#salt spray and gulls

[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.

[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

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—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Salt [Frankie 'Catfish' Morales]

a/n: this is a very special thing for a very special person in my life. a person who willingly endures my rants probably every single day, with whom i agree to disagree 75% of time, who probably thinks i am the most annoying millenial she knows and still tolerates me, the person who just knows how to get my attention (thanks for the every single javi pic and gif you've sent me... yes, even that one—you know which one). love you several trips to the moon and back, i am so glad i know you and i get to have the privilege to call you my friend. SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY @pedroschka!!!! thank you for your amazingness, for being so kind to me and not blocking me at least 8282742624 times, for every potd and for being you.

pairing: frankie 'catfish' morales x reader

wordcount: 1.3K

The world is still mostly shadows as Frankie navigates the narrow trail down to the beach—the dainty necklace weighing like a piece of lead in the pocket of his hoodie. The salty air fills his lungs, cool and crisp, as he breathes deeply, trying to settle the nerves fluttering in his stomach.

He spots you near the water's edge, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins.

Waiting. Watching the horizon. 

Unable to resist, Frankie stops and takes a moment to watch you. Allows his fingers to twitch at his sides. Feels the need to run them through his hair; a anxious habit he's never quite been able to shake. 

Something clenches in his chest and he almost turns back, suddenly unsure if he should intrude on your solitude. It feels like a moment too private, too intimate, and the last thing he wants is to disrupt the peace you’ve found here. 

But it's your birthday. And he's here now.

So Frankie inhales before he starts walking again.

Ocean spray and damp soil.

Summer.

You don't turn at his approach, though surely you hear him. So, uninvited, he settles beside you, leaving a deliberate foot of distance between you. Drapes his arms over his knees. Stares at the violet and tangerine sky. Tries to ignore how his pulse quickens at your closeness and how his skin tingles with awareness.

"Didn't think anyone else would be up." His voice is low, rough with sleep and something else, something he's not quite ready to name. 

You give him a sideways glance. The wind teases strands of hair across your cheek, and his fingers itch to brush them back, to feel the silk of them against his skin. 

Instead, he curls his fingers into his palms. Looks away.

"Couldn't sleep." You exhale more than speak. Shifting, the sand whispers beneath you. "Thought I'd watch the sunrise. Don't have the chance to do this back at home."

Frankie hums. Squints at the smudge of gold and purple lining the clouds, the light seeping into the sky like watercolour. His thumb rubs over his knuckles in a soothing manner. Once. Twice. A repetitive motion that does little to calm the riot of feelings in his chest, the ones he's been trying to ignore for longer than he cares to admit.

Silence stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, broken only by the rhythmic whisper of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull. His heart thuds against his ribs. He takes a breath. Holds it. Releases it slowly.

"Happy birthday." It comes out gruffer than he intends, the words catching in his throat. He clears it. Tries again. "I, uh. Got you something."

Your head turns, and he feels the weight of your gaze like a touch. Frankie can't meet it as he reaches into his pocket. Pulls the necklace.

It gleams against his calloused palm, the silver catching the light. A small paw, intricately carved, each line and curve carefully etched into the metal. He'd spotted it two towns back, in a tiny shop with a weathered awning and a tinkling bell above the door. Something about it had made him think of you. Made him remember every single time you mentioned rescuing a cat, despite knowing that your landlord won’t be happy about it.

Frankie braves a look. Finds you staring at the necklace. At him. Eyes wide. Lips parted on a silent exhale.

"It's beautiful." Barely a whisper, the words trembling slightly in the space between you. He swallows. Nods. Tries to ignore the way his heart trips at the wonder in your voice. The way it swells and expands until it feels too big for his chest.

"Thought you might like it." He shrugs. Rubs the back of his neck. Feels the heat creeping up from beneath his collar. "I know it's not much, but–-"

"I love it." Soft. Sincere. His heart stumbles, misses a beat, then kicks back into rhythm, faster than before. "Can you...?"

You turn, gathering your hair over one shoulder, baring the column of your neck. His mouth goes dry at the sight, at the vulnerability and trust in the gesture.

He hesitates. Licks his lips. Scoots closer, until his knees brush your side. Until he can feel the heat of you through the worn denim.

The clasp is small. Finicky. His fingers feel too big, too clumsy, and he curses under his breath as he fumbles with it. You laugh quietly, a soft huff of air that he feels whisper across his knuckles, and the sound settles deep in his chest, warm and sweet. He feels it down to his toes, a tingle that spreads through his limbs like honey.  

Finally, the clasp closes with a tiny snick. His fingertips linger on your nape a moment longer than necessary, brushing against the baby-fine hair at her hairline. You shiver, a barely-there tremble that he feels echo through him, and he pulls away before he can do something stupid, like press his lips to the spot where his fingers just lingered.

You face him again, and the little paw rests just below the hollow of your throat, a glint of silver against your skin. It rises and falls with each breath you take, and he finds himself mesmerised by the motion, by the steady beat of your pulse just above it.

"Thank you." Your smile is soft, eyes shining with an emotion he can't quite name, but feels mirrored in his own chest.

