you could see where the colour was tarnishing, and the plastic seed dull. JJ had bought it for her 15th birthday. The first and only gift he’d actually bought her, not stolen. A cheap tourist shop shell pendant with a fake pearl in the middle. But she loved it.

And she was going to wear it on her date with one of the richest Kooks in Kildare.

JJ’s fingers struggle with the clasp for a while before it finally hooks to the small chain link. She adjusts the pendant on her chest, making sure it lines up perfectly with the V-neckline of her dress. She stands to observe herself in the mirror. “This is fine, right? We’re not going anywhere too fancy I think”

He can only stutter a response, still taken aback by the fact that she’s actually still going. Taken aback by the fact that she’s put effort into the way she looks, for him. There is a hint of jealousy too, but he swiftly ignores it. “Yeah, you, uh- You look great.”

“Man of many words, Jayj”

-

The date was fine, not that she was avoiding another opportunity to go out with the dark-haired boy, but not that she was gasping for one either. It was simply an experience that she had and one that she probably wouldn’t ask for again.

Colton was nice, he paid for their food, he picked her up and dropped her home. He even complimented her looks several times throughout the night. She was extremely flattered - but there was nothing else there.

You can really tell when you’re not into someone, because it doesn’t matter how kind they’re being, or attractive they are, or if you have boatloads in common, you will still only notice the negatives.  And they will still be made much bigger than they actually are. You will still ‘get the ick’

She hated the shoes he wore. They were too polished and clean. He had loose hair sticking from his gelled-back quiff. She didn’t like that he ordered wine for the table. He mentioned JJ’s necklace, and how it looked like it was a little past its prime. Albeit, this was his way of flirting - offering to buy her a brand new, more expensive one - but everything just rubbed her the wrong way. 

“So I doubt you’re meeting him again?” Kiara questioned, using the tree as an anchor to rock the hammock they were both laying in. 

“Yeah, definitely not.” She sighs, “Should’ve kept him as my first kiss and no more”

“JJ will be happy then.” Pope pipes up from the camping chair next to the hammock. His flat-brimmed cap was pulled down over his eyes to shield him from the sun.

Kie shoots him a look with her eyes that Y/N misses, it’s a shock that Pope catches it.

“How do you mean?”

Pope stutters, ”I just mean that he’s quite territorial,” His words are danced around, like he has more to say - but won't, “He likes his time with you, and a boyfriend would take that time away.”

She exhales through her nose, “Yeah, I suppose.”

A loud smash erupts from inside The Chateau, causing the three to jump. John B shouts out not to worry, and that JJ had just dropped a mug. They return back to the conversation.

“Man, that’s Y/N's favourite mug - she’s going to kill you” John B continues, directly to his friend, “You’re supposed to be courting the girl, not pushing her away”

“I’m not courting her, we’re just friends!” JJ exclaims, kneeling to pick up the broken shards of ceramic. Though John B was right on one thing, this was Y/N's favourite mug. “I’ve literally known her my whole life, it’s not like that”

“Are you sure? Cos, her date pissed you off a whole lot”

“Ashby’s just a dick. She can do better.” He explains, “Besides, the date didn’t even go well. She told me.”

A horn honks twice from outside, catching John B’s attention. He looks through the dusty panes of the window to see who it is.

“Is that why he’s just come to pick her up?”

JJ pushes past him, eager to get a glimpse from the window. John B laughs at him as Kiara climbs into the passenger seat of her mother’s car. JJ kisses his teeth, “Ha. Ha. Funny”

“Y’know for someone who is strictly friends with the girl, you sure care a lot about her being with anyone that isn’t you.”

A feminine voice calls his name from outside, and JJ jumps at the opportunity to answer it, practically sprinting outside at her back and call.

“And will jump to her every move.” He observes, speaking only to himself.

masterlist | taglist

[kudossi]

carry me to innisfree

She finds herself on a precipice, grass under her paws and gray sky overhead. The smell of salt and the sound of crashing waves fill her senses; her claws dig into sand-strewn soil; her fur lifts with the ocean breeze, strong and stalwart, whipping steadily away from the rising sun. Below her lies ocean, depthless and desperately, achingly blue; beyond her lies water, leaping endlessly toward the golden, rocky shore.

The sun-drown-place, she thinks, and feels at once the age of eight moons and eighty season-cycles. She reaches at once for Feathertail, dead for countless pawsteps; for Tawnypelt, buried seasons ago; for Stormfur, lost to the crags of the mountains; for Crowfeather, who had closed his eyes only moons ago and had never opened them again. She does not reach for Bramblestar; she does not question why. She simply exists, with the ghosts of her friends almost corporeal at her sides, and watches as the wind plays with the waves, salty ocean spray spattering at her paws.

