words flowing

Your mind, reputed to be quite empty and flowery, has spent the better part of this year thinking about your knight. Your ʿuqabi. He is, of course, not yours, but your heart feels glad to think of him as such.

Father purchased his services before the cold came, and the man has seemed to fill every wine-red arch of the keep since then. He speaks freely with his fellow knights; to your ear, it is a stiff and rigid language, but you enjoy watching his mouth move.

As the middle daughter of a gerad, you are all too acquainted with the notion that your father and your sisters consume most of the oxygen in any given space. As gerad, your father is a rare figure to glimpse, but no less imposing for his absence. His absences have grown longer once your mother passed several years ago, as you became a woman.

The eldest sister, Yodit, is betrothed, her wedding ceremony scheduled in one month's time. The preparatory festivities have allowed you to roam the keep, largely unattended and unnoticed.

Eleni, your younger sister, is kept busy as she is still a child. Although you enjoy her companionship at times, she would spend a whole evening painting pictures with her words instead of letting a room breathe.

Your knight has a strange name, Ser Garricke. Your tongue practices the sounds in the privacy of your bed after nightfall.

He hails from England, and you heard tale that he travelled with his fellow knights through Egypt. The sights he must have seen! The women and girls he must have dazzled! He's terribly grand in stature, a mountain to your pebble, and your body is overcome with shivers when you are in close proximity to him.

He is forbidden to speak to you. That fact is only a spark to the flame in your heart. If his tea-amber eyes should fall upon your person as you walk the halls, he will quickly evade them. It does not remove the sensation that he is still, somehow, watching you.

One of many nights of festivities takes the keep by storm, and you are filled with gratitude that all attendees are focused on Yodit. When permitted to move freely about the room, you slip through the clusters of brightly layered fabrics and scents of honoured guests, wishing to remain unseen.

Your ʿuqabi, your protector, is standing guard under a distant archway, his large hand on the hilt of his blade. You shiver as you approach, but you approach nonetheless.

He is alone and you are alone, and he is still forbidden to speak to you.

"Ser Garricke," you greet. You do not speak to him, and he has never heard you address him as such, your tongue rounding out the sharp shapes in your mouth.

His eyes widen, then flicker down to your slippered feet.

"It is the eve of my sister's ceremony," you state. He would like you to please walk away, you can read it as if the script is sewn into his uniform. He will never say it.

You are your father's daughter and use this as your advantage.

"I do not feel safe walking back to my quarters unescorted. My maids are flush with drink and honouring our guests. Ser Garricke, I ask that you escort me."

He shifts side to side, the discomfort clear as the night's stars tonight. He should not leave his post, but he is at the mercy of the gerad, which extends to the daughters. You hold your breath, watching these conclusions flourish on his beautiful face, and then he is stepping out of his stance.

"Woizero," he says softly, their title for you and your sisters.

Escorting you back through the private halls, emptied now, to your quarters.

"Will you be able to have a drink in honour of Yodit this eve, Ser Garricke?" You ask softly. There is a playful teasing tone to your voice when you ask.

He must be on his own battlefield presently: he is forbidden to speak to you, but is it ruder to ignore a directly addressed question by a gerad's daughter?

"I will not," he finally says, firmly. That he means to put an end to any line of inquiries.

You offer a sweet hmm sound to this. When you reach the door to your quarters, his body pivots away.

"Ser Garricke?"

His body stills.

"With the volume of drink my father has offered his guests this eve, I should suspect that any manner of wayward guests might wander the halls of our keep. Perhaps someone who holds less chivalrous and virtuous intents in his heart? There would be no way of knowing if such a person could have stolen into my quarters without a servant's eyes catching them."

You point at the door sweetly.

His expression is of determination, soured by something in particular, although you know not what it could be. He opens the door, hand on hilt.

"Clear."

"And of my secondary quarters, just there?" Deeper in.

He hesitates, but moves further inward, and this is the first time that you have witnessed his body be held with such uncertainty. It is remarkable to see.

As he proceeds deeper and inspects your secondary room, largely for prayer and wardrobes, you shut the door silently behind you.

He emerges, and notices his exit has been closed immediately.

"Woizero—"

"Ser Garricke, how long have your eyes found me since you arrived? How long have your watchful eyes noticed mine falling upon yours?"

He looks pained, so you offer him relief by going to him quickly, soft-footed. "Please alleviate our mutual suffering. An honourable man of your title would grant such a reprieve to allow us to move on?"