He meets your gaze. Nods. Finds you gazing at him. A gentle curve ghosts her mouth.

And just like that, something passes between you. An understanding. Acknowledgment. Fragile and nameless, but no less powerful for it. Frankie looks down. Clears his throat. Feels the moment stretch and hold, suspended in the honey-thick air.

His chest aches. Expands. Like it can't quite contain everything he's feeling. But it is a sweet ache, one he welcomes. One he wants to hold onto and examine in the light of day.

Understanding dawns. Quiet. Inevitable.

Oh. There it is.

He's in love with you.

Has been for a while now, if he's honest with himself. Maybe years. And now he knows. Recognizes it. Can't unknown it. Wouldn't want to..

Frankie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as the realisation sinks in. 

Well damn, he thinks, isn't that something. 

And when he looks at you again, you're already grinning at him, nose scrunched in that adorable way that makes his heart stutter and soar. The little silver paw glints at your throat, a symbol of his affection, and suddenly everything feels right. It's good. It's okay. 

So, he lets his smile reach his eyes, crinkling the corners as he beams back at you. Laughter bubbles up inside him, unrestrained and infectious, and he can't help but let it out. Soon, you're laughing too, the sound mingling with his in the salty air. 

Bumping your shoulder with his, Frankie feels you lean into him, fitting yourself against his side like you belong there. 

And maybe you do. Maybe you both do belong to one another. 

Yeah, he thinks as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. 

You definitely do.

[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...

[camille-lachenille]

Sea Longing

I stand on the cliff, motionless, one with the wind. The salted wind plays with my hair, tangling it like an octopus’ tentacles. I breath in deeply, revelling in the smell of water, seaweed, salt.

The Sea calls to me, I can hear it in the rushing of the waves on the beach below me, in the laughter of the gulls above my head, in the restless roaring of wind and water blurring the edges of the world. As far as my gaze reaches there are only deep, shimmering blue and greens, burning orange and red and a hundred hues as the Sun sinks below the horizon.

I stand here as the Sea darkens, a mirror of the skies above, as stars and the Moon glimmer on the dark surface like jewels. I long to reach out with my hand a pluck one out of the waters, tuck it in my hair like some bright flower. The Sea calls to me in the deep of the night, whispering promises of home on the far shore, out of my sight.

But, despite the crushing ache in my chest that steals my breath away and the insistent pull that sometimes leads me to wade as far as I can into the waves in hopes to reach this hither shore, I know deep in my heart I yearn for an impossible dream; for the way across the Sea is forever barred to me, and I have only this endless song to soothe my pain and the salt of mingled tears and spray on my lips to quench this burning thirst.

And yet, despite this cruel taunting, I ever loved the Sea and my heart will always belong to it.

[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.

[applcrumbl]

Joy Rider

Just Friends

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Original Female Character 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 Avery. 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 Arden 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. Arden 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 Denny,” 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. 

“Arden,” 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 Arden, 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, Arden living in the house next door to his. They were each other's first sleepover, first fight, first friend, first kiss - though Arden 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 Arden 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 Arden’s 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 Arden 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?”

Arden 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.”

Arden’s 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. Arden 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 Arden 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 Arden 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. Arden 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 Arden 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’

Arden 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 Arden 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.” Arden 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 Arden 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.”

Arden 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 Arden’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 Arden’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.)

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Four: Dissonant Whispers

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

✨Next Chapter ✨Full Chapter List✨BG3 Fic Masterlist ✨

Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

That mouth can do both. When he’s motivated to. When he wants to. When he wants something, Astarion can be whatever he needs to be. Except for now. He grows sheepish, beneath her skewering stare. Astarion breaks his gaze away with a little huff that’s somewhere between a snicker and sigh. “Maybe you’re right,” she says, with a softness that turns his cheek her way again. Her eyes flit, briefly, to the settle of his drying curls around his ears.

Chapter CW: Companion/Origin character death in this chapter. I promise character death isn’t going to be a common occurrence,

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Naomi’s legs dangle free from her perch on the cliffside. She rolls a new flute in her fingertips, acquainting her skin with the semi-smooth feel of it. Gulls banter between the crash of waves. Each ocean spray carries the sharpness of salt and the sour odor of fish gone foul.

She hadn’t noticed the stench, yesterday, when they found Alfira not much further up the slope. It seems the sweetness of the shore died with her.

Wyll, Gale, and Lae’zel found another cave. This one, unoccupied. They stayed to stake out their new camp while Naomi, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion doubled back to the grove for supplies -- a new bardic implement among them.

It’s a crude thing, whittled down from the tusk of a boar. It doesn’t sound as pretty as her old one. At least it’s yet to snap in half.

The four of them take their rations overlooking the beach, strewn over the sun-drenched rocks. Karlach leans back, feet bouncing in a private rhythm she never seems to shake. Shadowheart is sullen as she stares down some unseen affront in the middle-distance. And Astarion is splayed over the stones, eyes shut to thin slits. Basking again. Like a damn cat.

Bastard. She could’ve said it. Could’ve said something back at least half as sharp as what he staked her with.

She could’ve. But then, she’d be a hypocrite. Naomi’s lost count of the times she’s tried to tell herself the same things Astarion said so succinctly.

