𓆟⋆｡. Salt-Stained Reverie

Well, I still 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 you on my lips. Lovely 𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗. When the canons fire and the storm 𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔯𝔰, there is silence in the soul. A stillness. A vow. Characters navigated by Apple for AvastRp

[tidecalld]

𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖆 𝕿𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗 // Stormborn of the Storm’s Eye

Biography (docs) // visage //  musings // playlist // pinterest.

𝕽𝖚𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖓 'ℜ𝔢𝔡 ℜ𝔲𝔢'' 𝖂𝖊𝖓 // Hostess & Tarot Reader at Dead Man's Bluff

Biography (docs) // visage // musings // playlist // pinterest.

[bittcrsweetmemxrics]

finn had replayed that night over time and time again. could he have saved her? was there something that he could have done that meant that she wasn't taken from him? he had replayed it a million different ways and it had always ended up the same ... with him being a coward. they'd made a pact - all those years ago - that they wouldn't let this happen. that they'd put an end to it if one of them was taken. he couldn't do it.

he didn't think that he could do it now, either.

at her question, his eyes widened slightly. he wished that he could only see the monster. to see the monster in her would be easy, there would be no hesitation. but it wasn't true. he saw her. he looked at priska and he saw the woman that had been his very reason for breathing. for so long, she had been the thing that had got him up every morning. she was what he had lived for. he could not look at her without seeing that - and also seeing the monster that had taken her from him. " i wish it were only the monster. " he admitted, finally, his gaze dropped from her.

he shook his head as she lined the weapon up, as her words filtered through his mind. he knew that she was right. that he needed to do this. he had to put an end to all of this. he couldn't let her walk away. he just didn't think that he could do it. " i love you. " the words were out before he could stop himself, " you knew that, right? ever since we were kids. " if this was the last time that he saw her, then he needed her to know that. if he was going to do this, he needed her to know just how much he still cared about her.

[tidecalld]

The silver writhed beneath her skin. Each shift a slow, searing reminder of what she had become. That she was not only just monster, but betrayal made flesh, with aching teeth as she could feel her body starting to fight back. Priska had promised herself all those years ago, as the first hunger gnawed at her, that she would never let herself consider a taste of him. Not for a single, trembling moment. That she would not imagine the turn of his wrist beneath her lips, not the pulse of his throat against her teeth, not the whisper of his name as she dragged him down into the endless night with her. To love him had always meant she was to destroy him, even when she had still been a living being. Too volatile, too many sharp edges..

She could see the slight tremble in his hands as they held the gun pointing at her heart. Not with fear, it seemed, but with the weight of a love he just admitted to. A love that had outlasted reason. Which did not bend, did not break, only burned and burned until there would be nothing left but ash. “Finn,” she breathed, her voice sounding small and fragile for the first time in years, “I...” Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to feel more of his warm body beneath her touch. She wanted to confess it all. Admit that her love was as eternal as her body was now, that her heart had never known another. But from her lips spilled another lie, like she had spun them for years to keep the one thing she truly loved safe. “You know I was never capable of loving you, the way you deserve to be loved. My heart has always been too dark.” The words were a confession, a curse. Even as the loneliness carved hollows in her chest, when she ached to be loved by him, she had kept her promise to keep him safe. Even as the scent of him, warm and alive, made her mouth water with a hunger that was not just for blood, but for the impossible.

Her laugh was a broken thing, a sound that did not belong to her anymore. “Look at me,” she whispered, as she stepped closer. Close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, close enough to drown in his eyes. “I am the ghost of every choice we never got to make, created the very moment our innocence died.” Her left hand lifted, no longer guiding the weapon, but to hover just shy of his skin. “You loved me when I was human. You loved me when I was gone. You loved me in all my unworthiness. And—” her voice cracked, “—all I can give you now is the mercy of not having to know what it is like to be loved by me.” She pressed her palm flat against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, she let herself imagine. Drowning out the sensation of him, mixed with the cold metal of the gun pressing against her heart “Make it count, please, before I no longer know how to contain myself.”

[scntimcntal]

With his toast delivered and his presence in the tavern asserted, Joaquin quickly turns his attention to what really matters: the night of revelry ahead of him. Summoning the barmaid back to replenish his empty cup, he launches into a colourful account of the events that had led to the Revenge's latest victory over the armadas of the civilised world, effortlessly holding court with the people that surround him.

But, as they say, there is no rest for the wicked. A keen-eyed Raider picks her way over to her captain's side, leaning in close to speak with him, and Joaquin cocks his good ear towards her, his frown of concentration quickly giving way to a smile. His lips form only two words in response: ¿eres segura?

Taking another unhurried sip of his drink, a moment passes, and then- "¡Amigo!" He calls, his voice rising easily over the clamour of the Cask's other patrons, his black eyes fixed resolutely on the pelirojo sitting a few tables away, "This is too fine a night to spend drinking alone. Join us!" Not a request. The woman still standing at Joaquin's shoulder smirks, knowing and unapologetic.

[tidecalld]

Cathal had already taken his eyes off Joaquin after the toast, drawn instead into quiet conversation with a barmaid whose smile was soft and inviting in the warm candlelight. She laughed almost too easily at something he murmured, fingers brushing his sleeve as she leaned closer, and for a moment the world narrowed pleasantly around them. Then the voice rang out again, so rich, commanding and impossible to ignore. - ¡Amigo! - The word cut clean through the noise, and there was no mistaking its target. The woman retreated a heartbeat too quickly, her gaze flicking past him with sudden caution. Cathal felt the weight of attention settle like a hand between his shoulders. Half the tavern watched them now, waiting. A challenge, an invitation, a test... perhaps all three. If it was spectacle the captain desired, then this tavern would become a theater, and Cathal would play his part upon its stage.