As if he is quoting scripture, he extends the expected response. "Woizero, please. I ask that I take my leave."

"Ser Garricke, you are under my father's roof. In my quarters — where Yodit and my father do not supersede me — I hold authority over you. I do not give you leave."

Desperation in his honeyed eyes. No richer, sweeter wine.

You approach him and he is as rigid as a statue in the courtyard. You ply him with a benevolent smile, and press your hand firmly against the bulge under his layered dress. Your heart is feverent and fast-beating when you touch him; the layers are thick, difficult to make out what you seek to the detail you crave, but it is enough for now.

His expression turns tortured, agonized, under your hand's explorations.

"Woi—"

"You know my name, Ser Garricke. I demand you use it."

You go up on your toes, taking the layers around his chest in hand, and pull him down to your face. He is breathing as heavily as a horse might. He is pretending he did not grow significantly while your hand cupped his length. You bury your face into the exposed slope of his neck to breathe in his smell. He is spiced and warm, smoke and oil for his blade all in one long curling scent.

He is so still.

You turn your face slightly so your mouths are neighbours. "Please, Ser Garricke. Ease us."

You think he will refuse, but then his eyes close, dark and tender, and then his mouth seeks yours. Within moments, the time it takes to inhale, he is exhaling deeply and loudly into your open mouth, and your insides feel as though they are boiling. Encouraged, you draw your hand up and down his length, listening to him heave throatily.

He says your name, and you squeeze him.

Ser Garrick's whole body is wracked in shudders, and he lifts his hands to clasp your shoulders, tighter — almost painful; delicious — than you ever expect him to be. It is as if a bird of prey has landed on the tops of your shoulders, its pincers grasping your flesh.

He stares at you, although his sight seems vacant, as though drawn into another realm altogether.

"Ser Garricke, that was lovely. I grant you leave. Perhaps I shall need an escort tomorrow eve. I expect that it shall be a long night and I will have my share of drink."

He stares as though he has been grievously injured. Nods dumbly, and wanders sloppily outside your doorway. He turns and continues staring until you close your door in his face.

"Goodnight, Ser Garricke," you smile kindly.

Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.

No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher. 

Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.

Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.

Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.

You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.

You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either. 

Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself. 

When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge. 

Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.

It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.

Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.

Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.

So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you. 

Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots. 

It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes. 

Mathematical. Precise.

And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly. 

You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good. 

Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.

He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.

And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.

He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.

However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.

And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over. 

When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.

"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.

But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.

"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something. 

You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes. 

"But I can't come," you explain slowly. 

His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling. 

"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"

You blink. 

"I mean, yeah—"

"Then let me."

"But I thought—"

"Stop with tha'," he grumbles. 

His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy. 

"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you. 

It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—

"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."

You scoff. "You can see it?"

"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."

"But I won't come—"

"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips. 

He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand. 

Jesus fucking Christ help you.

The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.

"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.

He’s crude and abrasive.

"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"

And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.

It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.

You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat. 

His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.

"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."

He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.

“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh. 

“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”

You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes. 

Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek. 

The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.

You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh. 

The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.

A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.

He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.

You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.

You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing. 

On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet. 

With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand. 

"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.

You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—

"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."

You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak. 

He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.

You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in. 

Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.

"Just try—"

A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation. 

"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."

On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.

This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious. 

God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—

Quit the bloody thinkin' for once. 

You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.

Stay here, focus.

His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.

Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.

Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.

Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.

And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back. 

The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.

You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.

Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.

You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.

It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint. 

Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face. 

You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in. 

You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.

A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness. 

"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.

"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."

You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.

Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.

"Fuck me," you breathe.

Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—

"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—" 

Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—

"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"

A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.

You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own. 

You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.

And feel. 

ghost is the kind of guy who picks up a burner phone every couple of months, switching numbers the same way he switches residences and socks.

occasionally, he'll get someone calling or texting a wrong number. it happens, and he's more than happy to send off a quick "they're not at this number, mate" in the name of not getting repeated messages from strangers. usually they get the hint, at most sending a quick "sorry" and fucking off forever, but this time, it's different.

it starts with a long winded voicemail, some nasal git begging for his partner to come back. sounds like a right arsehole to ghost, the way his message goes on and on, attempting to reel back in a little fish named "robin" that clearly doesn't want to be caught. ghost follows his usual m.o., and texts back a "they're not at this number anymore, mate", assuming that'll be the end of it.

