#a.m writes

"Don't tell me someone like you would rather be stuck behind a desk on a Saturday." He frowned in mock displeasure. "You gotta get out more. Live a little. You don't want to end up like me, now, do you?"

And you would just giggle and shrug, saying how you didn't see the issue. You'd tell Clark that you thought he was a perfectly nice guy and there was nothing wrong with preferring some peace and quiet. That you were more of a homebody anyways. He didn't believe that for a second, though. It was the same excuse that he used to give out and sometimes still did, when someone bothered ask.

They rarely did anymore.

He was well aware that the world tended to pass people like you by, so he made sure to check up on you without making it too obvious. But when he found out you didn't have any plans for your 21st birthday? He wouldn't let that slide. He couldn't.

"Hear your birthdays coming up." He raps his knuckles on a lovely side table (walnut brown, only $99.98 for the set), sauntering up to you.

"It is." You smile, straightening up a living room display.

"You going out? Any crazy plans I should be worried about? Terrorizing the town?" He teases, knowing damn well you're probably going to spend it at home.

"Something like that." You shake your head, scoffing. He knows full well you're intent on spending the day alone. Like last year. Like him.

"No bar? Really? Most people jump at the opportunity to get their first legal taste. What's your drink of choice, anyway? You into beer? Tequila?" He tilts his head, assessing before he claps and points at you with a triumphant finger. "I know. You like a good cocktail, don't you."

"Maybe." You say, straightening one of the display pillows on the sofa (Continental, $600.00). "I wouldn't really know, I've never tried anything before. You're not supposed to drink until you're twenty one, you know." You give him a rather pointed look.

"Everybody does, though." He sits down on the pattered sofa, clasping his hands between spread knees. "I did. Kat and Bobby did. I'm sure you didn't, though. Too much of a rule follower, huh? Hey — let me buy you your first drink, then. If you haven't already got plans."

You laugh as if you think he's joking, sobering when he doesn't join you.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Why not? Unless I've overstepped. In which case I thoroughly apolagise and—"

"No." You cut him off softly. "No, you didn't overstep. Um... yeah." A small smile hides in the corners of your lip. "That would be nice. Thank you."

.

The bar Clark takes you to is respectable. It was his usual spot, just off the main road and not too seedy. He pulled out a small, wrapped gift and handed it to you when you were settled next to him on the high stool.

"Happy Birthday." He murmurs over the old country music twanging through the speakers. "Got you something."

"You didn't have to!" You exclaim, accepting the present as if it were far more valuable than the retail price he'd purchased it for.

"Go on. See what it is." He sits back as you carefully tear away the paper, watching your eyes light up when you see the latest CD you'd been wanting.

"Oh my god, Clark! How did you know!?"

"Heard you talking with Kat the other day. Did I get it right?"

"Yeah, this is so thoughtful." Your thumb runs over the tracklist on the back of the plastic case. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Pride warms his chest at being able to make you smile so genuinely. He didn't have much to feel fuzzy about recently, but somehow you always managed to bring a little bit of sunshine to his life through the seperation.

"How is it?" He grins as you take your first sip of beer. He watches you mull it over, the dull, fermented bubbles sliding down your throat and he can tell you don't like it before you can.

"It's... fine." Your nose wrinkles.

"Here, we can trade." He switches the glasses between you so that you can try a different brew. "This one's darker, maybe you'll like it better."

Another sip. Another wrinkle of your nose.

"Yeah." You say uncertainly, licking your lips. "It's good."

"You don't have to lie to me." He chuckles fondly, taking back the drink. "Beer's not for you, noted. You got a sweet tooth, right?"

"I do." You nod, but he already knew that.

Sometimes he'd bring some of those grocery store cookies he knows you like to work — the soft ones. The ones that were so full of sugar that his wife insisted would give him diabetes. It was cute to watch your eyes widen every damn time he offered you one, as if you were intruding just by being in the same room as them. As if the only reason he bought them wasn't for you.

"Gotta get some shots in you, then. A Burt Reynolds. Lemon Drop. Jelly Donut. You'll love em, trust me."

And you did.

Love them.

Trust him.

By midnight you were buzzed. By 1 am you were happy just to be there, seeming more relaxed than he'd ever seen you. By 2 you were getting dozy and he figured it was time to get you home.

"Must be past your bedtime, huh?" He ribs as he collects all your belongings, making sure you've got your coat on properly before paying the tab and guiding you out of the pub. It was getting rowdy now. It was that part of the night when fights started to break out amongst patrons and security would be earning their salary. You didn't need to see all that.

"C'mon." He positions himself between you and a particularly drunk, slobbering buffoon of a man near the bar on your way out. He knocks into Clark instead when he sways, him being the physical barrier between the man and you. You'd've be crushed otherwise. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mm, thank you, Clark." You wobble out on the sidewalk, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "I'had such a'nice time."

"Yeah? I'm glad to hear that, sweetheart."

The two of you catch a cab and once he's got you settled in the backseat with him, he realizes that he doesn't know your address. You're a little too borderline drunk to relay it to him with any coherence, which provides a bit of a conundrum when the driver asks:

"Where to?"

It's not like he can take you back to his place, exactly. Not with his wife who already seems to hate him enough as it is, and not when she's on the verge of serving him divorce papers already. The next best option (and really the only one) is to let you stay over where he's slept every night since his marriage began unraveling in earnest.

"Cap'n Clark's Ottoman Empire."

The parking lot of some gone-under furniture store is an odd place to deliver a grown man and someone half his age at nearly 3 in the morning, but the taxi driver isn't paid to ask.

You're stumbling a little and singing to yourself when you try to get out of the cab, only to slip right back on the seat with an uncoordinated yelp.

"'M stuck." You scrabble, legs flailing and arms grabbing at the passanger headrest.

"I can see that." Clark shakes his head and suppresses a laugh, taking your hand and helping you upright. "I got you."

"Why 're we'at work?" Your words are slurred, slouching against his side while he fishes for his keys to the front door. The taxi peels out of the lot and drives on down the street. Slowly, as if the cabbie was curious to see where you'd go.

"Because you need somewhere to sleep and I don't know where you live."

"I don't know where you live." You mumble. "You prob'bly live 'n the back now. 'N the back rooms." A new fit of laughter comes over you so hard that you need to squat down.

He wasn't sure what was so funny about living in a retail store. Pathetic? Absolutely. But funny? He didn't think so. How did you know, anyway? He purposefully handled the closing shifts himself so that none of you would find out that both his home and career lives were collapsing. Hopefully it was just the mindless rambling of someone who'd had one too many drinks and you weren't truly aware of the accuracy to your statement.

You're pretty much asleep on your feet by the time he's ushered you inside, found the light switches, and then locked up again.

"Maybe I should've gone easy on you for your first time." He says to himself, guiding you towards the mattress department. He feels you tense underneath his palm, realizing in hindsight what he'd said. "I meant, having you stick to just one shot." He clears his throat. "One drink."

"But I liked them... all." You defend.

"That's for sure." He steadies you with his warm hands on your shoulders and you try to lean back against him. "Go on then. Choose a mattress, any mattress."

"T' sleep on?" You blink slowly.

"Yeah, to sleep on. What else are you going to be doing on it?"

"Not sleeping." You muffle a snort. That little comment raises his eyes to the ceiling, fixing on the sign that promises MORE DOWN STAIRS and he has to pray to keep his mind from wandering to what 'not sleeping' with you could entail. "A mattress for me?"

"Yup." He has to clear his throat again. "Yes. We'll sleep in the same room, but not on the same bed." He assures you, but perhaps it's more himself that he's needing to placate.

"Like a sleepover." You cackle at the absurdity of someone as old as him engaging in slumber parties.

"It's not a sleepover." He rolls his eyes, pulling back the duvet to his usual bed (a twin mattress and solid softwood frame, marked down to $459.99). "It's a... a... hm. Okay," He relents, "It's a sleepover.

You settled quickly after that. All it took once getting you into bed was to turn on a late night weather channel to a low volume and you fell right to sleep. The soft, even rhythm of your breaths just a few feet away were a soothing balm to Clark's fraying nerves these last few months. He found it all too easy to close his eyes in the dim of the store and soon, he was out too.

.

"–could be headed for the San José area in what experts are calling an Asynchronous Flurry. Heavy rains and even snow are in the upcoming forecast despite temptures having been up to seventy one degrees Fahrenheit or twenty two degrees Celsius this past week." The television set clicks on at exactly 4:44 in the morning, startling the two of you awake.

"Clark?" You whisper, his name thick with sleep.

"Mm?" He grunts, cracking open an eye.

"TV."

"I hear it."

"Turn it off." You grumble, pulling the sheets over your head.

"I thought you turned it on." His eyebrows crease together. He hadn't touched the thing and the remote was gone from the dresser displayed between your two beds.

"No. Just turn it off." You flop a pillow over your head. "Wanna sleep."

"Okay, okay." He rushes out of bed to power off the staticky screen. "There."

You mumble a half cognisant 'thanks' as he settles back on his mattress. Before he can close his eyes again, however, the lights come on. Every single overhead flourecent hums to life, the floor lamps and side lights all surging brighter than he thought was possible.

"Clark?" You say again, alarmed this time as you unearth from the colour blocked duvet. "What's happening?"