It’s not your fault. Her fingertips brush the scar across her nose. Good gods, get over it.

Alfira was someone she barely knew. She just happened to be the one who opened the gates Naomi had been bracing shut. Music flooded in, and magic with it. Life anew sparked in her veins, and death chased closed on its heels.

There’s never light without shadow. Even in the surface world, soaked in the sun. There’s no more song breaking on the rocks with the waves. No bard dressed in motley, bent by grief over her lute. Only the incessant squawking of birds.

Alfira didn’t deserve her brutal end. Life’s not in the business of doling out deserved ends. That’s the sort of thing Wyll might believe. Or even Gale. But not Naomi. And not Astarion. Not one of them sitting on these rocks, come to think of it.

‘Deserved ends’ are the sort of thing dealt by dumb luck, enterprising hands, and lashing tongues.

Karlach’s feet grow still. She sits up abruptly. “Do you hear that?”

Naomi shields her eyes, squints, and catches sight of distant wings. By the looks of it, the birds have gone to battle over a fish. Their screeches are grating and guttural. Raucous flapping sullies the quiet rush of the tide.

“It’s beautiful,” Astarion whispers, reverent. Naomi ogles at him. His eyes glaze with wonder. His body rises, fluid, as if adrift on a daydream.

Gods below, if that’s his standard, then what does that say about her? The other night, when he said her voice was stunning, Naomi didn’t care that all his other words were half-truths or hollow. She was seen. She was heard. For a whole fucking year, she hadn’t let herself--

“I need to see them,” Shadowheart gasps breathlessly. “The singers.”

“Yes,” Karlach echoes, distant, “we need to go to them.”

Naomi snorts. “It’s a fucking racket, what’s wrong with--”

They rise in unison, legs jerking of their own accord, faces slack and slap-happy. Drunk on nothing at all but damnable noise.

“--you?”

Before she can blink, they’re bumbling down the slope, limp bodies tugged along by a rope unseen.

Naomi’s eyes dart to the beach below. They’re not the only ones set for the shore. Bile burns at the back of her throat. A little tiefling boy wades into the shallows. A new scream scythes the air. The water buffets beneath the beat of wings.

Not birds, after all. Not with gnarled bodies, masked faces, and a call like that.

Shit. Shit. Naomi springs to a stand and sprints for the water.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” She spits, but she wrings out the magic tingling in her fingers before it can take. Not yet. She’s too far away.

The little tiefling boy is nearly too far gone. Water laps at his waist. He cranes his chin towards the sky. Screeches scrape the cliffside. Four harpies hover above.

Sand slows Naomi’s stride. The water clouds with it, waves slapping at her companions’ sides as they saunter in. Black talons glint with sunlight as they arc forward and strike.

No! No! Naomi skids to a stop. “ENOUGH NOISE!”

The spell shreds from her throat like a score of claws. It tastes of blood, metallic and tangy. But it’s blissful, it’s blessed, it’s sacred, and it’s sweet. Silence shelters the shore in a shimmering dome. Sound shivers, harmless, across the surface. It reflects back in faint colors, like the rainbow sheen of a soap bubble. And it bounds away again, unheard.

She can’t hear the harpies choke, but seeing is good enough. Their gangly bodies buckle, staggering backwards as the tethers they’d sung snap free. Her companions, too, fumble their footing, dazed. Their features harden with clarity, consciousness. And then, intent. Fury.

Shadowheart draws back from the dome. Righteous retribution shoots from her hands in a brilliant bolt of light. Astarion takes aim after, while the harpy still simmers from Shadowheart’s spell. His arrow sinks the ‘fowl wretch’. Or, maybe it’s his punishing pun that does it.

He doesn’t say his quip out loud. The tadpole thrums in her skull and in the others’, tying together their thoughts, even now, even in Silence. Naomi snorts. The others don’t hear it, but she knows they feel her rebuke just the same.

Well, at least he doesn’t save his cutting words just for her. Naomi uses hers to save him from the scratch of talons raking towards his torso. She steps from the Silence, flutes a few taunting notes, and smirks as the harpy tears through violet, misty magic instead of an arrogant elf.

Movement darts in her periphery. Karlach is a flaming blur. The acrid stench of singed skin follows in her wake. Feathers and flame whirl with a ripping caterwaul.

Naomi’s spots a far smaller figure cowering in the heart of the storm. The tiefling boy’s mouth parts, tears streaming from his eyes. She pants, winded, as if his muted scream punched through her own chest. Mottled wings unfurl behind him, blotting out the sun and bathing the boy in shadow. Naomi surges forward.

She wraps her arms around the boy and drags him towards shore. Wild, wide eyes gaze up at her in terror. I’ve got you, Naomi says, but it stays stuck in her mouth.

An arrow cuts past them. Followed by a sunburst. Followed by a burst of wild, untamed heat.

Sound floods her again. Naomi and the boy find footing on the sand. She’s soaked. In water, in shrill, piercing cries, in gasps for air that aren’t her own. The boy breaks from her grip, pelting for cliffs and the grove beyond them. Naomi follows his path with her eyes while the harpies’ death throes spear her ears. She makes no move to follow after him. He fades from view as the last gag of life leaves the creatures for good.