A pale bird swoops overhead, white and soft, feathery gray; with a bolt of delight, Squirrelflight recognizes it as a gull. It had been so long since she had chased them over sand and into the waves, their calls echoing against rocky cliffs. Brambleclaw had snorted, unamused; Feathertail had joined her, swimming through whitecaps and pouncing clumsily on birds until, with the exaggerated air of someone too good for noisy, troublesome birds, she had pulled the largest fish Squirrelflight had ever seen from the waves.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Squirrelpaw had told her, laughing, as Feathertail struggled with a fish bigger than both cats combined.

“Better than looking like a drowned squirrel,” Feathertail had countered, and then Tawnypelt had joined the fray, chasing an odd-looking creature across the shore, all hard shell and hard, straight tail and weird, wiggly, bug-like legs.

“What is this place?” Stormfur had asked, tipping over a bug-prey of his own.

“I don’t know!” Squirrelpaw had replied, delighted, and gotten a mouthful of saltwater for her trouble. She sputtered and spat and dissolved into giggles, lungs seizing and aching and burning, happier than she’d ever been.

[spiritshaydra]

Oh yeah funny story

So I went on a field trip yesterday out to this field station on an island out in the hyper-saline lagoon that’s like,, right down the road to collect botanical samples for my wetland ecology lab.

Left a little while after 2pm.

We were on the island for about two hours collecting plants (and finishing the trip off with some king cake) before hopping back on the boat. It was about 4:30pm

So,, normal lab field trip right?

WRONG.

Our boat stops suddenly and a big plume of mud is sprayed out from behind the skiff. Not a good sign. Four guys hop out of the boat and start trying to push the boat free- Laguna Madre is VERY shallow, especially in this area since we weren’t where they had dredged it out for the larger ships, so the water was about knee deep where we got stuck.

We started moving again. Kinda. I see the guys get these poles out and start using them to turn the boat like those gondolas in Venice. (Sadly no accordion) Also not a good sign.

THEN the guy who was sitting at the wheel gets up and walks up to the front where we were sitting and pulls the anchor out, and then drops it out into the water. NOT A GOOD SIGN.

Then I hear my professor talking about calling the biology lab coordinator to figure out what the fuck to do, and then she’s on the phone with someone talking about how we need someone to come out and tow us back to the boat ramp. 💀

It’s 5:30pm now and the sun’s beginning to set. (And my other lab back on campus had just begun, which I obviously wasn’t able to attend unless I could teleport) My brother also happened to call me which I answered with a “hey you won’t be able to guess where the fuck I currently am.” Never a dull moment.

Another hour passes and FINALLY the lab tech guy shows up with another boat to tow us back (while wearing his Iron Maiden shirt like an absolute legend, we love lab tech guy) it’s now sunset and we’re finally moving. Slowly, but moving’s moving.

The sun set completely and I had dozed off a little as there really wasn’t much else to do. It was also COLD with the wind blowing off the water and the lack of sunlight. Thank GOD I decided to wear both my hoodie and wind breaker, along with a bandana to use as a scarf. Eventually we made it back to the boat ramp at around 7pm. So I’d finally be able to go back to my apartment and have some warm hot chocolaty goodness right?”

HA if only it was that easy.

It probably took them an hour to get the boats back onto their trailers because they kept loading them incorrectly and would have to retry. Me and some other classmates stood out in the cold for about fifteen minutes before we realized that we could hop in the van where it was warm, and wait in there. So that’s EXACTLY what we did. Luckily I packed some snacks because I thought it wouldn’t hurt to bring them along, so I just kinda,,, passed around a bag of trail mix.

Something something hour later we get back to campus at like 8pm where I was finally able to go back to my dorm. (My wonderful roommate brought me hot chocolate bless her)

Anyways I’m tired <33

TLDR: Went on what should’ve been a three hour long field trip for hehe swamp science fun times and our boat's steering went out so we were strANDED FOR TWO FUCKING HOURS IN THE LAGOON. We were out in the sun for like five hours and gone for six. I love being a stem major <333 yippee!!

(For those biology nerds out there we saw mullets jumping out of the water, sea grass beds, black mangroves, various salt flat succulents, stupid plant with wickedly sharp thorns that ripped apart the sample bag it was in, wolf berries, mosquitoes, a tiger moth caterpillar, turkey vultures, dolphins, brown and white pelicans, mosquitoes, a crested caracara, tons of laughing gulls, great blue herons, mosquitoes, egrets, white ibises, cormorants, and black tipped skimmers.)