"Huh? Oh. Nothin'" He says slowly, scanning the furniture shop for anything that looked out of place. But there's nothing astray. Not a single thing. Everything looked proper. "The lights just act up sometimes."

The bulbs flicker out of sync and in a strange, staccato pattern before plunging the warehouse store into darkness — save for a single lamp downstairs. The glow is menacing. You found the basement to be eerie at the best of times, but the ominous light made it seem even more... wrong.

"What's going on?"

"Wiring issues." He tells you, unconvinced of the explanation himself. "The building's old."

As if on cue, the lamp downstairs blinks out and your breath catches in your throat.

"I'm scared." You admit, and the shakey whisper tugs at his protective instincts for you.

"Don't be scared." He says warmly, feeling his way over to your bed. "I'm right here. Nothing's gonna get you without going through me first. That's just how it goes." The mattress dips under his weight when he sits and his hand finds yours under the covers.

"Are you sure it's just the wiring?"

"A hundred percent." He soothes. "Scoot over. The heating might have gone too, and it can get chilly at night without it.

Clark remains above the blankets all night but that doesn't stop you from cuddling up to him. He wakes with you tucked under his chin, an arm of his slung over your waist and your breath tickling his neck. It was a casual intimacy he thought he might like to get used to again. A warm body. The silent companionship. He hadn't realized just how long it had been since he'd felt like this with someone, or of how much he'd wanted it again.

When you sighed and inched impossibly closer he tightened his hold and let his lips brush along your hairline.

"Just sleep." He murmurs, barely a whisper. "Just a little bit longer."

Taking off, you aim for the back of the club where it's darker. You nudge and slide your way through the sea of grinding couples and a spike of anger parts your fears momentarily. Because isn't it just like him to show up and ruin your night. Not that you were having a particularly fantastic time to begin with- but still. It's the sentiment of it all.

You stalk towards the dingy 'staff only' hallway where a few people ( who definitely aren't staff) are making out. Hopefully your ex will take one look at the blatant PDA and head the other way, because yeah. It does make people uncomfortable.

The soles of your shoes stick to the floor as you duck next to a mountain of a man - who is thankfully standing alone. He towers over you by at least a foot and you use his wide, sturdy build to hide yourself further from the room. If he does notice you, he doesn't show it. Instead, he seems more focused on sulking down here in the tunnel of shame and fumbling hands. 

You groan and fall back against the postered walls, covering your eyes. The papers advertising various underground DJs are a little soggy from what you hope is beer (at least it smells like it) so you straighten back up with a grimace. Definitely showering when you get home. A draft of cool night air slips through the hall from beneath the exit, making you wrap your arms protectively around your middle.

You bite your lip, eyeing the door. You could slip out into the alley and leave that way... with that route you'd be able to avoid your ex, but you'd only be trading your bad situation in for a worse one. Frankly, you weren't terribly keen on the idea of dealing with whoever would be hanging around the back lane at this hour. It might be better to risk leaving through the front...

"A'right?" The big strangers deep, gravely voice tugs you back from your spiraling thoughts. It hauls you to dry land as easily as a mother cat grabs her wet kitten by the scruff and delivers it to safety. You tilt your chin to face him and with one look up at this man's eyes, you knew that's exactly what he offered. Safety.

His face was a little weathered. Big nose, smallish, blue eyes that would make the ocean jealous. Well-maintained beard and mutton chops. He was built masterfully, too, all shoulders and hard lines. All in all a gorgeous man, but more than that- he exuded a sense of protection and control that was damn near palpable.

It was unexplainable. In the same way that you knew your ex was here for you, you knew that this man would help you. So you answered his question honestly.

"No." You weren't alright.

"What's wrong, then?" He shifts his body to sheild you further, while still keeping half an eye on the rest of the room. Your gaze roams quickly over the bulge of his arms as they fold over his broad chest.

With a deep, albeit shakey breath, you recount how your recent breakup went bad. How your ex won't leave you alone. How he keeps showing up to your home, your work, and now you're almost positive that he is here to confront you. You'd hoped that blocking him on everything would be enough to dissuade him from talking to you, but clearly you'd been praying to a false God on that account.

Much to your surprise, he doesn't try to inturupt you while you talk. The man simply listens, his chin tucked down and expression unreadable, brows furrowed and eyes fixed intently on your face. He nods once when you're finished speaking, grunting when he spots your fingers playing nervously at your sides.

"Can you describe 'im for me?" He asks, stopping you from peering past his shoulder with the mere lift of his pointer and middle fingers that rested on his bicep. "Without lookin'."

"Oh. Yeah." You rub your own arms, trying to soothe away the goosebumps. "Tall- well- not as tall as you. Green eyes, blond hair. Horrendous man bun and shaved on the sides, you know?" Making a gesture beside your own head, you look up to make sure he's understanding. His mustache twitches.

"Mm, I know the type." He rumbles, a smirk playing at his lips. "What's he wearin'?"

"I don't know." You deflate. You'd been more focused on getting out of sight than on what he'd been wearing.

"S'alright." He touches your arm, attention slipping away from you momentarily. His easy posture doesn't change, but he stiffens. "Dark jeans, white jumper?"

"Jumper?" You wrinke your nose in confusion at the unfamilair british term.

"Hoodie." He translates for you.

"Oh. Yeah. I mean- maybe?"

Before you can blink, he's caging you in against the wall, both hands planted on either side of your head. Maybe you squeak, but the music swallows your surprise readily. There's no time to react before he leans in next to your ear, beard tickling your cheek as he murmurs:

"Think he's lookin'."

Automatically, you go to turn your head only to end up brushing your lips along his jawline. His facial hair prickles and you think you like it. Blushing furiously, you open your mouth to apolagise but the words die on your tongue when he moves closer. He consumes you without being invasive, crowding you now, but still careful not to touch you directly. He's so near that you can feel the heat radiating off of him between the scant distance of your chests.

"Put your hands on me, dove."

"What?" You chirp.

"He's comin' over. Put your hands on me." It's a demand this time. There's something in his tone now that you can't ignore, something that compells you to shiver and obey. He drops his head, nosing along the curve of your neck and collarbone as you slip your hands inside of his unzipped cargo jacket. The warmth of him instantly envelops you, seeping into your very bones. You're not cold anymore, you're almost too hot.

It's a casually deceptive act from both of you, and there's something so respectfully intimate in how he breathes you in, lips skimming up to your chin and leaving behind a trail of sparks. A hot puff of his breath tousels your hair and you ball your fists in the back of his shirt. It's only at his chuff of laughter when you realise you've tilted your head for more...

"Hey man, what the fuck you think you're doing with my girl?" Your ex's voice breaks whatever spell this man had put you under. The breath you'd been holding whooshes out of your lungs like you were punched, and the muscles that had turned to honey from just his proximity grow tense again at the unwanted presence.

The towering man doesn't lift his head immediatly. Instead, he hums beside your ear - a low, almost annoyed sound - and lets his beard rasp along your cheek lazily before looking up at the intrusion.

"Doesn't look like she's your girl anymore, eh?" He says casually, but there's an edge to his voice as he sizes up the other man. You're still practically engulfed by him. He hasn't given you back a millimeter of space, keeping himself all but pressed up against you. His hands haven't moved either, you note. They're both still beside your head, braced on the wall. Haven't even touched you and your knees are weak.

"Well she is, so I reccomend that you get the fuck off her, pal." Your ex repeats, tone haughty and he squares his shoulders like he actually thinks he could go head to head with this guy and come out victorious. He turns his attention to you then, still for the most part hidden by the stranger's frame. "I didn't come here to see you throwing yourself at whoever will take you like some common whore." He sneers.

Your cheeks flush in agitation at the insult. He's said such things before, but never to embarrass you in front of other people. The man previously dominating your personal space finally takes a step back, rolling his shoulders and expanding his chest. But before he can say anything, you're pushing in front of him to stand up to your ex. Because how dare he?

Ever since he got comfortable in your relationship, your ex had treated you like shit and you'd put up with it because really he was a sweet guy when he was happy. But you were done. He'd crossed the final line by insulting you in front of someone else, and the burly man standing behind you gave you enough confidence that your ex wouldn't deck you the second you laid into him.

"I don't know what part of 'never talk to me again' is so hard for you to understand! I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to call you... nothing! You need to accept that this-" You gesture between the two of you, "Is over. It's been over for a long time and I've told you every way I know how. We're finished, Okay?" You explode.

"Okay, but I just think you should give me another chance. I'll change." Your ex tries, pathetically trying to sweettalk his way back into your life. It might have worked on you once, but not anymore.

"No! I don't need to do anything else for you. I 'just think' that it's your turn to do something for me, and you can start by getting the fuck out of my life."

"Baby, I-" your ex starts, but you cut him off with a humourless laugh.

"Are you even hearing me right now? Are you hearing yourself!? We. Are. Over. I'm not your baby. I'm not your girl. I'm not your anything. Clear?"

He blinks stupidly. It was the first time you'd actually held your own against him. The first time you'd talked back and clearly he didn't know how to take it.

"Am I fucking clear?" You snap.

"Yeah." He swallows, brushing it off with a shrug. "Yeah, it's clear. It's whatever." He clears his throat, trying to play off his discomfort with an attempted smile. A smile that you mock and twist right back at him.