(it is not, in fact, the end of it.)

instead, "matt" ramps it up, calling over and over and over, sending texts between calls, "i know it's really you"s and "just give me one more chance"s- and ghost feels his blood pressure spike. the messages are equal parts annoying and telling- this is someone who doesn't take no for an answer, who bulldozes their way through everything, and based on what he can gather from the dozen or so half-apologies he's being bombarded with, he can piece together that something pretty nasty went down between matt and his ex.

something that reminds him of his mum and dad.

a picture comes through of a handsome looking lad with sad eyes and an uncomfortable expression with some wanker with a face like a dog's arsehole wrapping his arm around him. one person clearly doesn't want to be there, and the other is almost physically holding him still for the photo.

no having to guess who's who, really.

>>come on, babe. stop playing around. you're making me mad, and you know how i get when i lose my temper.

as ghost reads the latest text, sirens go off in his head, his vision goes red, and suddenly he's on his jailbroken laptop, using every skiptracing tool at his disposal to find this piece of shit. it doesn't take too long- matt's sloppy on social media, posting everything from his breakfast to his work. a routine is easy enough to establish from his instagram alone, but he won't need it. not with a git this fucking stupid.

out of curiosity, he tries to find robin. there's not much there- everything's locked down tight, save for one social media account that has his face as the profile picture. he looks much better than the picture he's in with matt- his smile reaches his eyes, his shoulders are less rigid, and he's clearly in a much better place now that he's got a new number and no way for his bellend ex to get ahold of him.

ghost shoots off a text to matt, plan formulating in his head as he types.

>>fine. i'll meet you for fifteen minutes maximum at the coffee shop on church street tomorrow at nine. you can say your peace, and then we will go our seperate ways. understood?

the idiot takes less than twenty seconds to reply.

>>aw babes, c'mon, don't be like that! fifteen minutes isn't near enough time to catch up and fix things.

>>fifteen is all you get. if you text or call me again i'll change my number and won't show up at all.

based on how blessedly silent his phone falls, ghost assumes he finally got through to that thick bellend, and starts to put his plan together.

~

ghost is perched on a rooftop a few thousand meters from la dolce vita at 7am sharp, settled into a makeshift snipers nest as he watches the cafe. the place is closed as of yesterday, according to the news, so he knows he can expect everyone inside to be too busy tearing things down and trying to salvage what they can to pay much attention to the noncey-looking prick that's already lurking around the back alleyway where the bins are.

ghost knew to expect fuckery- even in the few hours that he was subjected to matt's texts, calls, and voicemails, it was clear he had no intention of honoring any of robin's wishes. he wants what he wants, damn the feelings or comfort of anyone else. little twat probably thought he could get the drop on poor robin by showing up early, was hoping to strong-arm him into going somewhere else with him, to hear out matt's half-arsed apologies and all the reasons he's "not a the bad guy here".

and, look- ghost knows he's no saint. for fucks sake, he's got an illegal firearm trained at the ugliest man in england's face, all because of a series of annoying texts and calls. while he's normally the zen master of 'not my business, i don't need to get involved', something hit a nerve. maybe it's the way matt reminds him of his father, or the way robin's expression in that photo reminded him of his mum, but whatever the reason, he just can't allow this prick to keep terrorizing the lad.

matt wanders around the front of the cafe, visibly upset as he seems to realize that he's been tricked, and shoves a hand in his pocket, fishing out his phone as he wanders back to the alley where lorries are being loaded with equipment, furniture, and various items that are probably headed off to auction. his fingers fly over the screen of his phone as he parks himself right under a stove that's dangling in the air, hoisted by a hydraulic crane.

it's like a sign from the heavens- end this git now.

but first- the cherry on top.

before matt can finish typing what ghost can only assume is an all caps message full of hate, he calls him. he can't hold back the chuckle as the little arsehole blinks stupidly as the phone rings in his hands before putting it to his year.

"you fucking-"

"shut up." ghost cuts him off, and smirks at the way matt's posture goes suddenly rigid. "you've caused quite enough trouble, and now it ends. you ain't ever gettin' t'robin again, you 'ear me?"

"who the fuck is this?" matt asks with a bravado ghost can tell he doesn't quite feel.

"nobody you 'ave to worry about f'much longer." with a steady squeeze of his finger, the trigger trips the hammer, which hits the primer, which launches the bullet an impossible distance, snapping the rope that holds the stove aloft and dropping it right on matt's head.

there's no scream, no last words, just the distant sound of a heavy crash and a dial tone in ghost's ear. robin's boogeyman is now just a stain on the concrete, never to be heard from again.

good bloody riddance.