Good. He’s safe. Naomi heaves a sigh like a boulder rolled uphill. Good.

“See,” Astarion huffs, still managing to sound smug even while breathless. “This is why I do so adore the bard you are, and loathe the cleric you aren’t.”

She smiles, and it’s effortless. Astarion’s answering smirk tries to be sultry. And it would be. Were it not for his once-curly hair hanging limp over his brow like a wet, bedraggled mop.

Naomi shakes with caged laughter. He’s soaked worse than she is, and suddenly far more sour. She never knew how much of him was really just hair, until now, when she sees it plastered to his cheeks. He’s so much shorter when he’s sopping.

A snicker spurts out of her. It wins her a scowl.

“Interesting,” Shadowheart comments dryly. “Looks like you don’t need any healing after all, Astarion.”

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, dear.”

“He’s right, though,” Karlach says gently, sloshing towards the sand. “You’re exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The harpies had no hope of holding you, did they?” Shadowheart says, eying Naomi keenly. “You couldn’t hear their song, could you? You could only hear what it really was.”

Naomi’s laughter settles in her chest. Her eyes wander to the water again. Feathers drift and settle with the blood and corpses on the surface. What macabre confetti they’ve left behind. Her smile dissolves.

Naomi can still hear it. It’s far fainter in her head than before. Still, the song she does and doesn’t know plays on. And she still doesn’t know what it is.

“I’ll meet you back by the grove,” Naomi says with an affable shrug. “Try not to die without me.”

Astarion’s indignation slaps across the cliffs as she goes.

“Wait, you’re not serious?! Shadowheart--! But I’m hurt!”

Her restless feet take her to where they found Alfira. She toes the dirt, but she doesn’t rest where the tiefling did, with her lute on her lap and her head in her hands. Naomi toys with her new flute, flipping it in her grip.

No peace for Alfira. No rest for Naomi.

And, Naomi thinks, with a deep breath, no more sulking, when she skulks away from here. That’s not going to bring the other bard back. It’s like Astarion said.

It’s just going to get someone else killed.

She peers down at the grove, and the tieflings milling about beyond its tangled edges. Her smile flickers to life once more. There’s the boy they saved, down there, dripping over the stone steps. He gestures with wild, windmilling arms for a pair of his peers. They stiffen, bound in suspense by his tale of mortal peril and daring rescue.

A tale for the ages. One he lives to tell.

Chattering interrupts her piece of peace-after-all. A flash of fur catches Naomi’s eye. She turns, too late. Teeth jab at her feet.

“Oh for the love of -- really?”

She kicks. The squirrel flattens to the tree bark with a sickening splat. Her next breath is a horrified choke.

“Do you always face such fearsome foes?”

Naomi’s teeth grate. Of course he saw that. Astarion’s eyes gleam with the glee of an inside joke. One she’s the victim of, maybe. She hadn’t heard him coming, otherwise occupied as she was.

He’s nowhere near dry, but his hair is freshly slicked. It sets in steely, glistening ringlets. He’s stripped off his doublet. He should’ve lost the shirt beneath it, too, for all the good it’s doing him. The white fabric clings, translucent, like a second skin.

As he nears her, she picks up a scent that doesn’t blend with stale seafood or hacked up harpy. A tang of citrus.

Naomi meets his gaze evenly and says, without enmity, “Do you always salt every wound you see, or only when you want something?”

She follows the shape of his swallow in the brief pause he didn’t rehearse. He recovers smoothly a beat later.

“I want what all of us do: to survive this little adventure. It’s nothing…personal, darling.”

It’s not unkind. It’s nowhere near an apology. He knows it. He’s not sorry. But for once, maybe he’s telling her the blunt truth and not just candied twists of it.

Except, this isn’t the only adventure he’s trying to survive. Last night, by the firelight, he’d hinted at more. Came close and cozy with the notion of warming her to…something else. Seeing more of her, he said. The real her. Showing her around the surface.

Because he wants what anyone does: survival.

Whatever else Astarion’s survived, it’s what he hopes to survive still that has him scared. Scared enough to be thinking about it, even with a tadpole in tow. Even more than the tadpole in tow. He’s scared enough to play her harsh or heated or heartfelt to suit his need for someone to hide behind. Whatever manipulation game he means to play, it must seem a small evil to whatever fear towers so tall over his head.

“I am so very relieved to see you so inspired,” Astarion says, chipper. “And inspiring others once again. Perhaps we’re learning from each other. Perhaps we’ve more to learn from each other, before these wretched worms are no longer in our heads, hm?”

His words are steeped in semi-sweetness again. Promises. Innuendo. The carrot to the stick he spoke and stabbed with this morning.

That mouth can do both. When he’s motivated to. When he wants to. When he wants something, Astarion can be whatever he needs to be.

Except for now. He grows sheepish, beneath her skewering stare. Astarion breaks his gaze away with a little huff that’s somewhere between a snicker and sigh.

“Maybe you’re right,” she says, with a softness that turns his cheek her way again. Her eyes flit, briefly, to the settle of his drying curls around his ears.