He turned slowly, deliberately, leaning one arm against the bar as though he had all the time in the world. His smile came easily. A most familiar, effortless curve that promised laughter and danger in equal measure. For a moment, he simply studied Joaquin, eyes tracing the lines of power and violence written into the man’s posture, as if he were still deciding who stood before him. As if he was still unsure of the other's name. Then he tipped his head in conceding amusement. “You’re absolutely right,” he said at last, voice carrying cleanly through the din. “It’s a night for camaraderie and celebration, or however you'd say it so passionately in Spanish.”

With that, he rose, downed his second drink in a single smooth swallow, and slammed his calloused hand against the bar. “A round of rum for all our friends here!” he called, the word friends ringing bright and generous. “And a fine whiskey for the both of us.” He nodded toward Joaquin, grin widening. The tavern erupted in cheers, hands clapping his back, voices lifting in grateful chaos as he stepped free of the bar’s shelter and crossed the floor.

He moved toward Joaquin with the loose, confident stride of a man who had never learned to fear a single thing in his life. Stopping just within easy speaking distance, he lifted his brows, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Ever tasted liquid Irish gold, mo chara?” he asked, warmth and challenge braided together in his tone. “Nothing beats a glass of it. The only proper start to a fine evening.” Tonight promised revelry, yes, but Cathal had long learned that the finest celebrations often began on the edge of ruin.

[bittcrsweetmemxrics]

from the moment that adeola had awoken, she had known that there was something different about this day. something was coming. she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was but there was certainly a feeling in the air. something which she couldn't shake. not even as she opened up the tavern for the day.

she only was able to pin point what it was, when she heard his voice. a storm of his own making. one that brought with him devastation and ruin and yet adeola couldn't help the smile which made its way onto her lips as she looked to him. the look of devotion was clear in her eyes. he had bought her a freedom that she had only dreamed of.

the night of her husbands death was one that was painted in adeolas memory for good. on her worst nights, she would recall that evening. it was the night that she was set free, the night where she was finally able to start a life. she had lost so much - and she eventually mourned her husband - but she had gained even more.

she was quick to wipe the smile off her face as cathal moved closer to her. " how many women have you said that to since you stepped foot on this island? " she retorted. she started to sort his drink out - not needing to know what it was that he wanted. " that depends what you brought me. " adeola responded, her hand on her hip.

[tidecalld]

Cathal caught a glimpse of the way she hid her smile at the sight of him, as a half-drunk, stumbling pirate lurched into his path, blocking his view. The interruption lasted no more than a breath, but it was enough. His own grin however remained easy, softening the edge in his eyes as he leaned closer against the bar, voice warm with familiar teasing. “Please,” he said lightly, a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am hurt you think so little of me, mo mhuirnín. The fellows of this lovely port deserve to be praised too.” Fair enoug though, he had not yet visited the Siren’s Nest, where he hardly kept the compliments to himself. He would save that for the next day, after a night of proper rest. As hard as he found it to admit, he had grown older and his body less forgiving. He had never been content with anything less than an exceptional evening, one where not only he was the one satisfied by the end of it, so he needed a day to recover from the turbulent sea .

He accepted the drink she placed before him with a grateful nod, fingers curling easily around the familiar glass. The first sip grounded him, salt and rum and memory blending on his tongue. He nursed it slowly with one hand, his attention far more absorbed by the woman before him than the liquor he had crossed seas for. Adeola stood with her hand on her hip, every inch the queen of her domain, command and grace woven seamlessly into her posture. The sight of her still struck something deep in him. Some old, impossible mixture of admiration and tenderness. It reminded him, always, how dangerously easy she had been to fall for.

“Well,” he said, voice dropping, something sincere beneath the playfulness, “naturally I brought a variety of gifts to please your majesty.” His smile curved, slow and conspiratorial. “Would you like me to shower you in pearls first or offer you a proper vintage, freshly stolen from one of those annoyingly posh Frenchmen?”

“Come,” he added softly, lifting his glass in a small toast to her alone. “Tell me which treasure earns me my welcome home.”

[bittcrsweetmemxrics]

the hardest part about what had happened with priska, was the whole 'what if'. he had been in love with her - perhaps he still was in love with the idea of her - and to lose her in such an awful way ... he still wasn't sure how he could get his head wrapped around any of that. he'd lost the one thing that he always pictured for his future.

" i didn't expect to see you again, priska. " finn retorted. perhaps he should have. after all of the years that the two of them were partners, he should have known that their story wasn't done. they were going to come face to face with one another time and time again until it was the end of one of them. he was sure of that. and if she was the one that ripped out his heart, then finn thought he could probably live with that. she had taken her heart with him a long time ago.

perhaps, for him, the hardest part of the way things had turned out was that she had become something unrecognisable. there was no discussing their fond old memories. " and yet i can't help but wonder if the woman that i knew is still in there somewhere. " finn knew better. logically, he knew better. he had seen enough to know that the person they once were and the person that they had become were vastly different.

still, there was a part of him that hoped.

" i should. " finn muttered as he looked down to the weapon in his hand and then looked back to her. " you know that i should. " i can't. the words weren't spoken but hung between the two of them.

[tidecalld]

Priska’s laughter came soft and ragged, fractured. It was torn from her chest as her body fought itself. The silver burning through dead veins while her body tried to mend itself. It echoed off the warehouse walls. “You didn’t expect to see me again?” she rasped, shaking her head, dark curls clinging damply to her blood-slicked skin. “Don’t lie to yourself, Finn.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “The night I was bitten, when you couldn’t pull the trigger... we both knew the truth. Whatever bound us couldn’t be severed. Not by fangs. Not by fear.” A bitter smile tugged at her mouth. “I imagine the company didn’t take kindly to your mercy. Bet they orchastrated it, along with the universe, to ensure it feels like perfect symmetry. That it’s you who has to pull the trigger in the end.”