~

>>robin, did you see the news?? -mum

>>mum, we talked about this, you don't have to sign your texts. i know it's you.

>>also no, i've been at work. what happened?

your mum sends you a link to a local news station's website, and you nearly drop your steaming cuppa into your lap. your ex's face is splashed across the home page, a picture you recognize because you took it several years ago, before you'd found your courage to run for your life. your initial reaction to seeing his face again is instant, roiling nausea, but you swallow hard and force yourself to read the article.

he's dead. matt's dead. he's never coming back to hurt you again. you won't have to change your number again. mum won't have to screen her calls as militantly. shit, you might be able to comfortably unlock your instagram account for the first time in years.

it's strange to feel relief over a snapped cable and a falling stove, but you do. he's gone forever, he'll never be able to put his hands on you, call you horrible names, or harm you in any way ever again. you release a long, slow, shaking breath from nervous lungs, and it takes you a moment to realize- you're smiling. a real, honest to god, ear to ear grin over the death of that bastard.

>>are you okay? -mum

>>yeah, mum. better than okay, i think.

>>i have to finish work, but i'll call after, all right?

>>love you

>>love you too. chat soon. -mum

~

nobody ever finds out that the cable didn't snap on its own. nobody ever looks into who matt was talking to when a stove squished him like an unwanted insect. nobody even bothers to question you- after all, you'd been at work since the wee hours of the morning, clocking in before the sun rose to get your presentation done.

He sees you for the first time on the docks. 

Standing against a pylon, arms crossed over your chest underneath a dark green raincoat, hood pulled up high.

Another odd one, he figures. Like the rest of them here, insular, friendly, but only to an extent, like they’re hiding a knife behind their backs, waiting to carve something up. Glints of hunger flash in their eyes, and there’s a rusted edge to their smile, like their chests are hollowed out hulls. 

What shines in your eyes is not hunger, it’s darkness. A violent midnight swell crashing against the rocks, a red tide leaving death in its wake. Your gaze is fathoms long, drifting into the sea, and you don’t notice him on the adjacent pier, cigarette burning down to the filter, ash drifting to the worn wooden planks. 

Johnny would say you’re pretty. Simply put. And to the passerby you are pretty, but there’s something more. You’re beautiful in a way that’s unknown to him. Something different, frightening, something sea swept with a mouth full of razor clams, two pearls for eyes and salted skin. 

A tide pool full of wonders. 

A prize worth hunting. 

Everyone fishes. 

Or almost everyone.

Some are longshoremen, commuting down to the major port an hour each way, and some work on the other side of it all, processing, packing, shipping. Of course, there are jobs that keep the town running, from the grocer to the medical clinic to the post office, but the heart of the town, its lifeblood, is fishing. 

Small boats, big boats, lines flung from the shoreline in search of anything from bass in the fall to flounder in the winter, lobster June through December. They harvest shellfish too, the whole range, clams to oysters. . 

Winter is the hardest. Scalloping and the end of lobster season is the bread and butter, along with flounder, and it’s not easy. Not in the slightest. Some even dive for the shellfish, braving single digit water temperatures to bring in their catch. 

It’s a hard life. Harder still when bushels and nets are light, when the sea is reluctant to give away its gifts, clinging to them with cold, watery clutches. 

Fishing is what matters. Fishing is what keeps the heat on, the lights on, puts food on the table. 

And in the pub, it’s all they can talk about, men muttering amongst themselves at the bar, hunched over in their pints. 

“Bad season.” 

“Been goin’ downhill for years now.” 

“Just keeps gettin’ thinner and thinner.” 

“Lost a net on Monday. Vanished like it was never even there.” 

“A net? Danny nearly lost an arm.” 

Simon doesn’t know much about fishing, but he knows this. Knows what people sound like when they’re straddling the line, the one that’s supposed to keep them above the fray, out of the abyss. Something is off here. 

“Luck’s rotten-”

“- fightin’ fate like it’ll do any good-” 

“-been waitin’ too long. Tide was bound to turn sometime.” 

The bartender turns her tired eyes to his, and he motions for the same thing he’s been getting for weeks now, three fingers of bourbon. She places it in front of him without a word, returns to her space at the other end where her laptop is set up, typing away at something probably far more enticing than tending bar in a black hole. 