She feels his gaze between her shoulder blades as they take to the forest path once more. She doesn’t need to look to know he’s looking, long after she’s paid him another glance.

Naomi can do both, too. And more.

She can lash her tongue, and have it strike like a whip. When they join with the others again, and make their way to the blighted village, she wields it, and the goblins bow to the weight.

“You’ll address me properly.”

“O-Of course, True Soul,” the goblin stammers, sniveling.

She can move her mouth and part an army. Not in the name of Eilistraee, or any other gods. In her very own.

Bugbears bar the bridge into the goblins’ stronghold, bristling and brandishing crude clubs embellished with spikes.

“Move,” she says. And they do at once.

Naomi doesn’t notice when her grip grows light. An invisible force swipes the reins from her, so skillfully, she could never have known the difference. Not until they’re halfway across the bridge into the heart of the goblins’ throng.

Naomi’s vision splits into veins of black and white. The whip cracks. Her back bends. And every one of them bows to the stone, shivering.

Groveling, to the will of the Absolute.

It’s the artifact that saves them. That metal sphere is a hero they know nothing about, gone to battle against a foe they can hardly fathom. Her words and wit have nothing to do with what allows them to dust off and carry on across the bridge.

Hundreds await them, within the fortress and without. The courtyard teems with hunger. Naomi sees it in the sheen of beady eyes, pointed teeth, and jagged spears. Something the smoked meats and barreled booze can’t stave off. Violent delight in violent ends. Barely restrained, and begging to burst free.

Her ‘bardest behavior’ could bid the goblins to make way for a band of so-called ‘True Souls’. But Naomi’s words and wit taste dull, at the tip of her tongue. Aftershocks of their unseen assault throb through her skull. Ripples of fear, like static, stand the hairs over her arms.

Her lips could tremble. Her voice might crack. Her limbs hang gangly and weak from the psychic beating they suffered. Bloated in the back of her mind, there’s a part of her that isn’t anything near weak at all. Some facsimile of what was wielded against them. She feels the tadpole unfurl just as she’s about to speak.

And with it comes obedience. Power. Authority.

After, her tongue still tingles with it. Broken is the spell of the Absolute, or rather, stolen. The tadpole recedes with a pleasant, tickling hum. Naomi takes the reins again. Soon enough, nothing needs to leave her lips at all. Doors ground open at their mere approach. Her commands are answered before she can utter them. And the ones she does speak are taken with the utmost dedication.

She tells Loviataor’s priest “hit harder,” and they both learn a new meaning for the words. Black, blue, and violet burst across her vision, like the soon-to-bloom bruises mark even the insides of her eyes. For a second, one blessed second, she doesn’t hear whatever haunted song won’t leave her head. Just a piercing, drowning chime.

Naomi blinks the burn from her eyes and finds Astarion basking again. Not in the sun or stars. In the wake of her.

She gives him a grin that tastes like blood. The flavor lingers when she swallows. “Having fun, are we?”

His eyes are glistening rubies in the torchlight, awash in dark delight. When he smirks, the flame glints off his teeth. “Not as much as you are, darling.”

Naomi doesn’t need the tadpole to talk Volo out of his cage, or to coax where they’re holding Halsin out of their apparent underlings. By the time they leave the fortress, and the sun leaves the sky, the only one who hasn’t budged or bent an inch is the githyanki boring holes into Naomi’s head with a scintillating stare.

“You would lend more of your mind to the ghaik worm?” Lae’zel spits. “Let it speak for you? Think for you? Tsk’va! One would think you all too eager to surrender yourself. One would think you’ve already none of your own mind left to salvage!”

Astarion utters a tired hum. “Oh, you’re a bore. It’s not like she sprouted tentacles. If it’s a power we have, it’s a power we should use.”

“One would think,” Shadowheart says tersely, “that one might be grateful for Naomi’s prowess in persuasion, and her willingness to do whatever it takes to get us to our cure. We’re closer to it, thanks to her.”

“Our cure is with the crèche!”Lae’zel snaps.

“Your crèche’s idea of a cure is likely slitting our throats on sight!”

Naomi drifts, distant, from their bickering. It’s a tired argument, one that snowballs at an alarming yet predictable pace. Instead, she thinks of tomorrow.

They’ll move at dawn, when the drunk are still sleeping. When the guard is lower and the guards are fewer. They know the layout now. They know where Halsin is caged, in the shape of a bear.

What happens when they spring him free could be chaos. It could be quiet as a dagger in the dark. But it will be bloody. And they won’t be able to scrub the stains out of their ‘True Soul’ veneer once they’ve set.

It could be, they’ll have to kill hundreds of goblins. Astarion could be right: it could take hours. Or, their little party could all be dead in a matter of minutes.

So, they’ll strike sure and true. On a full night’s rest with a full night’s magic. For now, they make their way to camp again, under cover of night with their cover still intact.

A stranger in their path stays their steps. Their rest, it seems, will need to wait. Naomi’s hands twitch towards her rapier. It stays sheathed at her hip, for now. The stranger doesn’t bear any weapons except for his sly smile.

And a lullaby.