With a low, broken sound, she dragged herself upright. Every inch of her screamed in protest as silver worked its way out. Blood trailing down from the still open wound. She swayed, unsteady, but stubbornly remained standing. Stepping closer until his pulse thundered in her ears. The sound was louder now than the soft rhythm she had memorized once, back when they lay beneath constellations and traced each other’s breaths. She lifted her dark gaze to his. “What do you see, Finn?” she whispered. “Any trace of your old partner… or just a monster?” The question fractured her just a piece, split something raw and aching open. She knew the answer before he could give it. They had hunted enough creatures together to know that remnants always lingered. That they carried grief, longing, memory. Even now, she felt it all. Sadness. Want. Desire. Pain. What a mercy it would have been to be consumed by only bloodlust, to erase all else.

“You should…” she began, her voice dissolving into silence as his gaze fell to the weapon in his hand. The hesitation there told her everything. Her smile, when it came, was fragile and breaking. Close enough now to touch him, to feel the heat of his living skin, she forced herself not to. She wanted to drag him under with her, to unmake them both. But her dead heart, still aching and stubborn, would not allow it. “I left you once, Finn,” she murmured. “It took every piece of will I had. I can’t do it again.” Her breath unsteady as she spoke. “So tell me, how do we rewrite the ending, when the world has only ever given us a single option?” Her hand reached out, curling around the weapon. Her cold fingers tracing his skin in the process as she guided it upward to point at her chest.

[tidecalld]

open to: @bittcrsweetmemxrics Where: Tortuga's Tavern.

Cathal most often returned to Tortuga the way storms returned to the sea. His arrival at the port sudden, loud, and inevitable, before making his way down a familiar path to one of his favorite spots in town. The tavern door burst open beneath his shoulder, wood slamming against the wall as if announcing him to the world. Salt clung to his hair, sun to his freckled skin, and mischief to his grin. He entered with all the theatrics of a man who had miraculously survived again, undoubtly to the dismay of some. His arms flung wide, voice ringing as though he had brought the horizon back with him.

“Miss me, did you?” Laughter followed him in, rolling from his chest, bright and careless. He cut through the crowd easily, boots thudding against the warped floorboards. His hand clasping shoulders of those he had drank with before, greeting old acquaintances. He accepted shouted welcomes and curses with equal delight. But his eyes were sharp and relentless, always searching for Her.

He remembered it as a blur of heat and violence: the crack of bone beneath his fists, the metallic scent of spilled life, the weight of a man’s death settling into his palms. He had not hesitated when he had learned the truth. Not when he saw the grief carved into her. Some men deserved the mercy of a blade. Others only the honesty of pain. -- but that past felt long buried beneath the sands of time. Together, yet apart, they had both been reborn at least a couple of times.

As his gaze finally found her behind the bar, something loosened in his chest. Relief... or perhaps. Or the simple gratitude of seeing someone you loved still standing. He slowed his steps just a fraction. Then the grin , wide and boyish, dangerous and warm all at once. “Now there’s a sight worth crossing oceans for,” he called, leaning one elbow against the bar. “Tell me, have you kept my seat warm or must I earn it again?”

[scntimcntal]

where: the devil's cask, tortuga when: early evening with: open (but only to me hearties from avast <3)

Full of the vitality that only a secured prize and victory in battle can provide, Joaquin the Devourer's arrival at the tavern is proceeded by his raucous laughter, and the bang of the front door as it slams against the wall in order to admit him and an equally-boisterous complement of sailors from his crew.

The mingling scents of smoke and powder follow him as he struts across the room to the bar, calling out greetings to those whose faces he likes well enough, and the odd threat reminder to any maldito canalla that owes him money. God knows he's looking to get into something tonight, but whether it's another fight, the bottom of a bottle, or someone's bed remains to be seen. It all stokes his blood in the same way.

Signalling the barmaid for a measure of rum (which promises to be the first of many), Joaquin raises his glass in a toast, speaking for the benefit of the room. "¡Que se joda la corona, eh! Fuck any who would subdue us!"

[tidecalld]

Cathal heard him before he saw him. Laughter rolling through the tavern like distant thunder, the heavy slam of the door ringing in his bones. The sound of victory had its own music, and Joaquin knew how to play it loudly. The eyes of the red-haired man lifted from his cup just in time to watch the man stride in, and watched the room bent around that presence. How it shifted to accommodate it. Some faces brightened. Others paled. Oh, to have the reputation of danger arriving.

By luck more than sense, he had never truly crossed the captain’s path before. Never sailed beneath his banner, never taken coin from his coffers, never stood opposite him in battle. A crooked mercy from fate. Could be tonight, though, fortune narrowed its gaze.

He downed the last of his rum in a single swallow, felt the burn trail down his throat, and ordered another before the captain could make his grand toast. His fool of a current employer owed the jubilant man money, or blood... or both. The Irishman had no intention of being mistaken for collateral, and preferred the night to continue as he had intended the moment he set foot in here. Filled with drink, laughter and ending with a warm bed later.

Only a stool away, a man bellowed approval in Spanish, voice thick with drink and devotion. Cathal understood little of the language. Only the rhythm of it, the heat. Enough to know when a cheer was expected. So he joined in, lifting his fresh glass and calling out in Irish, voice bright and ringing. “Sláinte!” He grinned as he drank, laughter easy, careless. To anyone watching, he was just another sailor welcoming chaos. Another fool glad for noise and rum and reckless company. -- But beneath the ease, something sharp stirred. The tavern drank to kings who would fall, to treasure not yet claimed and to nights that ended in blood or glory. And he drank to luck. Fickle, treacherous, beautiful luck.

[free-grandmaa]

"You’d try to forget me.. But where will you ever find a ghost as haunting?"