“- askin’ too much. Dunno what she expects.” They all nod, hum agreements and commiserations before the conversation turns to weather, gloomy and grey as expected, but the undertow is still there, swirling beneath the surface, churning up the sea in a rage.  Their agitation roils like thunder in the distance. 

He wonders when it will make landfall. 

You’re often on the docks at dusk. 

Staring out into the sea, hat pulled down around your ears, jacket zipped up under your chin. People move around you, water over rock, but you don’t step out of their way. Some avert their eyes. Some slow, watch you with too much intent, too much focus. 

There seems to be this fascination with you, interest mixed with cold dread and disdain.  

You’re magnetic, for better or worse, but you ignore them all the same. 

So when he steps into your peripheral and you don’t acknowledge him, it’s not a surprise, though the silence makes him itch for a cigarette. 

You kill it. Eventually. 

“You’re the Brit.” You turn to him with a mouth full of shell teeth. Pearl eyes. Leaning into the wind and the sea spray as gull shriek overhead. 

“Simon.” 

“Simon.” You nod like it’s something to be agreed upon. “They talk about you. Most exciting thing to happen in years, I guess. A stranger.” 

“Doubt that.” You sweep him from head to toe, an inspection of sorts, before giving him your name, almost drowned out by the crash of the surf. He hangs on every letter, hooked, repeating it back to you as you did with his. Another nod, your face turning out towards the sea. “Interesting place.” He can’t even say nice, because that’s not how anyone would describe it. This town is not nice. It’s ocean ravaged and hardened and brittle. Cracked like scattered seashells on the shore. 

“Interesting… yeah. You could say that.” 

“You from here?” 

“My whole life, born and raised.” It doesn’t come with affection or nostalgia like one would expect from someone talking about a hometown. Instead, it’s raw, borderline enraged, all of it cold beneath the surface. “What brought you all this way?” 

“Retirement.” Your brows knit together. 

“Bit young to be retired, aren’t you?” Young to be retired in your eyes, maybe. Too old for you, definitely. A decade, probably. 

“I’m older than y’think. Plus I’m retired from the military. It’s a bit different.” 

“Right.” The wind whips, rips through the weak spots in his layers. “Weird place to retire, not much going on here.” 

“That’s why I picked it.” He had been countless places, too many to name, all of them missing something or other. Here, it’s different. He could shut himself away for years here, or build something. A life, somehow. 

“You like quiet then.” 

“If that’s what you call this.” A gull dips low, riding the roll of the wind and you track it before refocusing on the horizon. 

“Quiet here just means the ocean is holding its breath.” He blinks. For what? Until when? “There’s a storm coming. Anyone show you how to close your house up?” He shakes his head. You breathe deep, filling your lungs with salt air as you turn back to face him again, pearls turned to grey storm clouds. 

“I’ll show you.” He frowns. The island doesn’t breed sense it seems, because why would you volunteer to go willingly to a strange man’s home? “Don’t worry,” you read his mine over your shoulder as you breeze by him, “you’re not the thing to be afraid of around here.” 

Closing up, he learns, is a process. Windows are completely covered by massive wooden shutters, bottom floors are emptied of electronics and anything he might miss, things he would prefer not to be waterlogged and ruined. He doesn’t have many of those, and he can’t move the washer and dryer, so there’s not much to be done except for the shutters, and he stands by as you expertly wedge a two by four across one. 

“The house will sway.” You mention, finishing up the last one as the wind lashes across both of your backs. “It’s meant to.” 

“Figured.” You step back, rain coat slicked wet, rain and mist coating your shoulders, your hood. “You do this a lot?” You stare at him for a moment like it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. 

“Whole life.” You drawl, and nod towards the windows. “Should be fine.” Thunder cracks over the ocean, loud enough to rattle his ribs, and you wipe your hands on your pants. “Should be.” There’s a tiny, teasing smile on your lips but it fades before he can get a good look, wiped away by the flash of lightning arcing through the sky. You sigh. “I should probably get going. Good luck. First one is always a doozy but you’ll get used to them.” Salt hangs in the air, on his tongue, and  he’s never felt the pressure of time like this before, the desire to make some sort of connection, to hook a tether so he can have more. He wants to crack you wide at the hinges to get to whatever is lurking beneath your surface, shred the abductor muscle keeping you clammed up and spill your secrets as if he’d gutted a fish. 

But Simon is a hunter, and he knows when it’s not the right time to pull a trigger. He knows how to bide his time, lie in wait, line a target up in his scope. He’s learned this patience, honed it, practiced it.