"…I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.” - Siren Song, Margaret Atwood
a water-drenched love story: listen.
… Have this one muse, that their muse just crumbles for? Like, they say ‘hi’ and your muse just goes ‘in the kitchen or on the bed?’
The scoff that followed came out with a harsh laugh, bubbling up and shaking the body beside her. No, of course she didn’t think he’d do such a thing, just thought he wanted some company on a chilly night was all. And perhaps it started as that, but she did very much appreciate this. The fact he even thought to share such a thing with her did something to wean off the cold. It might have been a stretch, but she managed to push up, or pull down, one or the other, and press her lips to a scruffed cheek with a murmured, “Thank you.”
”Do you still? Come out here to sleep I mean? When you’re not busy keeping certain bedmates warm and all…”
Jim was still grinning. “Welcome.” This was a sky by which he could navigate, by which he could find his way to nearly anywhere in the world—the benefit of having served directly under a ship’s navigator and learning the craft from someone whose sole job was to set a course—by sextant, by stars, by whatever means necessary. “No, not much any more. I sleep much better these days, but that doesn’t mean I’ve had my fill of the view.” A beat. “Besides, it’s cold.” One purpose down, one to go, and that had ti be timed just right.
//Tag fix. Have a wildly gesticulating privateer in the meantime.