- Freegrandmaa

[scntimcntal]

My love. Such simple words, and spoken without fanfare, but their meaning is beyond any value Ned has the capability to express. Does Theia even realise what she's said? Does she know how it moves him to hear that she might think of him thus? He doesn't dare comment on the endearment, for fear that she might take it back, having not meant it as seriously as he imagines, but... if he's being honest with himself, Ned has known that there would never be anyone else for him from the moment he first laid eyes on her. She's his love for the ages: his Penelope, his Eurydice, his Theia.

His thoughts play across his face like sunlight on the water, but still he doesn't give them voice. It doesn't feel like the right time, not when Theia is already so burdened with everything else happening at the moment. "I hope so," Ned says instead, "I suppose it’s one of the advantages of my working so late, eh? That I'll be here waiting for ye when ye wake up." And if the nightmares come to call on her again, he’ll hold her steady in his arms, safe and sound, until the break of dawn.

Feeling the press of her body against his back, the warmth that reaches him even through his clothes and the brush of her lips against his shoulder blade, Ned lets out a soft sigh, utterly contented. He wants for so very little in this life - just food in his belly, a roof over his head, and Theia’s hand to hold. If only things could always be like this. If only they lived in less dangerous times.

“Maybe ye were right after all - ye've never seemed more like a cat to me than ye do right now," he chuckles affectionately as she squeezes into the scant opening between himself and the table, “I’m trying to give ye your dinner, and you’re only making it harder by getting under foot!” But he isn’t remotely displeased to find her so firmly in his space, and he readily abandons his task, his hand absently moving to capture a lock of Theia’s dark hair where it has escaped its tidy braid. He winds it thoughtfully, habitually around his fingers while he takes a moment to consider her question. “Tail,” he answers decisively, “Then I might be able to swim alongside ye, keep ye company on your travels. It wouldnae be so bad to be a fish, if I got to stay with you.”

———

Following Theia with his eyes as she turns towards the window, Ned settles his hand on her hip, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. So many of the pirates that make port on the island have seemingly vanished that perhaps some would consider it a cruelty to suggest that there’s still hope, but… without hope, what else is there? He can’t imagine that this tragedy will mean a permanent end to their way of life - not without a fight, at least. “I keep an eye out for them wherever I go, for anyone I ken fae the tavern that may’ve sailed with ye,” he says, having taken on the endeavour without being asked, because he knows how much the crew of the Storm’s Eye means to her, “If I see Doone again, or any of the others, should I tell them where they might find ye?”

Theia lays her hand over his heart and Ned smiles for her, knowing and ever so slightly sad. He wishes there was something more he could do to help her, he wishes there was something he could say that would reassure her that all will eventually be well.

“I brought these for ye,” he protests lightly, “I ken they’re your favourite…” But he accepts the piece of plantain from her hand all the same, ever-appreciative of the intimacy that comes from sharing food, however little you have. Like this, Ned feels very aware of their close proximity, barely a breath left between them, and he wonders if he shouldn’t pull away, for propriety’s sake. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to. “Why don’t we share something else,” he offers quietly, “What are ye hungry for?”

[tidecalld]

“I cannot say I complain about waking in your arms in the morning,” Theia murmured softly, her voice threading through the dim quiet between them, “when I find the world has not yet whisked you away. Perhaps there indeed is a benefit to your working hours.” And perhaps the greatest of them was the way exhaustion eventually claimed her, when her limbs grew heavy enough that sleep could finally take her when she curled beside him, she did manage to spare him most of the restless stirring and fractured dreams. She felt the subtle loosening of his muscles beneath her lips, along with a soft sigh that escaped him as she traced the line of his shoulder blade. The cotton of his shirt brushed against her mouth, and her lips curved into a faint, contented smile. If she could give him even a fraction of the comfort he gave her, she could perhaps rest a little easier. She did not wish to be a burden, though she knew he would deny that she was one instantly. There were moments, bright and warm,  when she could almost believe that their lives might shrink to the size of this room, to the gentle orbit of two hearts learning how to beat side by side. Moments in which she hoped that he didn’t ever want to let her go. And in those moments, happiness felt both like salvation and like sin.

“A tail, then,” she murmured, her voice low, as though sealing an oath between them. “The sea would welcome you, if you came with.” She leaned back against the small wooden table she squeezed herself close to, letting her fingertips drift through the thin spill of moonlight that bled across its surface. She imagined him beneath the waves alongside her, as he absently wound a strand of her unruly hair around her finger as he weighed every choice with gentle seriousness. “You would learn quickly,” she added, a faint smile curving her lips. “And I would show you the quiet places, where the world dissolves into nothing but colour and current.” She was no mermaid, no sea-sprite either, but the fantasy itself offered reprieve: a world where their travels were boundless, unshackled by law or fear.

The weight of his hand resting at her hip, the gentle squeeze that followed, sent warmth blooming through her chest, radiant and steady. Even as their conversation drifted toward darker waters, that simple touch softened its edge. She hesitated at his suggestion, considering carefully. “Your offer is too kind,” she said at last. “And meeting them again might ease something in me that has not known peace for a while now. But give me time, please, let me find a safer place. They should not be seen here.” Her gaze lifted to his, unwavering. “I will not place you in any more danger than you already are in now, sharing your home with a fugitive.”

—

His soft protest at her offering stirred a helpless smile, the heaviness ever so lightly lifted once more. “I cannot believe you pay such close attention…,” she murmured as she watched him accept the plantain from her hand. The way his eyes lingered on her made the food seem suddenly inconsequential. Awareness bloomed along her skin, subtle and electric, until she realised how little space remained between them. A position she had maneuvered herself into, without second guessing for a single moment. The dim light blurred the edges of the world, leaving only the hush of breath between them. If she could, she would remain there forever.