"One more thing." Your grin is sugary sweet and poisonous. Pure saccharine. "Call me whore again and I'll break your fucking nose."

The slapped expression on your ex's face is priceless. He wisely decides not to say anything else before walking away, seeming stunned.

Still grinning, you turn to the man behind you. He's stood unwavering, looking entertained and seeming more than a little impressed. With a surge of confidence and heady elation, you reach up and tug him towards you by his neck.

His eyebrows raise a little in surprise, but he leans down to meet you where you've stretched up on your toes to close the distance. He ducks his head, lips barely skimming yours before pulling away. You pout, glancing at him in displeasure. And then he's kissing you.

This time, he doesn't hold back. An arm snakes around your middle and heaves you against his chest, keeping you anchored to him with a heavy palm pressed to your lower back. His other hand tangles in your loose hair, tugging your head to angle you how he wants.

A breathy groan slips from your mouth, lips parting beneath his as thunder rumbles behind his sternum.

"Knew you'd be a needy little thing."

You feel your cheeks flush but you nod, just wanting more of him. The pulse of the bass hijacks your system and you're not sure if it's his heartbeat or yours that pounds in your ears. You tug at him desperately, and he huffs, smirking while you card your fingers through his hair. The scent of burnt spices envelops you just before he does.

"Christ, you're a sight."

His lips are on yours again, licking into your open mouth. He tastes like whiskey, you think leisurely, and you eagerly sip the flavour from his lips. The man - you still don't know his name - steps you back against the wall and slips a knee between your thighs.

The movement elicits a gasp as you clutch at him, hips pressing forward. He greedily swallows all the sounds that he draws from you, letting you grind against him for a moment before he stops you. His fingers tightens at your waist, stilling your restless motion. He doesn't want you to be greedy. He wants you to take what he gives you.

Instead, he rocks his thigh against you, letting the feeling build. You're gasping shamelessly against his lips, beard scratching your chin while he brings you nearer and higher. It makes it all the more cruel when he begins to slow before you can reach the peak you crave.

"Not here, dove. Not tonight." His voice thrums in your ear.

Protest leaves you in a whine. As badly as you want more of him, you have to reluctantly agree. The shame that would come with getting off in some dirty hallway with a guy you barely even know... it would fester the rest of the night.

He kisses you a little longer though, a little deeper. His lips are softer now, less demanding. Like he's trying to gradually calm the storm he evoked within you, to soothe that same ache he is responsible for.

When he finally breaks the kiss you're left flushed and panting, clinging to him to stay standing.

"Oh god." You breathe. "I don't usually do that- kiss random men in clubs."

"That so?" He asks, seeming amused.

"Mhm. I don't even know your name." You touch your fingers to your mouth and hope that your lipgloss isn't smudged to oblivion.

"S'John, sweetheart." He brushes the rough pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, smearing some of the remaining moisture.

"John." You repeat, trying it out. It's a good, solid name. Hefty on the tongue. "Thanks for... you know, scaring him off and everything."

"Oh I think you did all the work there, love." John chuckles, and you can't help but laugh too. "I wouldn't like to be on your bad side."

"You'd be hard pressed." You murmur, marveling at how the blue strobes highlight his features, dancing across his face and blinding you. But they dim in comparison to those eyes.

"Would I?" He lowers his voice to a pleased rumble. The hand on your hip kneads the flesh there gently.

You nod, blushing. The few shots you had earlier must be filtering through your conciousness now, because everything's a little hazy and your cheeks are hot. Hotter than just a blush.

The floor dips gently and you sway into him, barely bracing yourself with hand slapped haphazardly against his ribs.

"Sorry." You giggle, pulling back. He doesn't let you go far, though, holding tight at your waist to keep you from tipping over again.

"Alright, dove?" He asks, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

"Mhmm." You hum, still captivated by the lights playing exquisitely over the lines of his face.

"How'd you get here, sweetheart?"

"Took a cab." You tell him.

"Let me drive you back."

You hesitate. "Are you sure?" The last thing you want is to take advantage of his goodness.

John just hums and presses a kiss to the corner of your lips.

"Course" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gotta make sure my girl gets home safe, don't I?"

GUYS I'm so excited this is my first work in years! I'm still getting back into writing, but i hope you enjoyed it <3. Personally I'm not thrilled with how it came out, but my perfectionism needs to calm down, I'm sure it's good enough.

The Ocean was a jealous and unforgiving entity. Didn't man have a phrase for it? A cruel mistress? Yes, that summed it up nicely. The sea let you breathe beneath waves because you served it, but sometimes you despised living under the reign of the Atlantic. Creatures which resided here were never entirely exempt from her wrath and even the sailors above would remain ever at her wicked mercy.

Especially on nights like tonight.

The storm had been raging well into the evening and you found yourself way out in the open sea, as you so often did. Boats wrecked in this kind of weather. Ships sank and crews went under frigid waters, swallowing salt that would preserve in their lungs. Siren song was a constant dissonance beneath their screams while you tangled with those who had yet to depart this realm.

Bodies and twisted limbs twitch for the final time as you sing, gently coaxing each human essence to sleep. Only then, once they were still and breathless, could you ferry their souls to the other side of the veil. That was the solemn duty bestowed upon you: To guide the drowned to rest, lest they linger and haunt the tides for eternity. Only the song of a mermaid could soothe the tragic figures, so you lulled them not to death, but to peace.

A new one is ready. Bring him to me.

The Ocean shudders when she speaks, calling you away from the bones of this shipwreck and towards another closer to land. When the Ocean calls, you are bound to answer, so you begin swimming towards wherever she guides you next. A smattering of villages dot the cliffs of the English countryside and you must admit that you've always felt drawn to them. Something about life there seemed so terribly alluring when it remained beyond your reach.

Moonlight skitters faintly across the tilting surface above you, catching on ripples and thrown by the rain. The shadow of an empty rowboat bobs mournfully over waves, setting the scene for a lonesome demise. A set of brittle oars drift in opposite directions, tumbling about in the turbulent sea, yet there's no sign of a sailor.

His grief lingers, though. It stains the waves like an oil slick; pungent, and invasive.

Part of your burden was to absorb the final emotions felt by the drowned, ensuring that any ties to their human form were completely severed before they reached the afterlife. Throughout the eternity of you doing this, you'd determined that most felt fear in their last moments. Others were angry and some found regrets. Fewer still left behind a disjointed sort of peace. A contentment, when it had been of their own volition to be taken by the sea.

Those were the ones that felt heaviest to you, and you suspected that this innocuous rowboat had been abandoned by another suicide.

"Did you do this?" You wonder aloud, having yet to venture above the water. It was a reasonable question, you thought. Sometimes the Ocean got greedy and claimed the life of whoever she pleased on a whim. But even before her answer came, you already knew what she would say.

No, my child. This was decided before I got to him. Retrieve him now and bring me his soul.

Through the inky depths you could feel it; the last vestiges of life as it crept from his flesh. A sense of anguish, too profound for words. Somewhere beneath you, in the vast void of nothing, someone was dying.

Without wasting a moment more, a powerful surge of your tail sends you hurtling through the darkness. You navigate currents with ease and follow the tendrils of grief until you see the outline of a man suspended. Weightless.

Below him, the nameless husks of the dead swarmed. The Unrested, as you called them, were the tormented beings who had died at sea but were never delivered to the afterlife. Their souls remained here, caught between plains and desperate to cross over by any and all means.

Gnarled fingers belonging to the watery demons claw at his boots, desperate for even a fragment of his life source. You catch the sailor under his arms and tug, freeing him from their wretched grasp. Should they have gotten to him before you, his soul would have been torn apart and devoured before you could shelter it. The Unrested would try to replace his spirit with their own, masquerading as his essence in hopes to succumb to siren song themselves.

But it didn't work like that.

Though his limbs dragged limply behind him as you distanced yourself from the writhing mess of death, he wasn't quite gone yet. His unconscious mind was fading while his soul reached out from the cavity of his chest, searching for whatever would hold him. It was mournful, in a way. There was such an infinite complexity to him yet still he felt hollow. Lonely, in how he reached for you. For something. For anything.

"It's alright." You soothe your palms over his shoulder blades. "You're not alone. I'll take care of you now."

And so you began to sing.

You spoke the ancient tones that were scribed on stone and lost to the deepest parts of this world. They were the words that would allow his corporeal form to release his soul to you — a haunting melody of sleep and death and ease. But even as you sang, something within him repelled your power.

Some people were more receptive to the end than others, and this sailor was certainly stubborn. Despite his willingness to plunge into the icy basin, he still seemed hesitant. Resistant. It was that very resistance which concocted a flicker of doubt in your mind. Perhaps he wasn't as ready to die as the Ocean claimed he was.

Keep trying. You mustn't let him go.

Repressing the notion that to continue was wrong, you intensify your song in hopes of coaxing him towards his final breath. How you try, but still he fought. Some part of him refused to accept this as the end and before you could utter the final verse of a swan song, you falter. It's a crescendo cut short. A coda left unresolved and with nowhere to return.

"He doesn't want to go." You whisper. Webbed fingers curl into the sodden weave of his sweater and his head bobs down to rest in the crook of your neck. Your heart does something foreign then, and you pull him close.