“The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then, down came the--”

“--claw, and that, love, was that. You needed a dramatic entrance to spout children’s rhyme from Cormyr?” Naomi’s fingers fold around the rapier’s handle. Behind her, she hears the others take to arms.

The stranger isn’t moved. He lays a hand to his heart beneath his frilled collar. “Is the entertainer not entertained? Well, far be it from me to disappoint. How about a song for the…reluctant bard?”

The ‘r’ rolls off his tongue like a snarl. Still, he smiles. And then, he sings:

“And when she laid her gaze on me,

I felt myself undone,

For whatever I had been before,

Was gone to dust forevermore…”

His fingers pinch and part in a crumbling motion. It takes every ounce of will for Naomi’s knees not to crumble, too. Her throat stings, dry as bone.

“Well,” he drawls, “it seems I’ve struck you speechless. An introduction, then, while you search for your voice: I am Raphael. Very much at your service.”

Very much a devil. Very hungry for the souls of the so-called True Souls. Flames dance in the blacks of his true eyes, his real form unfurled. As he speaks his verses and his schemes, Naomi’s heart sinks.

He asks: “What’s better than the devil you don’t know?”

She’d rather not know. She’d rather not feel the dread weight making stones of her feet. She doesn’t know how.

But Naomi knows him. In her chest, in something locked there tightly, she knows him. And Raphael knows a song she wrote for one person only. A song she never sang to another soul.

It’s all she can think of, long after they’ve left his lavish hall. She’d guess the same of the others, if she could spare them half a thought. All of them are sunken in silence, taken to their own tents and their own solitude. Contemplating what a devil’s deal might mean for their own ends, and if it’s something they’re willing to add to their own means.

Naomi just thinks of Melle. Of the woman she was, the scar she became, and the song Naomi wrote with the hope of a different ending. The song she wrote for the two of them, before she knew the ending.

Her eyes droop, but she doesn’t dare to sleep. Nightmares might mutilate her memories. Make up newer monsters and fresher terrors. At least, in trance, it’s only old ones she’s fought before. It’s the safer bet.

Tonight, it’s a losing one.

Heat prickles against her cheek. A log snaps then cracks on the smooth swell of a violin. Naomi’s eyes wrench open.

She sees it again, as it was, when all of them were whisked into Raphael’s House of Hope. Velvet drapes hang heavy over rounded archways. Wrought iron criss-crosses the narrow windows. Light leaks between, flushing the tiles in a rosy glow and leaving a sheen on the brass mouldings. As if there’s a hearth without as well as within.

There’s a devil looming over her, as well as casting a long shadow before her. Raphael’s portrait hangs above his hall like the sun hangs in the sky. Naomi fans her face with her hand, feeling faint as the air crackles.

It doesn’t help that she's in a damn gown. It’s cinched at her waist, where near-black feathers flow up in a vee over her breasts to flare just off her shoulders. A silk skirt pours down her legs, leaving a pool of midnight blue gathering at her feet. Firefly hints of silver glint in the dark of it.

Nothing chains her to her chair, but the fabric weighs her like an anchor. Try as she may, Naomi can’t will one muscle to move. She’s seated with her back towards the table, and all its sweet and savory delights piled high on silver platters. Her mouth waters all the same. Hunger twists in her gut like a rag wrung out to dry.

Naomi faces Raphael, in his true flesh, silhouetted against the fireplace. This time, she’s alone in the devil’s home. This time, Raphael speaks only for her.

His black eyes fix to her in a pitying gaze, lips puckered in a pout. “You thought the sunlight would burn it out of you. You thought your goddess could still save you. You’re on the road to Baldur’s Gate now with the hope, oh…” he inhales, eyes fluttering shut. His lips quiver with the pause, relishing his own sudden suck of breath as if it were stoked by the lips of a lover. “...the hope that the city will drown it out of you. Or, drown you for good. Which do you wish for more, I wonder?”

Yes, the city. She’s leaving for the city tomorrow. To see Baldur’s Gate. To see more of the surface than the inside of a tavern tucked away in a hamlet no one’s heard of. To see if what they say is true of the sea: that it can heal. To see if she can--

Raphael leans low before her. His breath reeks of brimstone. “There is nothing and no one in that cesspool that will save you.”

He draws away again, and draws a knife from behind his back. Naomi shivers, even as she sweats.

“So I offer it to you again, my wicked one: salvation,” he says with a sneer, circling her chair to survey the bounty spread across his table. “The sweetest you could dream of in this life you’ve been gifted. This life you’ve yet to pay for.”

Naomi’s lips move, even though she doesn’t make them. Even though she couldn’t make them move again, even if she tried. “No.”

“Deny me and deny yourself,” he says, unperturbed. “Deny the very sacrifice that led to you. One day, you’ll have to pay for it.”

Naomi shifts around in her seat so she can see him before she’s forced to stillness again. Raphael wields the carving knife like it's a wand. She watches the glinting tip of it, spellbound.

He pulls a platter forward. It holds a succulent turkey, crisp skin glazed brown with butter and herbs. Her stomach growls. Unbidden, her tongue swipes across her lips.

“It doesn’t have to hurt,” he says in a sizzling whisper. “It doesn’t have to be another year of songless, sleepless nights, spent shivering, quivering. You did that to yourself.”