At his question, her bottom lip caught between her teeth briefly. She swallowed the teasing answer waiting on her tongue you and let the silence stretch, fragile and static.  She couldn’t fully recall how many nights she had slept in his bed now, and even in such a close proximity he had remained most gentlemanly. He had given her more than she could ask for. Given her all the space he thought she needed, to a point it made her question wether he swore a type of vow… But these words, the way he seemed to drown in the present, made her question if his words were meant to be an innuendo? In the silence that stretched between them, Theia weighed her chances. Praying to whatever drowned god that she made no mistake by taking a dive in uncharted waters. 

Courage came like a crashing wave. She leaned in, capturing his lips with hers. In a daring moment, even letting her tongue dart out to capture the lingering sweet taste of plantain there. A soft sigh escaped her as she deepened the kiss, her small frame pressing into his. Her hand, that had been resting over his heart, curling into a fist there as though she might anchor herself. He tasted of warmth and sunlight, of something bright enough to chase away a cold she had not realized had settled into her bones long before him. When she finally pulled back, breathless, there was only so much space she could put between them. For one taste only soothed so much of the aching pull she had become aware of.

“Deliciously sweet,” she murmured, licking the faint trace of him from her lips, her pulse unsteady. “You have certainly made me hungry for sharing more... - Another taste of plantain then, or...? ”

[bittcrsweetmemxrics]

the night that finnley had lost her was printed in his mind. it was the thing that haunted all of his nightmares. he'd lost her and then he couldn't do the one thing that she had asked him to do. he had wanted to. he'd wanted to give her that one, last thing ... but as he looked at her, she was still the woman that he knew. he had never been able to bring himself to do it.

he'd waited for this moment. the moment that he would be reunited with the woman that he'd spent so long with. she was his greatest 'what if'. if she were human, would the two of them be doing this still? would they be together? married even? he had never stopped wondering.

this was never how he had thought it would go.

" leave. " finn muttered, loud enough for the two of them to hear. " leave us. i'll sort this. " but did he have it in him? he hadn't been able to do it before so what made him think that he could do any of this now? he didn't really know but he knew that he didn't really have much of a choice. he either walked out of there with her head, or everyone he knew would turn their back against him.

he didn't take his eyes off of priska as his partner moved away. he didn't dare give her a chance to have the one up on him. he knew how skilled she had been before. he could only imagine how she'd be now. once he was sure that his new partner was out of the building, he spoke again, " long time no see. "

[tidecalld]

The former huntress saw the indecision in the eyes of the man opposite her, hate and determination at war with his desire to follow orders. Wasn’t that what they had all sought when they joined, simplicity to counter the complexity of the world? For everything to be black and white, good and evil, neatly divided. Orders to make things simple, and give answers to questions that perhaps should never have been asked at all. -- The moment of doubt faded into acceptance as the other man turned away. But not without spitting on the ground before her in retreat. His final, petty act of defiance. Again, laughter bubbled from her lips, tainted with something manic, something sharp. The display was pathetic, but worth the pain of silver spreading through her chest with every breath.

Priska’s hand pressed to her abdomen, fingers slowly painting themselves red as familiar footsteps drew closer. He could have ended it already. How easy it could have been for both of them, but she knew Finn better than to believe he would choose the easy way out. No, the universe had always been determined to torture them, to keep them endlessly spinning in one another’s orbit, never quite brave enough to commit to anything that might damage something more precious than flesh. Their hearts had always been guarded at all costs, the weakest link disguised as the strongest. And it proved so still, as she finally dared to look up and face him. She found those familiar eyes meeting her darkened hues. His eyes watched her now as one watches a dangerous predator. As he should...

Could she do it? Take that precious heart, and his soul along with it?

He spoke, and she let his words settle between them. Silence stretched, taut and aching, before laughter spilled from her lips once more. This time quieter, bitter on her tongue. “All these years to come up with the greatest line,” she said, tilting her head, remaining where she knelt on the floor, “and that’s all you’ve got for me, Finn?” She made no move to stand, even if she could. “It was already clear your new partners were little more than fodder, but it seems they’ve done a number your brain as well.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, to let even the faintest hint of jealousy slip through. But she was jealous, furious at a world that had denied her any shape of the future she once imagined. Furious, too, at the man that had been too cowardly to grant her an honorable end. “I know why you and your friends are here,” she said softly. “It’s not to catch up on the good old days, and it’s certainly not to ask how I’ve been.” Her smile was thin, sharp.

“The orders must have been clear. So why not follow them, like a good soldier?”

[midaspasha]

Freida Pinto, Vanity Fair Italy November 2018

[tidecalld]

open to: @bittcrsweetmemxrics muse: Priyanka 'Priska' . forever 35. supernatural hunter turned vampire. she/her. plot: VAMPIRES WILL NEVER HURT YOU - My Chemical Romance A and B are vampire hunters who have a close, tense relationship (friends who could have been). This is honestly a setup that works for them, but everything changes when A gets bitten. A has always been adamant that if they ever got bitten, they'd want to be killed, but B can't bring themselves to do that to someone they love. A leaves B behind, certain they won't find a cure, in order to protect them. Years later, faith ensures their worlds collide once more.

The warehouse had long since stopped pretending it was anything but a grave. Rust gnawed at the beams overhead, iron ribs exposed and aching. The air hung thick with oil, dust, and now blood. The kind that never truly leaves a place once it’s been spilled with intent. Moonlight slanted through broken windows, pale and unforgiving, illuminating the aftermath of her sins. Two bodies lay where they had fallen.

One was drained, eyes glassy and wide, lips tinged blue. It's life taken with brutal efficiency. The other had bled out slower, knife wounds placed between ribs and along arteries, precise enough to be almost tender. Priska stood among them, chest rising though it no longer needed to, the ache in her gums sharp and furious as the scent of hunter’s blood curled around her like a lover’s whisper. Yet she knew better than to feed.