It doesn't matter what he wants. The Ocean spits. He is here. He plunged from his boat of his own volition. His fate is out of his hands now.

Something in his soul intertwines with yours and suddenly that disjointed ache in his bones made sense. He hadn't come seeking death. He hadn't wanted to die to escape his past. This man was escaping his future — one that could never entirely be known. There was something so profound and utterly human in his unique despair and it appealed to a part of you that had been long repressed.

"You're right." You say, reverent. "His life is out of his hands now... It's in mine."

NO.

The syllable was a roar but you were already swimming with the man clutched to your chest. You race upwards, chasing what silver strands of moonlight filtered from above.

Defying the Ocean was a risky game. She could just as easily sentence you both to a watery grave, but you had to do this. You had to try. There was still a chance for his lungs to recover if you acted fast enough and somehow you knew that he still had more to give. He still had more to live for.

An angry wave crashes over your head when you surface, threatening to steal the sailor from your arms. You barely manage to keep hold of him, cursing the Ocean while you fight to keep his head above water. Rain pelts down from every angle and the wind seems intent on stealing your breath away. Despite the elements working against you, you manage to tow the man to shore.

A lighthouse sits as a beacon off the bay, it's beam sweeping across the deserted harbour while you drag him up the rocky beach. It was a place secluded enough that nobody should see you if you moved quickly, but it was also near enough to civilization that someone would surely find him. Sharp stones and bits of shell catch painfully between the scales of your tail but the sting was a background thing. You were far more focused on pulling the man far enough up from the waterline so that the Ocean couldn't reach him. The sea continued to lap at his ankles and shiver across your fanned fins. There was greed in the angry waves that skittered up the rocks.

She still wanted him.

Now that you no longer had the water to assist with his bulk, you realized just how much he weighed. He was heavy like a sea lion — and whiskered like one, too. You tangle your hands through his wild beard, finding it to be scratchy but somehow smooth. Both soft and rough in the same moment and you find that to be fascinating. You'd been close to human men before when you were collecting souls, but never were you permitted to indulge in your curiosity. None of them had been as big as this man, and you'd be remiss if you passed up the opportunity to explore.

Tentatively, you brush your fingers over the purpled lines set below his eyes. He looks tired, even for a fisherman. At least, you'd been assuming he was of the profession. He certainly had the build for it. Your hands looked tiny where they are braced on his massive shoulders and his arms were thick, as were his middle and legs. Every part of him seemed built for physical labour — for hauling in ropes and traps and nets of cod.

Not for dying at sea. He was too strong for that.

A palm smooths over his chest and you drop your ear to his heart. A faint, rhythmic thumping is barely heard over the crashing waves. It's weak, but unmistakably there. His chest doesn't rise, though. A frown creases your eyebrows. That wasn't right. Humans needed oxygen to live. They couldn't filter it from the water like you could, but he was on land now. Why wasn't he breathing? He was out of the water, wasn't he supposed to wake up?

It was said that a kiss from a mermaid beneath the waves would grant a mortal to breathe through the ocean for a time. Maybe it could work on land, too. Maybe you could... somehow give him your breath?

You place a palm against his scruffy cheek and tilt his head towards you. With your mind made up to save him, you ever so cautiously close the scant distance between you and slant your lips across his own. Steady puffs of air filter into his lungs and you can taste the salt and loose sand and rain on his tongue. Your eyes never leave his face while you work, praying for some sign of life to return. Come on, you urge silently. Please, come back.

Finally, the man convulses and coughs up brine. Seawater bubbles up from his lungs and dribbles down the sides of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. You sit back triumphantly, watching in fascination how he turns on his side and braces his forearms beneath him. When he's finally stopped wheezing and able to take a ragged breath on his own, he sees you. Eyes the colour of a glassy lake widen as he takes in the beautiful creature before him.

"Bloody hell." His throat sounds raw and still a little waterlogged. He's stunned, staring at you as if he weren't quite certain of his reality. "Are you real?"

The man's attention diverts to the gills fluttering over your ribs, the delicate webbing between your fingers, and the fact that you had a scales and a tail in place of legs. Most of the world knew your existence to be that of a legend. A fisherman's fantasy. Yet here you were, before him in the flesh.

"Yes." You smile, keeping still so as not to startle him further. "I'm real."

"Am I–?" He splutters, coughing again.

There's an uncomfortable amalgamation of emotion which seeps from him even still. Disappointment, wonder, and a sorrow as vast as the horizon. That was odd. You would have expected relief to overshadow it all. That was there too, but buried.

"You're okay." You speak softly, tilting your head. Why did he still seem troubled?

The man swallows hard, throat bobbing. His fingers tremble as they extend, hesitantly brushing along the dip of your hip where flesh began sprouting scales. Your skin ripples at his touch but you don't pull away. His curiosity, like yours, was gentle. Tender.

The storm fades into the background, becoming a dull rush in your ears. It was as if you were listening from under the water, removed from reality. You can hear his breathing, his heartbeat, and even the creak of wet wool fibres of his jumper when he pulls away. You regard each other then, each cautious of the other while equally as captivated.

On the cliffs above the beach, a vehicle comes roaring to a halt. Its headlights expose the brutal rains in two long, tunnelling beams before they blink off, leaving you dazed. Someone slams the drivers door up on the incline and steps out into the monsoon.

"Price!?" A new man yells over the whistling wind. "CAPTAIN!"

John reorients to the voice, glancing over his shoulder. He sways with the movement that proves too much too soon and when he looks back towards the sea, you're gone.

He blinks.

He blinks again.

You're still not there.

Only a murky shoreline that bleeds into the black of night remains.

"Steamin' Jesus, Cap!" Johnny comes skidding down the beachfront, spraying up sand and pebbles in his wake. His coast guard jacket is open in the front like he'd barely had time to shrug it on at all before jumping in his car. "What the hell are you doin' out here in a bloody sump?"

"I saw a fuckin' mermaid." John points to the sea crashing behind them. "Right here with me. Did you...?"

"Christ, yer away with it." Johnny mutters, lifting him under the arms and hoisting him to unsteady feet. "Right you are. I'll bet you kissed a fairy, too."

A laugh, or perhaps a sob dissipates into a watery cough when Soap heaves him upright. Price wobbles, drunk and disoriented from the rough sea. Loose gravel beneath his boots does nothing to aid his stability and he sways into his friend.

"I swear she was singin'..."

"Easy there, big man." Johnny steadies him. "Let's get you dry. Ye' can tell me all about it inside. Lucky it's my night off of watch." The two begin towards the small cottage at the base of the lighthouse. "Did ye' happen to see Nessie out there with tha' mermaid o' yours?" His voice grows fainter as they stumble up the path and out of reach of the storm. "Lass still owes me a drink..."

The loud, Scottish brogue carries across the water to where you hide beneath the nearby dock, tail wrapped around one of the support beams to keep you anchored against the pull and sway of the tides. You watch from the safe distance as the other human man carts the sailor up the shore. They disappear around the bend and you linger a moment longer in that feeling of contentment. He deserved to live. Although he didn't seem to agree, you knew that saving the him had been the right thing to do.

No.

"Oh, it was one soul." You scowl, fed up with the Ocean and her dramatics. "One soul who didn't want to drown. Not truly."

That is irrelevant. She snaps. You can't go playing with fate, child. I decide who lives. I decide who dies. The man lives on borrowed time now. I will not be so forgiving again.

An undercurrent snags the soft fins of your tail and unravels it's hold on the darkened pillar. Reluctantly, you allow yourself to be washed away from the coastal town and back out towards the dark, lonely depths of the sea.

That girl didn't want to die, she just wanted out of that house or whatever that audio is. Sorry for the long wait and sorry again because it will be a long time before the third chapter comes out probably. I'm focusing a bit more on my Nikolai fic and my Backrooms fic rn and aside from that, I just don't have the ability to turn out parts as fast as other authors do 😔. I really wish that I could, but I can only do so much in a day :(

Plus, brain fog :(

This was it, John's last day on earth.

It had been decided by him in a moment of lucidity last night. There was that eerie calm that washed over him as he'd gone to sleep, but it was hardly the first time he'd confronted death. No, the two were well acquainted. Mortality was one of his closest chums from his years of active service, and one of the only ones to check up on him after retirement. He'd known for a while that his time was ever-dwindling, but it had only been the night before that he truly understood what that meant.

His seconds were stuck like the broken hand on his great grandfather's pocket watch. It still ticked, just never forward. John felt a creeping sense of sameness. He hadn't really made it out of the military. Some part of it was still fully wedged like shrapnel between his ribs and there it lurked, piercing his lungs when he breathed and rearing it's ugly head when it thought he'd forgotten.

Given the choice, he would rather be the catalyst of his time, so today was the day he would die.

Maybe the sea knew it, too. The weather was perfectly calm this morning. Deceptively so. The waves were serene and the breeze gentle, but the ache in his knee told him all he needed to know. By evening the ocean would turn rough and the creatures would take harbour beneath the choppy surface. His old war injury flared up each time the wind changed and it had been bothering him since the sun rose. A storm was certainly brewing.