The knife dips, and for a blink, the bird's flesh only bends. A futile resistance. The next drag of the blade is effortless. Juices stream from the puncture, red and raw. Naomi feels the seeping as if it’s over her own scalp. Even the air is thick with it. Wet with it.

“...all because, dear wicked one, you deny yourself your violent delights.”

Naomi grips the edge of the chair only to find her knuckles knotting in something cold and damp. She flinches. But it's only dirt her hands are burrowed in. It's only grass she's sitting in. Not some gaudy, gothic hall, overflowing with a decadent bounty, forbidden fruits, and--

And a song. A song she knows, so keenly. It needles her temples. Traipses at the tip of her tongue. It darts away at the slightest hint of a grip. How the fuck does it go?

A chill nips sharply near Naomi’s neck. Only moments before, she was sweltering. Now, she shivers. She quivers. Naomi’s trance breaks in fever sweat slicked over her skin, cut short to the sound of blade scraping free.

Her heartbeat chases after her wayward breath and her racing mind. She’s not asleep. It wasn’t a dream. She was in a trance.

It’s a memory.

Raphael’s nowhere to be seen, though the scent of soot and stone still scorches Naomi’s nose. The only one she sees now is Lae’zel. The githyanki doesn’t speak in poetry like the devil does. She speaks like an epitaph. The sword in her grip knows only one spell: finality. Her yellow eyes are hardened with it.

“I can see it in you,” Lae’zel breathes. “I feel it in me. The change is imminent, as is our doom.”

“No,” Naomi rasps, frailer than she means to. “The druid will help us. We can still fight this. We--”

“We are lost.”

Steel flashes like lightning before her eyes. Naomi’s heartbeat thunders after. Her throat sears. And then it’s wet. Warm. Choking around a swell of thickness.

Lae’zel slumps, limp, into Naomi’s lap. Astarion draws back his dagger, wiping his blade in the grass. Dark scarlet streaks through the green.

A/N: I’m so sorry Lae’zel, my beloved <3 It hurt my heart to let her go, but this is similar to how it happened in my first playthrough, and I wanted to keep the spirit of that story in this one, even with tweaking the details a bit. In my original run, I did a dumb thing and went along with Lae’zel because I assumed she was just testing me. I, uh, thought wrong. Everyone else had to kill her and she wouldn't come back, so I had to wait until my second playthrough to get to enjoy her and all her glory.

Some spooky things starting up in this one. Next one is gonna be juicy ;) Thank you so, so much for reading. And I hope life is being kind to you <3

Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics.

[ordonianhero]

Inspired by: @dragonknightcal

Genre: hurt/comfort/sick/fluff/angst

Characters: Legend/Sky/Warriors

Rated: T- for some well stuff. You’ll see. It’s safe, just be warned.

Notes: italic colored text are dream states.

—————————————————

~Legend: concussed~

With a swing of a large club being held, the Vet not having time to get out of the way or block. Was smacked in the head by it. He flew back against a tree. His visioned blurred as he watch his teammates fight off the bokoblin that had shattered him. His mind become fuzzy as his whole body slipped away. Into nothingness.

Blood tricked down the side of his face. His eyes shut, head drooped. His body then begin seizing. Just as the Captain came running to help him. Followed by Hyrule. The veteran begin gurgling and mumbling. It was a scary sight to see. The Captain gently laid the Veteran down and place a piece of cloth to prevent Legend possibly biting his own tongue. The Healer in their group quickly making way with potions.

The others came over to see how they could help. Hyrule however suggested they give them space and just set up camp for the day. Too many of them were injured in this battle. Sky and four helped setting up Legend’s bedroll, as the Captain brought him there. Hyrule dabbed a cool cloth to wash away the blood. Then piping a cork of potion. The Captain helping carefully sitting the vet up so he wouldn’t choke on it. Removing the cloth and then helping get the potion in his system. The vet’s body going limp. Seizing dying down.

He gently laid his back down and placed a cool rag on the veteran’s forehead. Wild, once tended to his own injuries, went quickly about making up a meal to help. Wind ended up burying himself into the Rancher. Terrified at witnessing the scene before him. Mostly all the younger hero’s have seen what a concussed person looks like, even through the many battles they have been in. Time though equally worried for their young hero, was trying to maintain a calm demeanor and help get others the focus on camp set up. He walked over the the Captain and placed a gentle hand. Hyrule looking up at there leader.

“How is he?”

“He’s out for now, but we will need to keep a close eye on him if things change. We manage to get a potion in him to help. However we wont know till he finally wakes.” Responded Hyrule. As warriors went to check the Older teen’s pulse. It was slower then he’d like.

“Mar…in…gulls.” Mumbled the Veteran in his deep slumber.

The trio looking down at him. Then at each other.

“Yeah he may talk in his concussed state. He has no clue what he is talking about.” Replied the Healer.

“Wait. So like he could be talking in his sleep but make no sense of it?” Asked the Captain.

“Well, um yeah. But its all non-sense stuff. Don’t take what he said for fact.” Hyrule explained to them.