Eight years of running, combined with years of training, had taught her enough. eight years of being chased by the very people she used to fight beside, all because one of their own had failed to finish the job when her heart had still been beating. She had finished it herself, in a way. Left everything behind. Especially him.

She shouldn’t linger, especially since this time they had come so curiously close.A gun lay discarded near the bodies, its grip slick and painted red. A stake lay beside it, snapped clean in half. Priska crouched, and reached for the blonde corpse. With an almost unnatural gentleness, she brushed his hair from his face, fingers trembling despite herself. She knew this face, and of how he had become one of her replacements alongside him...

The gunshot cracked through the warehouse like a breaking bone. Pain exploded through her upper thigh as silver tore into flesh, burning like it meant to cauterize her from the inside out. A sound ripped from her throat, part scream and part snarl, as she vanished in a blur, crossing the distance before the echo of the shot had time to fade. She slammed the hunter into the crumbling concrete wall, dust and mortar raining down as her fangs bared, eyes blazing with feral light. Another shot fired point-blank. The second bullet buried itself into her abdomen, to which to knees buckled and gave out as the pain blazed. Her shirt darkened slowly, red blooming like a ruined flower as his voice cut through the ringing in her ears. You die today, traitor.

For a fleeting, treacherous moment, relief brushed against her hollow chest. An ending, at last. One she should have accepted years ago. Priska sank back, laughter spilling from her lips. A sound low, broken and wicked, as her gaze slid past the hunter scrambling to his feet. Her eyes caught on a shape near the entrance, a shadow that did not move like the others, a presence that pulled at something long-dead inside her. “Fine,” she said, voice rough with mockery and something far more fragile beneath it. “You’ve finally caught the great prize.”

Her gaze flicked back to the remaining hunter, teeth still bared in a feral grin. “But seeing as you can’t seem to aim straight…” Her eyes returned to the shadow, burning, knowing. “Your partner there must do it.” --- A pause. A breath she did not need. “Straight for the heart,” she murmured softly. “I know he has one hell of a fine shot.”

[scntimcntal]

When Theia's hand arrives to cover his own, Ned's smile only deepens, his fondness for her rising in his chest, a little boat buoyed impossibly higher by the current. He does nothing to disturb the soot-black impressions that linger on his skin in the wake of her touch, preferring to leave them where they have settled, an ephemeral reminder of how lucky he is to have found her again, and to have been allowed to remain close to her these past few weeks. If you cut him open, you would likely find the same whorls of her fingerprints left, indelibly, all over his heart.

He clucks his tongue in sympathy when she expresses that she has tried and failed to get some sleep, believing her lie without question. "Ye need rest, hen," he says softly, his voice full of concern and his gaze beseeching, even in its futility. Theia won't sleep more easily just because he wishes it would be so - if only it were that simple. "Maybe after we've had a bit of supper, ye can have another go at getting your heid down, eh? I'm dead tired, and all." It still makes him bashful, the thought of asking her outright to spend the night in his bed, but his insinuations are innocent and never particularly difficult to decipher.

With her assent, Ned begins unpacking his spoils from the tavern, setting them out on the small table beneath the slatted window. It's modest fare - half a pie, a small loaf, some fried plantains and an assortment of dried meats and fruit - only things the kitchen could do without, but he will be happier knowing that Theia has eaten something. He doesn't tell her that he’s already eaten himself, that, if Cook had her way, he'd be plump as a partridge and no mistake. The omission is not quite a lie, and the truth is inconsequential in the face of making sure she is properly cared for. “Not a stray cat, no - a curious sea sprite come to visit, maybe,” he answers, echoing Theia's amusement with some gentle teasing of his own, “And a mere mortal such as myself would do well to express the proper hospitality due to a member of the fair folk. I wouldnae want to be turned into anything unnatural.”

When Theia asks after his day, he hesitates for a moment, his hand stilling on the cloth keeping the pie together as he considers how to proceed. He could tell her about the strange spells of silence, worse than raised voices and fighting, about the old sea dog that hasn't moved from his stool in days, seemingly intent on drinking himself into the depths with his fellows, he could speak of grief and tension and anger, but... there's something more important. "I... well, it might've been nothing, but... I think I saw Mister Doone tonight," Ned tells her, his brow furrowing again as talk turns quickly sombre, "It was only fae a moment, in the alley out back, and it was dark and he was wearing a hood, but I caught a glimpse of his face, and... I'm fairly certain it was him." He hopes it will give her some relief, just knowing a member of her fractured crew is still out there, and if not well, at the very least alive.

[tidecalld]

A saddened smile twisted her lips as she avoided his beseeching gaze for a moment, then nodded quickly. She would do almost anything he asked of her, and yet this simple request was not one she could easily grant. The world was still burning, its chaos clinging to her even here, shut out by the safe space he created for her here behind a creaky old door. It loosened its hold in moments, only to tighten again without warning. “I’m sure I’ll rest a little easier when you’re next to me, my love,” she said, the words steady even as her feelings wavered beneath them.

Up on her feet again, ever restless, she moved to press herself against him. Peeking over his shoulder as he unpacked the food he had brought, she brushed her lips to the fabric of his clothes. A stray cat indeed, even if he chose to name her something more enchanted. Like a feline, she basked in his warmth, anchoring herself fiercely in the present. It mattered not that the anchor dragged some moments, skipped others. It was strange how the world could feel so hollow and spoiled, yet her heart would brim so full whenever she looked at him, whenever she was this close. It almost felt like betrayal to her fellow crewmates, that in this very moment despair could be repressed to a quiet hum in the background.