"Good catch today, Cap!" Kyle—his shipmate—calls out, scattering John's silent reflection. Gulls call and circle against the water colour sky and a few of the braver ones swoop down in hopes of snagging themselves some freshly caught breakfast from the deck.

"Good haul." He agrees absently. Their fishing boat, the Albatross, slows as she comes into the bay and John tugs his woollen hat down over his ears against the early chill. "Won't need me out with you much longer. You'll be captaining a ship of your own before you know it."

"Ah, don't say that. I don't know where I'd be without your sage guidance and wisdom." Gaz winks from behind the wheel.

"I'm hardly old enough for my advice to be considered wisdom, Kyle." John replies with a condescending smile. He wasn't even forty for heavens sake. "But I think you'll be alright. You're more than capable."

"Well, thank you very much, sir." Gaz says, looking pleased. Fenders bump between the Albatross and the dock, pillowing her sides while they moor. John wonders absently if he'll miss the familiar sway. He often felt far more stable on the water than he did on land.

"You can thank me by taking this lot into town and doing the deliveries." He claps his friend on the shoulder and swings a leg over the side of the boat.

"Without you, Cap?" Gaz pauses, hesitating by the stack of full crab traps.

"Sure." He shrugs, pulling his sore knee onto the wharf. "Problem?"

"Course not." He says slowly, gauging John's behaviour with a tilt of his head. "It's just that—you usually tend to be... well... a bit overbearing about getting the deliveries out on time, if I'm being honest."

John has to chuckle at that. He supposed his rigid regime for getting the local storefronts their catch of the day could come off as 'a bit overbearing,' as his shipmate put it. "I'm doin' you a favour, is all, lad. The girl from Wavefront Wok n' Grill is sweet on you. Go chat her up."

And how can he not grin at the dopey expression that lights up Kyle's face at the mere mention of her?

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Gaz sighs wistfully. John hadn't missed the way the boy turned on the charm whenever they delivered a batch of seafood to the Asian restaurant. The owners daughter, Stacy, seemed insistent on being the one to take in the inventory, always eager for the chance to flirt with Kyle. He was surprised that he hadn't made a move on her yet. The two of them seemed inevitable, really.

You'll miss their wedding.

The thought rises unbidden, punching out from behind his sternum. He knows that Kyle sees him as something more than a Captain. As more than a friend, even. Gaz sees him as a father figure of sorts and John couldn't help but treat his best crewman as if he were his own son. Of course he would be wanted at the ceremony when the time came. Of course he'd want to be there for his mate.

Price quickly shakes his head against the intrusive notion before the guilt could eat too far into his plans.

"Take her to dinner tonight." He clears his throat and drops his eyes. "You've more than earned the time off."

"Aw, brill! We'll save you some dessert."

"No need for all that." John forces an easy laugh. "Just show her a nice time."

"Yes, Sir." Kyle salutes, leaning over to hoist a cooler of fish up onto the dock.

"And be responsible." He can't help but add in a tone bordering on paternal.

"Always, Cap."

He nods once, satisfied. Gaz is a good kid. A gentleman. If he treats Stacy half as well as he treats the Albatross, she'll be in good hands.

John sniffs the salty brine that hangs in the air, swiping at his dripping nose with half frozen knuckles. His boots land heavy on the well worn dock as he heads back to his lighthouse. The planks are slick and swollen with the spray of the Atlantic and there's something achingly final about the sound of his footfalls today. It's no different than yesterday or the day before. No different than the first time he strode down this very wharf but at the same time, it's never been the same. Nor will it be again.

He doesn't leave a note.

There was nothing left to say.

John had considered writing out all the things he wanted to tell the people who would mourn him but ultimately decided against it. Mainly because he didn't want to give them more to grieve, but also because it made him feel pathetic. All he would ever be to this town was a lonely old man haunted by the things he'd done in the name of Queen and Country. It was too late in his life to find a wife, and what family he once had were long gone.

Gaz was the closest thing he'll ever have to a son, and even then he wouldn't be needing Price as a mentor much longer. Although he cared for them all a great deal, he knew the people in town would survive without him. Life went on. Time didn't falter. It would have once hurt his soul to feel forgotten, but what's left of it now is mangled and scarred.

His dog, a huge black newfie, ambles past him from the living room and nudges his dodgy knee.

"Christ, Roach." John grunts, whiskey spilling straight from the bottle in his hands. "Careful, old boy." He shifts his twinging leg out of the way, gingerly rubbing the joint. The dog seems to huff apologetically as he settles down beside the kitchen table, heavy tail thumping against the floor. John sighs deeply and gives him a pat on the head.

"You'll be alright. Kyle will take real good care of you, I promise." He slurs before downing the rest of the golden liquor. Gaz would surely be round in the next few days when he didn't hear from John. Roach would be alright until then. He'd leave plenty of food out and make sure to fill the tub so he'd have water. And if Gaz didn't want to keep him, John was almost certain that Simon Riley would take the mutt.

Simon was the fishmonger and resident ghost of the village, known for haunting the streets after dark with his melancholy. He was a bit of a loner. A restless soul. He was still grieving the loss of his late wife seven years on and, like John, was ex-military. He liked to think they'd bonded over evenings spent in the pub, but he still didn't know much about the man. Price reckoned Simon's discharge from service hadn't been the same as his own, but neither of them liked dredging up the past so he didn't ask. Still, he felt they shared a sort of unspoken accordance.

John himself had become untethored after his own departure from the military. It was an honourable one, of course. Nobody had been pleased to see him go, but his injury was permanent. It would only be a hindrance in the field and he couldn't stand the thought of getting fat behind a desk, so he retired.

He'd felt lost ever since, drifting through life without any real purpose. All he ever did now was live the same day over and again, suspended in some kind of time loop and just waiting for his body to give out on him. That's not how he wanted to go. He'd rather it be on his terms, while he still had some autonomy over his gammy leg. If it was still good for something, he supposed it would always be reliable for predicting the weather.

The winds had changed that afternoon, and by nightfall came the rain. Windows rattled and shook with the force of the gales and precipitation peppered the glass like the mockery of bullet spray. There was comfort in the familiarity, if nothing else.

John groans as he pushes himself to his feet, swaying on dry land. There was no bother to be had for straighening up his house. His belongings would be cleared out soon, anyway. The big light at the top of the lighthouse comes on like clockwork. They had it on a system now, which made him feel even more redundant. The world had no place for him anymore. No use for him.

Roach follows his owner to the door, whimpering. His tail is tucked between his hind legs and he paces anxiously as John pulls on his favourite coat.

"No. I need you here t' look out for 'em." He says gruffly, smoothing down the soft fur of the dogs ears and patting his flank. "Stay." His voice cracks on the final syllable and he slips out into the night before he can change his mind.

Feeling pleasantly numb and more than a little giddy, John stumbles down the rocky beachfront. Roach's forlorn howls mingle with the wind until the two become indistinguisable and the sides of his unzipped jacket snap at his back. Sand and loose stones shift beneath his boots as he makes his way to where the old rowboat sits behind the bungalow, upturned and unused. Her wooden hull was grey with age and soft from disuse and the oars felt a little more brittle than he would have liked. It didn't matter, though. All she had to do was get him out far enough in the harbour one more time. There was no concern to be had for making it back.

Freezing drops sting the backs of his shaking hands as he flips her over. The dinghy tumbles and knocks into his knees, sending a dull jolt of pain up his thigh. He grits his teeth and straightens, cursing. Once dragging it down the shore, he gives the boat a swift kick in retaliation and shoves it into the frigid water. The force of the waves crashing against the shoreline threaten to bring her back aground, as if the world was begging him not to go.

"Don't try to save me now." He mutters. The time for that had passed.

The beam from his lighthouse sweeps across the inky bay, illuminating Johnny's life boat as he chugs east. It was a rough night to be patrolling, but it was imperative that someone was out there in storms like these. Those foolish enough to sail in this weather would be thanking their stars to see him, but only when the coast guard's stern-lights are visible does John begin to row west.

With the harsh winds and rolling waves, it takes him double the effort to make it out into the open seas. His shoulders ache from rowing all the way out here against the tide, but that was alright—John didn't want to go easy. He would not go gentle into the night, which was exactly why he had waited for a freak storm like this to execute his plan. In his mind it was justified less as giving up if he had to fight to get here.

Hopefully the townsfolk would simply think he drowned in an accident. It would be easier for them to believe than figuring the truth. "Poor luck," they'd say. "Even a swimmer as strong as he couldn't have stood a chance against a tempest."

A particularly intense sheet of rain passes over him and he finally pulls in the oars. For a moment, he lets himself drift, tossed about without worry. He closes his eyes, cocooned by the violent roar of the elements. Rain, wind, and sea. For a second that's all there is. The beginning and end of everything hails from a monsoon, and perhaps that's all there ever was.

When he opens his eyes again, the sleepy harbour town seems as close as it ever was; reduced to a warm, inviting glow over the horizon. A smudge of amber on an artist's canvas. A life that cozy was never within his reach. Simplicity always taunted him with how good he could've had it if only he had tried a little harder to settle down in his youth. Christ, he isn't even that old, but still past his prime.

"Fuck off." He swipes at the moisture clinging to his eyelashes. Whether it was rain or his own tears, he really couldn't say.

John takes one final look at the village where he'd once prayed for salvation until it blurs into the waterline.