“Drats.” Snickered the Captain. Which earned him a very stern look by their elder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The warm beach breezed washed over him. The scent of the ocean salty water spray with the mixture topical flowers. The sea gulls crying above, waves crashing to the beach. The soft feeling of sand on his palm of his hands. Other sound of animal life in the tropical zone. The palm trees blowing. He feels a soft touch of someone brushing his cheek, followed by a beautiful sing voice. His eye fluttering open as he stared up at the person whom owned that voice. Her feature were angelic, a soft glow around her. Red Fiery hair, a hibiscus flower tuck behind her ear. Blue dress with gold embroidery and a pink sash around her waist. She stopped her singing and cared one of her hands through his hair, gently.

“Pinky, you’re awake.” She chirped at him.

He let out a snort, then softly smiles at her. A hand slowly reaching up to touch her cheek. “Is this a dream?” He thought to himself. Her hand reaching out to his and holds it close to her face. He could smell her scent of sweet blossoms and ocean salt. “I have missed you.” He softly spoke. “I have never forgotten you.”

She let out a soft giggle, which stirred something in him. His ears flushing to a pinkish color. “I never left my dear dreamer.” She sang.

“Dreamer? That’s a new one.” He thought again. He wanted this moment to last. He slowly sat up, wrapping and arm around her. To pull her closer to him. Closing his eyes, and leaning into kiss her-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Warriors backed up, as the Vet was making smooch faces. He snorted at the view. The Vet then was painfully aware how much his head was pounding, someone was trying to gently lay him back down, but their voices were muffled. He opened his eyes, his vision was causing the world to tilt. Nausea bulled up and soon he leaned over as to avoid painting his team mates in his vomit. Warriors quickly backing away as the older teen vomited. Tears streamed down his face as he whined and then choked on a sob. Now naturally The Captain would of made a joke, but he could see this honestly wasn’t the right time. Hyrule came in, helping the vet lay back down after emptying his stomach. Wiping off his sick. Legend sob hard, as his body trembled again. All of it was a dream, why was he hurting? How cruel the Goddesses were to him. He shut his eyes again, hoping, wishing for all of to go away. He wanted to be back there on the beach with his head on Marin’s lap. Taking in her beauty. However here he was looking weak and pathetic. He felt the Travelers hand card through his hair gently. Trying to sooth and relieve the tension.

“I miss her…” he choked. “Why does it hurt so?”

“You got bludgeoned pretty goos back there bud.” Hyrule tried to explain.

All while this was happening, Time quickly glanced at the Rancher. He took warriors place and knelt before the Vet, grasping their hand. “They will always be there vet,” He placing their clasped hands and placing it over his heart. “Cause though she is not here, she is always inside you here.” The vet opened his eyes and stared at Rancher. The Traveler, dabbed a cool rag on his forehead. To help with the pain.

He knew the Ordonian clear knew what missing someone was like. Well most of the hero’s were missing someone, but this was a different missing of someone. “It felt so real. She was right there.” He rasped.

“Link, dear,” The traveler spoke endearingly. “That’s your concussion speaking. I am sorry.”

A another wave of tears ran down the Vets face. Twilight continued to hold his hand as the Vet desperately wanted to curl up and disappear. However the Healer wasn’t about to let him move. He instead, resign to turning his head and pressing his cheek against the Rancher’s hand. Closing his eyes, and falling unconscious once more. Hyrule gently wiped his tears away.

“Well, that was something.” Four chimed in. “My heart breaks for him.”

“Do you think all that talk and stuff he was doing, was an illusion of some sort?” Asked the younger person in their chain.

“Forme what I gather, no.” The rancher spoke.

“How unfortunate.” Sky sadly replied. “I can’t imagine loosing my Zelda.”

They all hummed in response. Thought he Champion stayed pretty quiet on the matter. He too had suffered in loosing all those he loved. Causing him to feel self aware of his own feelings. He quickly went back to stirring the pot of hearty stew. Trying not to let his emotions get the better of him.

“So, what’s you’re diagnoses Healer?” Asked Time after some quiet fell among them all.

“He is coming around, but he’ll need to rest and not jostle about. I subject watching him for the next 24hrs.”

“Okay, we shall do this in shift then.” Spoke up Time. “Hyrule, i think you done a good job for now, but go relax and let pup here take you’re place.”

The Traveler nodded, leaving the rancher in the Vet’s care. This went on through out the evening. The Vet only waking a few time, managing to take in water, but not much else. For the most part he rested. As his brother’s all looked after him.

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Note: I shall write the other two parts separately, but here you go. I shall Link them to each other once finished. I hope you enjoyed this piece. I wasn’t exactly sure where it would go. However here you are. Let me know what you thought.

[cbc-bb]

tonight I just really hit my stride — I didn’t want to stop, and I just kept going. The park was alive, it was a purple orange sunset over the bay, the buildings of Manhattan twinkling like in the movies. Families walking, kids playing soccer, gulls screeching. The delicious seawater misting. A snoopy shaped puddle. I think you would have enjoyed it. It’s grounding when I remember im running close to the ocean, that im on an island, that the water is ebbing and flowing, living, breathing. There’s seaweed and salt spray. It’s delicious