She rose onto her toes, her lips wandering softly over the cotton covering his shoulder while her gaze drifted toward the fried plantain on the table. Another quiet, embarrassing growl from her stomach, again reminding her that there was no attempting some sleep without at least having a little taste. The fried fruit had become a favorite since their first docking on the tropical island. Not that the rest didn’t look tempting, the tavern cook was a marvel, but she could already taste the sweetness on her tongue. Smoothly, she ducked beneath his arm and wriggled into the narrow space between him and the table. Brown eyes lifted with the feigned innocence of the sea spirit he had just named her. “A sea sprite, hmm?” she smiled at his gentle teasing. “Did they not warn you mortals that kindness toward creatures of the depths is dangerous? We might grow tempted to take you with us. Turn you into something unnatural still. Not out of spite, but fondness.” She tilted her head, considering. “What would it be, then? A scaly tail? Or perhaps a hard shell?”

---

She turned toward the slatted window, picking up the plantain with a little more eagerness than she meant to show. She was just about to take her first bite when Ned spoke her former crewmember’s name. Theia stilled. It was as though the word had been dropped into still water, sending ripples through her chest. For a heartbeat, she said nothing, letting the weight of it settle. Relief and fear tangling, separating, tangling again until she could not tell which was which. “Doone…” she echoed softly, testing the shape of the name she hadn’t spoken aloud in what felt like ages. “If it was him… then at least he’s breathing. That counts for more than hope, these days.”

Her gaze fell, a faint crease forming between her brows as thoughts of the people she once called family surfaced and then scattered again. They were now little more than a wreckage pulled apart by the tide. When she looked back to Ned, gratitude shone clear in her seafoam eyes. She reached for him, not clinging nor desperate, only resting on his chest for a moment, grounding herself in something warm and certain while the waves inside her slowly eased.  “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured. “For noticing him.”

Her thumb brushed over the space she knew his heart to be, affection spoken where words faltered. She offered him the piece of plantain still in her other hand, as though watching him eat might loosen the make the world simple again.

[scntimcntal]

In the wee hours of the morning, Ned trudges home from his shift at the tavern, traversing the familiar, winding streets that lead back to his bedsit in the Slats without paying them any heed. His thoughts are elsewhere, as they so often are, but it isn’t silly daydreams that have claimed him this time - no, his mind is now burdened with heavier things, with the dead weight that sits in his stomach and hangs over the island like a dark cloud.

Before long, he arrives at the front door of the rickety house that has been his home for the last three months, stopping to pull off his boots before he passes over the threshold. Ned pads as quietly as he can over the ancient wooden floorboards and up the narrow flight of stairs, but even clad only in his socks, the old building announces his every move with a weary groan. He hopes his landlady won’t come out to investigate, not when he hasn’t told her about his illicit houseguest - not when he hasn’t told her that he’s harbouring a pirate.

Extracting his key from its hiding place inside a half-dead plant on the upper landing, Ned slips it into the lock and finally, carefully eases open the door to his room. He isn’t surprised to find that Theia is still awake, and while he smiles to see her, as he always does, he can’t help but furrow his brow at her appearance. She has grown so terribly pale and drawn in the days since the crew of the Oathbreaker was marched across the scaffold, and it’s no wonder, but he’s concerned about her. She needs rest.

“Hello, you,” he says softly, crossing the room so he can lay a kiss against the top of her dark head, his hand cupping her cheek, “I thought ye might have gone to bed by now. It’s very late.” As admonishments go, it barely merits the word, its delivery pointed but no less gentle for it. “Have ye had anything to eat? I’ve got some leftovers from the Cask in my bag…”

[tidecalld]

As the lock on the door clicked, some of the tension eased from Theia’s muscles. In the shimmering light, a mingling of torch and milky moonlight, the figure entering through the doorway was unmistakable. Not that she hadn’t already learned the soft pad of his footsteps. They were more careful than most who lived in the house, though by no means light. His eyes found her with ease, even in the dimness, followed by a faint furrow of his brow. A reminder of why she had not yet dared to look at herself in the mirror. She feared the bleakness of the reflection, the amount of sleepless nights and days filled with worry painted too clearly across her features.

A small smile caught on her lips as Ned addressed her softly, crossing the room in a few easy steps before she could even think to rise from the floor. His gentle lips brushed the crown of her head, his calloused fingertips tracing along her cheek and jaw in a tender sweep. Reaching up, her own fingers followed the back of his hand as she leaned into his touch, likely leaving smudges of charcoal soot on his sun-kissed skin. It was a quiet greeting, wordless and familiar, before she pushed herself up onto aching legs. Her bones stiff from what might have been hours spent curled in the same position, losing herself in endless lines.

When he pointed out the very reason for the consistent dark circles beneath her eyes, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She worried it for a moment before answering in a soft whisper. “I tried.” The lie slipped easily from her lips, as though it weighed nothing at all. If the half-truth could ease even the smallest portion of Ned’s concern, then it was worth it. The truth was, she had stopped trying to sleep alone over a week ago, after waking with a scream lodged in her throat that was loud enough to wake the neighbours. The last thing she needed was a knock at the door... Ned had promised that he did not fear her troubled heart, the storm that lived within her, it did little to ease the guilt she carried. Guilt for the worry she caused him, and for the danger of sheltering a pirate in times like these. If only she had been something simpler, a baker’s daughter perhaps, instead of a drowned siren. Life might have been easier. A life she believed he deserved. But she was far too deep now to release his heart and set him free.

Her blue eyes found him again at the mention of leftovers, the corner of her mouth lifting as she shook her head in faint amusement. “You know I’m not a stray cat you need to feed every night, right?” The words were meant to lighten the heavy air, though on cue her stomach betrayed her, growling at the suggestion of refusing a meal. She smiled wryly at the ceiling, at her own pitiful state, before finally relenting. “Only if you’ll have some as well. You worked hard for it.” She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, equal parts gratitude and simple want. Lingering for a moment, reveling in the mere closeness, before she moved past him to take a seat on the bed. “Will you tell me about your day?”