Kyle was probably making Stacy laugh in a booth at her favourite restaurant right about now. He could imagine Laswell settling down in front of her TV, her wife berating her for having a smoke before they settled in for the evening. He imagined Simon was probably wandering the streets as usual, dressed only in a hoodie even in this weather. And Johnny, of course, was doing his patrols of the coast.

"You'd better treat them better than you treated me." He chokes.

He's not sure if he's calling to a god, the sea, or to no one at all. His words are snatched by the wind as soon as they pass his lips and promptly whisked away, dissipating into the night. He smiles. He can't stop himself. Laughter bubbles up in his throat as he stands, rocking precariously in the tiny rowboat. It's an uncomfortable kind of laugh, one that comes at the most inopportune times and one that you can't repress. There's no joy in it. No glee.

Guffaws meld into sobs. A haunted cry of utter despair rips from his chest, and then John Price topples into the sea.

The ocean swallows him eagerly, tugging him down... down... down. There's a moment when the water spills into his lungs where he wonders if everything could have been different. If perhaps that old, broken hand of time could have been mended, or if he'd always end up here: stuck between seconds. For the first time in his life he feels weightless. Euphoric, as the depths disorient him. This was peace, he convinced himself as unconsciousness swept him into death's embrace.

This was peace.

At last.

Nooo don't kill yourself your so sexy ahaha

Tbh I wrote this when I was severely depressed last year but omllll bro was cooking. I'm so excited to share this with you guys, I miss living in a fishing village sm. Maybe I need to run away to the english coast or smth and become a mermaid, idk. That might be the play. GUYS WHO WANTS TO PLAY MERMAIDS WITH ME LATER

Dividers by me and I'm actually so proud of this <3

The sun smiled upon everyone just as unequally. Some basked in parks or from rooftops, bathed in the golden light. Others were barely touched by the warmth while they kept to overhangs or alleys or offices. And many, like you, were entirely blinded by the dazzling glass and chrome that caught the early morning rays. Shades were pulled down and drivers squinted behind tinted glasses, each of them hoping to catch a break in the shade at the next intersection.

The glare is finally averted when you pull into the underground parcade attatched to your apartment, the rush of wheels on pavement and wail of a lonely saxophone fading along with the early sun. A covered cup of coffee sits steaming in the cup holder and you brave a sip. It was still scalding, even after the trip across town. Fanning your singed tongue, you pull out the keys from the ignition and accept an incoming call from your father.

"Hey Dad."

"Hi Peaches." The familiar childhood nickname never fails to bring a nostalgic smile to your face.

"What's up?" You ask, tucking your phone between shoulder and chin. "Are you at the airport yet?" He was flying in from Rome tonight and he'd promised to take you out to a nice dinner after being away on business for so long.

"Actually, there's been a change in plan." He says regretfully. "I'm afraid we're going to have to reschedule. Another work thing's come up and I really need to be here for this, I'm sorry."

"Oh." Disappointment threatens to bleed into your next words. "That's okay. I get it." And you did, you'd just been so looking forward to seeing him in person again rather than the brief words exchanged over long distance calls he'd make whenever he got a moment. You shut your car door a little too hard and it echos on the low cement ceiling.

"I promise I'll make it up to you, this deal is just too important to lose." He tells you, like his daughter wasn't the same. But you knew the deal by now; work came first so that you were provided for. He assured you that he was only away so often because it meant your future would be secured. In his mind, that counted as keeping you his top priority.

"I know." You set your cardboard coffee down on top of your car when it starts to burn your fingertips. "I'll cancel the res. Is next week good, instead?"

His silence is telling. A deep, irritated sigh leaves your chest in a rush.

"Okay, well—when you're back, text me." You snap, previous anticipation shattered.

"I will, honey. I can't apologise enough."

"It's fine, Dad." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I hope your buisness goes well."

"Thank you. Hey—keep the reservation if you'd like. Find a friend to dine out with, okay? You can still have a nice evening." He sounds hopeful. At least he's tryng, you supposed, in his own way.

A few parking spaces down, someone slams the sliding door of a van. The amplified slam startles you into flinching and a tube of lipstick spills from your purse. It rolls smugly beneath your car, slow enough that you could have caught it if you had acted fast enough. You send a pointed glare towards the man you don't recognize getting out of the van, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy patting down his pockets for keys. New tenant, you supposed.

"You still there?"

"Yeah. I'll ask around. I mean, it is a Wednesday evening, but I'll see if anyone's free."

"That's the spirit. Try to make the best of it, and I'll see you when I can." Someone else on the other end of the line says something that you can't make out. You hear your dad's palm cover the reciever and he shouts something back in eaqually as garbled tones. "Listen," he says, returning attention to you. "I've got to go. Promise we'll talk soon. Love you."

"Love you too, Dad." You mumble before hanging up.

Wonderful. As if it wasn't enough that plenty of dates stood you up on the regular, but now your own father had to go and cancel on you last minute as well. You'd kick the front tire of your car if it wouldn't smudge that black stuff on your nice shoes.

With a disgruntled huff, you drop to your knees on the filthy parking lot floor and reach around blindly beneath the carriage for your makeup. It couldn't have rolled that far, right? You weren't exactly keen on army crawling under the vehicle to retreive it, but it was a really pretty shade on you... Should it come down to that, you think you'd make the sacrifice.

Luckily you didn't have to, though, since the lipstick had stopped within arms reach behind the front tire. Rising successfully, you tuck the tube back into your purse and nearly jump out of your skin. At the end of your car stood a bear of a man, just watching as you fished around on the floor.

He was all shoulders and big torso wrapped in a brown leather jacket; one that was worn in with age rather than off-the-shelf distressed. His dark hair is slicked back and a thick gold chain around his neck glints as coyly as his grin.

"Oh my god—" you press a hand to your chest, looking him over uncertainly. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Ah, my apolagies." He holds out his own meaty hands in a placating gesture. "I did not mean to scare you."

There's a chuckle behind his voice that puts you on edge. You were always weary of men who approached you—and with good reason. Girls disappeared all the time. Not specifically in this part of town, but the threat was always there. The sentiment of caution was easily tripled when someone managed to get you alone in a car park like this.

"It's fine. Can I help you?" You casually curl your fingers around your keys and slot them between your knuckles.

"Da." He confirms with a Russian accent as thick as the hair on his head. "If you wouldn't mind, of course."

"Um, that depends on what you need." You take a half step back.

"Of course." He steps back as well, making himself as non-threatening as a man his size could be. "Like I said, I had not meant to scare you. You see, my daughter is asleep in the van and I forgot her diaper bag in my apartment. She is a fussy baby and I do not want to wake her to go all the way back up to get it. Could you stay with her? Just for a minute? I'm trying to give my wife a break, I don't want to trouble her to bring it down for me."

Your grip on the keyring loosens at the mention of a wife, but only slightly. Every instinct was telling you to say no, but what if he was being honest? You couldn't in good concience let a baby be left alone down here. Anything could happen in the short time it would take him to pop up to his apartment and back. Besides, wasn't it good to know your neighbours? If he had in fact just moved in (since you were sure you hadn't seen him before) needn't you make a good first impression?

"I... I suppose." You agree, albeit reluctantly.

"Blagodarju, you are saving my life!" He presses his hands together as if praying in gratitude before motioning down the roadway. "She is just this way."

A beat passes while you wait for him to move so you can follow, but he remains still. Expectant.

"Okay..." You draw out the word when he still doesn't budge. His position leaves very little space between him and the bumper of your car and it's clear that he expects you to squeeze by. Too anxious to say anything about it, you suck in a breath and hedge past with a soft spoken apology. As if you were the one in the way of him.

Up close, you can smell the mechanic oozing off of him. Engine grease, cologne, and metal. He radiates a heat that should be unnatural, you think. His wife must never need a blanket at night. Only when you're clear if him do you release that breath, trying to shake off the weirdness. You're just helping out a new neighbour. That's all.

"How old is your baby?" You break the awkward silence as he leads you towards his van.

"My zvezdochka is six months now. I am taking her out to give my wife a break. She works so hard. Even when I tell her to rest she is on her feet." He shakes his head in good humour. "Do you have children?"

A snort escapes you. No, you'd never had the opportunity for that. You barely felt old enough to take care of yourself most days, let alone a tiny life for more than an hour. Pregnancy and kids were incredibly low on the list of things you wanted for yourself at the moment.

"I don't." You compose yourself.

"There is still time yet." He pauses at the end of the van you'd seen him getting out of earlier.

"I guess." You hum, not about to debate your veiws on motherhood with a stranger. With a man, no less.

"Come." He steps around the large concrete pillar to open the sliding side door. Coos of a happy baby can be heard from inside his vehicle and you come around the barrier to greet his daughter. Except—there was nothing there. The interior of the van had been entirely stripped bare. There were no seats, no cradle, no baby. Just a lone speaker in the center of a plywood floor playing those innocent, joyful sounds.

"What—?" You look up and see that the man's easy smile is gone, replaced with a cold mask of apathy. A stone drops in your stomach, stretching your dread until the surface breaks and gives way to fully fledged panic.

"I am sorry, milaya."

Before you can even think to scream, an oppressive hand clamps across your mouth and he heaves you into the back of the van. You kick and squirm, desperately trying to grab at your keys for some form of a weapon but he easily plucks them from your fingers and tucks them into his jeans.

"Shh, shh. Don't fight me." The russian man shushes over the pre-recorded babbling. "Don't fight."

But of course you do.

Every self defence course you've ever taken is rendered useless when you can't remember a single move, but you fight him with all that you know instinctually; by clawing and scratching and biting. He's got you pinned, restricting your oxygen with a gloved hand over your mouth and pinching your nose. He keeps it there until your chest burns with the need for air and your struggling grows even more desperate. He watches your pupils blow wide until there's barely a ring of colour around them before lifting a finger and allowing you a single inhale.

It's a horrified gasp, ragged and ugly and laced with the distinct undertone of fuel. It's the kind of scent that lingers. The kind that you can't fully scrub from your skin after a long day of working with machinery. One that permeates every hairline crack in your flesh until it's seeped into your veins for good and becomes just as much a part of you as your own blood. As much as cruelty must be a part of this man.

Hot tears leak from the inner corners of your eyes, tracking down your cheeks to where they absorb into his knuckles. It's only following a prick to your arm that you realize he's injected you with something sinister. You feel a slow, burning sensation begin to trickle up your shoulder and down into your fingers, rendering them useless. A heavy numbness settles into your limbs and it only takes a second.

What the fuck did he give you? No drug that you were aware of could work that quickly. He slips your phone from your back pocket, turning it over and inspecting the case and cracked screen before slotting it into his jacket. His hand was no longer over your face, you realize belatedly, but your lips still won't seem to open. Your head spun and tingled and you couldn't talk. Some kind of strangled noise dies in the back of your throat when you try and he shushes you again.

"I know. It's okay." The man smooths a palm over your hair as if sympathetic despite his beastly actions. "You will understand soon, but for now this is necessary."

Vision stretches and time distorts. His voice sounds a million miles away as light pales and becomes deceiving. A sun blooms behind your irises, expanding until it engulfs your entire being in it's lazy, hot white flame. Your body twitches and your mind is left searching for something you can't seem to recall before—nothing.

Nothing at all.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly when you'd lost conciousness, but you knew with certainty when you'd regained it. You felt awful, like someone had tossed you in a machine set to tumble dry and left you to thump around the dryer drum for an hour. Every muscle in your body was beyond weak and although you willed your body to unfold from the crumpled heap and odd angles you were folded in, neither your arms nor legs would not respond. It felt like trying to move against quicksand. Heavy. You couldn't fight it.

So, you lay against the plywood floor in momentary defeat, the fear returning in a flood of emotion. Who was he? Where was he taking you? What did he want with you? Your head pounded and throbbed, a little foggy from whatever substance he'd drugged you with. The injection site still stung and burned and you wondered how long it would take to wear off. Hopefully soon, because you needed to be alert if you were going to get out of here.

Quietly taking stock of yourself, you gathered that after he'd knocked you out, he'd bound you. Rope looped around your wrists and ankles, softer than what you would have expected. The length wasn't scratchy or frayed but rather smooth. Except when the knots rubbed at your delicate skin. Then it felt rough and chafing. Your mouth was dry and sticky, but thankfully uncovered. At least he hadn't gagged you.

Once you gather enough strength to heave yourself upright, you glance around. Or, you try to. Light barely made it into the back of the van since the windows were replaced with metal panels. You weren't exactly sure if that was legal or not, but surely the russian man wasn't too concerned about legality if he'd coerced you so easily and stole you away in broad daylight.

An abrupt turn sends you skittering across the floor and bumping into the side of the van. Your head knocks against the sliding door, impact jarring and rattling the teeth in your skull. The ride couldn't have been more uncomfortable, you think, grimacing. You were in the belly of a hollow beast, it's innards bare and it's bones exposed.

He was still driving. You could feel the rattle of the engine and hear the rush of the tires beneath you. That was good, it meant you had time to come up with an escape plan. Although it grew difficult to breathe and your head was still spinning, you tried to focus on getting out of your ropes. You had to get them untied. You had to get away.

Get away, get away, get away.

Get out, get out, get out.

The words repeated in your brain like a scratch in vinyl, stuck in an infernal loop. It was impossible to tell how the man had tied them in the dark, so you had to rely on touch alone. Your felt over the knots, prodding and pulling at the ties with your fingers but it was no use. The more you tugged at the binds around your ankles the tighter they got. Whatever knots he had used to secure you, they weren't going to be easy to untie. It was useless to keep picking at them unseen, so you switched tactics.

It was difficult and incredibly awkward, but somehow you managed to get your feet beneath you and stand. Clinging to the walls for balance, you shuffled around the perimiter of the stuffy van as best that you could with bound legs. You were feeling around for anything that he might have left back here—anything you would be able to use as a weapon—but you found nothing. He'd been thorough in gutting it. Even the bluetooth speaker had been removed.

A bead of sweat rolled down your spine. You should have felt hot with the way you were sweating in here, but you couldn't seem to stop shaking. You were cold, instead. Freezing.

Discouraged and increasingly dreading the outcome, you collapse back into the corner and curl into a ball. You couldn't seem to breathe properly and panic was quickly mounting. Violent shivers wracked your body as you gasped for air.

This couldn't be happening. How could this be happening? Girls from neighbourhoods like yours didn't get kidnapped. That was always meant to happen to someone else, somewhere on the bad side of town. Fresh tears dripped from your lashes and raw terror filtered through your veins long after you stopped hyperventilating.

This was going to be it, you thought. What if nobody realized you were missing until it was too late? Your dad usually called you every morning. That meant he wouldn't know anything was up until tomorrow, and by then you could be long gone. What if nobody ever found you and you were forgotten, passed off as a runaway and reduced to a file cast into the depths of some abandoned cold case folder?

The van takes another sharp turn onto a bumpy gravel road and the unexpected motion sends you sprawling across the floor again. Only this time, you land on something jagged. A length of splintered wood digs into your arm and you cry out in relief. Hope. It was a hell of a thing.

You waste no time in prying up the chunk of loose plywood until you're able to slip the binds around your wrists beneath it and start sawing. You work the rope back and forth over the sharp edge, frantically trying to cut all the way through by the time your captor stops. But unfortunately, it's not like it is in the movies. It takes a long time before you've even made a dent in the fibers, and by then you can feel the vehicle slowing.

You roll to a halt without having gotten anywhere near halfway through the rope, so you panic and do the next logical thing. As the driver cuts the engine and hops out of the cab, you close your fists around the loose section of panelling and pull. Bits of the plies stab into your palms but you don't stop. With a satisfying and splintering crack, the wedge finally comes free and you hold it out in front of you like a knife. It looked like a poor impression of a stake, but it was better than nothing.

The back doors swing open and the abrupt light that floods into the van threatens to disorient you. His shadow fills the opening, just a large, imposing mass. Behind him are... trees. A lot of them. A raven caws somewhere in the distance and the air smells distinctly of evergreen. You certainly weren't in the city anymore.

Your eyes readjust on the man who's currently taking in your brandishing of the feeble weapon. He almost looked amused at your attempt to fight back.

"Clever girl." He raises a brow, glancing down to the death grip you've got on the slivered wood. His expression twists into a frown when he sees your bloody fingers. "Too clever." He grunts, displeased. "You have hurt yourself."

"Let me go." Your voice warbles at the end, making your demand seem more like a desperate plea.

"Ah, I cannot." He clicks his tongue apologetically. "Come. We will go inside now. Out of the scary van, yes?" He holds out his hand like he actually expects you to take it.

You shake your head. As much as you'd grown to hate it, the prospect of being taken somewhere unfamiliar was even more frightening than staying in here. It would no doubt be much more permanent than this, so yeah, you'd take the van.

"I don't want to hurt you..." His tone softens for a moment but his eyes remain cruel "...so don't make me hurt you. Put down your little shiv and come here."

"No." You whisper. It wasn't the answer he was hoping for but indeed the one he was expecting. With a long suffering sigh, he climbs up into the back with you and you thrust a half-hearted stab in his direction. He completely ignores it. The bumper sags beneath his weight and you scramble back with nowhere to go when he advances. "No!"

With a blank expression, he plucks the jagged weapon from your hands unused and tosses it out the back. You hear it land somewhere across the clearing and then he takes hold of your arm to drag you kicking and screaming from the van.

"Wait—stop—please! Let me go!!" You protest, struggling to get away but his grip was bruising.

"You are only making this harder on yourself." He shakes his head like this was nothing more than a common hindrance when you go limp. Your attempt to go boneless and slip from his grasp backfires on you though, because he simply scoops you up and heaves you over his shoulder. You find yourself facing his back, upside-down and discombobulated once more as he strides towards a dilapidated house that would not be out of place in a horror movie.

He totes you through the front door, down a hallway, past a living room straight out of the 70s, and then he takes you down into the basement on his right. He stomps down the stairs as you cry, unmoved by your tears or broken pleas. When he reaches the bottom you can see that it's an open space, largley unfinished with concrete floors and half done walls.

It absolutely reeks of old cigarettes and stale piss and you claw at the banister but to no avail. In one corner, someone had started building the framework for the walls of a small bathroom, but that was about as far as they got. Wooden beams with no panelling or insulation surround a very dirty toilet and chipped sink. In another corner and directly across from the stairs, is a bare mattress covered in stains you don't want to think about.