[tidecalld]

@scntimcntal

Charcoal moved in swift motions over ragged paper, tracing a previously drawn line to deepen the curve of a seashell beginning to take shape. One of countless her hands had created, drawn purely from memory. It had become her evening pastime ever since the lives of the island’s people had shifted, and the Crown had made certain to show who held the upper hand, painting their demands for compliance in blood. She had only learned of it come morning, after being dragged an inch from the darkness that had consumed her, only to be cast straight back into it again.

She had considered letting the water take her before anything else could, for it had always felt like home beneath the waves. She would forever belong among the seashells. Her hand moved more vigorously for a moment before she drew in a steadying breath. Leaning her head back against the wall, she sat curled in the corner of the small room that did not belong to her, but to a man with a heart as pure as gold. In her eyes, the rarest of beings in a world so cruel and unmoored. One of the few things that still managed to make her smile, if only for a fleeting moment. How she had ever come to deserve him, she did not know, but she tried, in quiet ways, to repay all that he gave her. Learning, slowly, to temper her instinct to run.

Another dark, inky line spiraled downward, which she gently smudged with a soot-stained fingertip. She could hardly recall how long it had been now since the riot, the bloodshed, before the uneasy quiet settled in. Before her days had begun to blur into the same routine: waking, vanishing through daylight hours, returning at dusk to hide away in Ned’s room like a frightened creature. Most of the crew lay low now, donning new disguises just as she had. A plain dress instead of familiar shirts and trousers, carefully braided hair that no longer smelled of sea salt and dark circles beneath her eyes. Though those had softened somewhat since she began sleeping in a bed, a warm body beside her. It kept some of the nightmares at bay.

A door creaked, followed by footsteps crossing the narrow hallway beyond, and her body tensed at once. The walls were nearly paper-thin, and not all of its residents cared to be quiet. It should have been something she was used to by now. She fixed her gaze on the paper, forcing her hand to continue as she listened all the same. There was no telling the hour in places like this, where rooms had only slatted windows, if any at all, and buildings leaned too close together. No way to know who was coming home, and who was slipping away.

[tidecalld]

Open starter

The sea had always called to her. Tonight, it whispered louder than ever. Theia sat on the slick stones near the water’s edge, having left her cabin only to watch the world being torn to pieces. The tide sighing against her boots, retreating, returning, retreating again. It was like a breath she couldn’t quite catch. The salt air clung to her skin, mingling with the faint smoke still drifting from the harbor, where the Oathbreaker had burned. Her hands trembled in her lap, nails marked with half-moons from clutching at herself too tightly, trying to hold in the ache that had nowhere left to go. The flames had peeled open something inside her, something she had buried deep and sworn never to unearth again. Faces, their screaming, gasping, drowning, flashed behind her eyes. Her body remembered the heat, the sinking, the sound of men dying with their captain’s name on their tongues.

She watched the moonlight spill across the black surface of the sea, silver over ink, and wondered if it would hurt to let go. To walk forward, slow and sure, and let the cold take her. For once and for all this time. Maybe the water would scour her clean, strip the ghosts from her bones. Maybe she’d rise again, washed of everything she could no longer carry. Emerge and start a new life, with a new name, once more... Or maybe she wouldn’t rise at all. The thought didn’t frighten her as much as it should have. It was quiet here. The air was soft, the sea patient. Theia’s breath trembled as she leaned forward, the reflection of firelight and starlight dancing in her eyes. She thought of the Oathbreaker sinking, of the men who had chosen the sea as their grave over the noose swinging. And for the first time in years, she didn’t know if she envied them or prayed to follow.

Theia’s lips parted, the words escaping her before she could stop them. Soft, cracked things carried off by the wind. “Would you give them back to me?” she asked the dark water. “If I let you take me, would you bring them home?” Her voice trembled like the tide itself, uncertain if she prayed or pleaded. The sea only breathed in answer, its rhythm unbroken, unbothered. But she could almost imagine it listening. Almost believe the waves tilted closer to catch her confession. Her eyes stung as she looked out into the expanse, as if the horizon itself might yield their faces. Her mother’s laughter, her father’s steady hands and Vidar’s quiet smile when he still remembered her name. If she sank deep enough, would she find them waiting below? Would the sea be kind enough to return what the fire had stolen?

“Would you take me back to when the world wasn’t burning?”

[tidecalld]

Closed starter for Magnus(@emberh3art) where: The raider's revenge

The unpleasant smell of cigars still clung to her fine silks from the soldiers’ unwelcome visit. Taxes, they’d called it, but Rue knew theft when she saw it. Her prizes, some of her hard-won treasures, swallowed whole by the Crown’s greedy hands. It had been better to flee than to let the fire in her veins consume her. But the lady of fortune herself was out on a path of rebellion and mischief.

The night was alive with the hiss of the tide and the murmur of drunken shanties. Lanternlight flickered over slick cobblestones as Rue wandered, her silk skirts whispering like a secret. A half-remembered drunken boast from a pirate slid through her mind like a spark catching tinder. The Raider’s Revenge never sleeps. Her lips curved. Why not?

Without a flicker of hesitation, she strolled up the plank as though the ship itself had sent her an invitation. Every step was a roll of the dice, but wasn’t that what she lived for? At the crest of the plank, a dozen wary gazes pinned her in place. The air tightened, heavy with the low hum of danger. And then she felt it... a cold shiver that wasn’t the sea breeze but the weight of a particular blue-eyed stare. -- Rue’s chin lifted, a wicked little smile tugging at her mouth as she hopped lightly onto the deck. “Good evening, fair sailors,” she said, voice smooth as rum and twice as intoxicating, as if she hadn’t just trespassed into the jaws of a legend.