He deposits you there, rather unceremoniously. You land on your back with a grunt, barely avoiding getting your skull cracked open against the concrete floor. He takes advantage of you having your wind knocked out and uses it to secure your wrists to a large shackle above your head without resistance. A length of heavy chain now attaches your hands to the exposed brick wall behind the filthy bed.

The click and rattle cements something in your brain and you scream. You cry, fully distraught now. You pull the length of the shackles taught and keep screaming until your throat is raw and you simply can't anymore. The man watches the whole thing, standing back with his arms crossed, silently observing without any offer of conselation nor retribution.

When the adrenaline finally leaves you collapsed and spent, he moves. Slowly, so as not to startle you, he crouches beside the mattress and holds out a half squished granola bar.

"Nu vot." Here. "You must be hungry from all your tears."

When you fail to acknowledge or respond to him, he places the snack beside your leg and gives the wrapper a little pat.

"Not yet? You will be soon." He shrugs, stepping back and rolling his shoulders. He's far too unbothered with this whole situation. Why does he seem so casual about it all? How can he be? You swallow down a painful lump of bile. He's too practiced, you realize, and a chill skitters down your spine. He's done this before.

"Who are you?" You ask helplessly, words raspy and rough.

He looks down at you, considering if he should even answer at all. Then, after a moment, he does.

"You can call me Nikolai." He says eventually.

"Why did you take me, Nikolai?" You whisper, feeling a dull numbness slowly begin to replace your fear. He doesn't reply, but he also doesn't leave you alone just yet. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Niet." He smiles, not unkindly. You didn't expect him to laugh. "No, you will be back home in a week. Safe and sound, as long as you cooperate."

You stare blankly, unsure if he could really be telling the truth. You've seen his face and know his name. Home wasn't how things like this usually ended.

"Really. You're going to let me go?"

"Mmm." He hums.

"Aren't you scared I'll go to the police?"

The man—Nikolai—waves his hand dismissively.

"To policija?" He scoffs. The police? "No, I know you will not go to the authorities, milaya. It will become clear to you that we know where you live. We know where your friends live. We know your extended family. If you go to the police there will be consequences and we will deal them accordingly. So no," He grins, "I am not worried."

The blood in your veins chills to ice. If he knew about your loved ones, that implied he'd been watching you for a while. Everything about this felt... wrong. Especially that little slip of his tongue.

""We?""

Nikolai stands abruptly, clearing his throat. Perhaps he's realized that he's said more than he meant to. "Get some rest, you had a long day."

"What do you mean, "we?""

"Sleep well." He grunts, turning away from you and retreating back up towards the house. You scramble upright as best you can, desperate for more answers.

"Please! Why are you doing this?" You cry.

Nikolai pauses at the top of the stairs, one hand braced on the heavy basement door. "You will know soon. Da? For now, you will remain here until the others are ready for you."

And with those final cryptic words, he shuts you down here alone, leaving you to lay with your newfound sense of dread.

YOOOOO guys, thank you so much for reading!!! This is by far the biggest project I've started writing and I'm taking it so seriously. I locked tf in for this plot btw. It's gonna be some crazy stuff.

Just learned how to properly use the em dash... she is my favourite 😏. So if you see her a lot in my writing (I'm trying to restrain myself, I swear), that is why. I am not sorry about it though and also, you can use the em dash without having used AI. My slop is purely my own 😌🫶.

You're more than willing to comply. As you shimmy the fabric down your legs, Simon begins unbuckling his belt. The metallic jingle that takes over the silence activates a Pavlovian response in you. You're practically salivating at the sight of him unzipping his fly, tugging his boxers just enough to free his cock.

He's half hard already, giving himself a slow stroke from base to head.

"Come and keep me warm then, if you're so eager." He sits back, posture silently inviting you to his lap.

"I'll keep you warm, Si. I'll keep you so warm." You murmur as you straddle his waist. Big, rough hands ghost over your ribs to grip your hips, guiding your hole to his flushed tip.

"No moving." His voice is gravel, eyes are steel. If you didn't know him better you'd mistake his intensity for a glare. "You're not getting a thing until I'm done."

"We'll see." You smirk.

If he thinks having you cockwarm him is the best way to keep you occupied until he's done, he's in for a sore surprise. Inch by inch, you sink down. There's always a bit of a stretch at first, but by now you can acclimate to his girth fairly quickly.

"Better?" He asks when you've enveloped all of him, accent always thicker when he's inside of you.

"Getting there." You breathe, taking a second to adjust to this. He doesn't usually take you from this position and the new angle lets him reach even deeper, finding sensitive places you didn't even know you had. You shift your hips and feel him brush against a soft spot within your walls that has your toes curling already.

"Don't." His fingers slide down to your thigh and grip the flesh hard enough to bruise.

"Don't what?" You ask innocently, rutting against him again, clenching around his cock just to wind him up.

"Don't do that." He snarls. "Or I'll send you off to your toy."

"You wouldn't be so mean."

He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. You both know that he would, so you sit still for a moment while he readjusts the laptop on his knees. Simon hooks his head over your shoulder and loops his arms behind you to reach the keyboard. You let him work for a few minutes, running your fingers through his hair, along his neck, down his back. Definitely not trying to distract him at all.

When you squeeze your inner walls around him again he hisses and leans back to look at you.

"Told you to stop that." He slaps your thigh lightly, the impact stinging. "Christ, expecting me to focus while you're so hot and tight." His length jerks inside of you and you can't help but moan.

"It was your idea." You point out smugly. He returns a sharp look.

"Poor thing," you coo mockingly. "Are you having trouble focusing? Can't keep your head on straight and get your work done like a good boy?"

His eyes blaze at that, cheeks blooming pink and his fingers dig into your thighs.

"Oh." You purr. "You like being called a good boy? You like that?"

He nods, words choked and caught in his mouth.

"Then here's what's going to happen." You roll your hips and he lets out a strangled groan. "You're gonna forget about the job for fifteen minutes. You're gonna lay here and let me fuck you, okay? You think you can handle that?"

For a second he hesitates. Then, gradually his tensed muscles relax and he sinks back into the pillows. "Yeah, dove. Go on, then."

"Now who's eager?" Your palms slip beneath his shirt, gliding up the soft scars of his uneven skin he never lets you see. So you feel instead, loving him in the way he'll accept.

He shudders when you lift up until only the tip is nestled inside you, then slowly swallow him deep into your hole. It's a tease. A taste of his own medicine. He just loves to fuck you long and steady before letting you find release, loves to have you begging and crying for it. Well, you'd see how he liked it.

It only took a few more glides up and down his dick before his hips are bucking, desperate for more.

"Fuck." He stutters, pupils blown wide. "Fuck, give me more."

"So you can give but you can't take?" You click your tongue. "Not yet. Gotta be patient yeah? Said you'd be good for me."

"Bloody fuckin' christ." He groans. His fingernails dig into your ass and you decide to take pity on the poor man. You bounce faster, harder as you ride him. A white creamy ring is starting to form around the base of his cock and you grin, circling your hips to grind your pelvis against his.

"Look at that." You chuckle, heart racing in your chest. "You really like this, huh? It feels so good for me too. I needed this. I need this."

"Then take it." He practically begs you. "Take what you need from me."

"I will baby. I will."

And you do. You fuck him until the sweat gathered at your neck drips down your spine. Until your thighs are burning and the skin is raw from rubbing against the rough material of his jeans. Until his breath turns to harsh pants and he grunts the way he does when he gets close.

You are too, feeling that tightness coil in your gut. The rhythm of your hips turns sloppy while you chase your high and beneath you, Simon's muscles ripple and tighten.

"Love I'm- going to cum." Two of his fingers tap your knee. "You've got to get off."

"Oh, I'll get off." You smirk at the double meaning, never stopping your frantic motions. "I'll get you off, too. I want you inside me, Simon. Want to feel you cum inside me like a good boy."

It's those two words that prove to be his undoing. As soon as they pass your lips, he's shooting his thick hot ropes into your unprotected hole with a hoarse shout. His cock pulses in your spasming center, twitching against the perfect spot to trigger your own intense climax.

He holds onto you as you fuck you both through your shared orgasm, riding out the last waves of pleasure as one.

"Just like that, fuck." You lean down and graze your lips across his crooked nose. "Such a good boy."

He brings a callused palm to cradle your face, staring at you like you were his saviour.

"You-" He clears his throat. "You okay?"

"Mm. Are you?"

"Yeah lovie. Never knew you had a dominant streak in you."

"You never asked." You shrug, kissing the center of his palm. His slick release trickles down your thighs when you pull off of him with shakey legs. Before you can make a break for the bathroom to clean up, he catches you around your middle and keeps you near.

"Stay." He utters beneath his breath, tucking you under his arm. "Let me take care of you after that. Bet those knees won't make it halfway to the door."

You laugh because they won't. Simon nabs your previously discarded shirt and uses it to gently scoop away the mess between your thighs. His tenderness after sex always surprises you, but it never fails to stir up a fresh bout of lust.

"Tell you what." You make yourself comfortable beside him. "Get your work done in the next half hour and I'll take you for round two."