I.

the color of the sea.

"To reach a port we must set sail –
Sail, not tie at anchor
Sail, not drift."

- fdr.


Her eyes are the color of the sea at dawn, he thinks, and he trails a long-fingered hand over her belly drowsily, enjoying the warmth that emanates from the skin; tanned skin, their trips to the beach have ensured that, and he is able to ignore the sharp marks that mar what would otherwise be perfection.

She's shy about them, but he is not - his lips have tasted them until he thinks he is drowning in them, his eyes have drunk them in until he cannot breathe; and he thinks that he probably knows almost every aspect of her better than anyone else could ever begin to expect to. That's the way it should be, too, and his hand tightens on the far end of a mostly-muscled abdomen, possessive lust lingering in every trail of the movement.

Lavender stirs, blinking her eyes open - the color of the sea at dawn, really, and he knows that it's true because they've watched the sunrise more times than he can count; she, cuddled against his chest, and he is holding her, and there's nothing he would rather do with his time - and smiles when she realizes what he's doing, coral lips pulling upward.

He's always struggled to put what she is to him in to words, but maybe the best way is that she's the ocean - her eyes are the color of the sea at dawn, it works, doesn't it? And her cheeks are like a shark's fin, but sharper; her body screams Siren, and sometimes makes him, too; and her eyes, of course.

He's always had a thing for eyes.

"Hi," she breathes, and her words fan out into the space between them - not much, just enough to make him think that maybe it's too much still - and he grins, too, watching the play of the sun whisper against her skin.

"Hi."

Lavender blinks. "What time is it?"

"You don't need to worry about that," he replies, and lets his head fall, just a little, so that his nose is only barely running along her stomach, watching in fascination as the skin tightens, almost like she's afraid of him - but not, because she says that on a daily basis. She isn't afraid of him.

It's like salvation, sort of.

"What are you doing?"

His eyes turn to her, meeting her gaze - the color of the sea is darkening, now, and he knows why, and revels in the fact that he has the power to do it; not many do, anymore, not like this, anyway, and that's all he really wants - and his grin widens into a smirk, but he doesn't answer. It's not like she doesn't know.

Lips brush against her skin, now, not just his nose, and he finally knows her again - faintly, faintly is the almost-taste of salt; like she rolled through the ocean and then came home and slept, so that it is almost gone but not quite. "Lavender," he breathes, and can't stop the low curling in his gut of something that is more than lust and less than love, and that's not what she deserves, but it's what he can give.

There are more than one way for scars to be shown in the world, and hers might cover her face and her body (he doesn't see them anyway), but his are over his heart - and even eyes the color of the sea cannot hope to help him realize that scars fade but love never does.

The woman shifts under him, and blonde hair does, too, glinting in the light of the sun that is slowly brightening - so slowly, just like this, and his blood moves sluggishly, too, but his heart never has; it races like it is fighting for a spot at the finish line, but he isn't sure what the prize is, just yet. "Don't make pro - " she gasps when his tongue flicks out - "'mises you can't keep. Promises. Damn it."

This time, it is his teeth that graze against her skin, and the satisfaction that dances through his body like adrenaline is solely based on the low sound that she makes - it scurries through him, and it feels like every nerve in his body is on fire and he is okay with that.

Her hands tug at his shoulders, he doesn't resist - and now he's up with her, half resting on her and half not, and their lips clash first, and then their teeth, and then tongues, and this is probably what heaven's like.

And when he loses himself in her - again, he isn't sure how many this makes because he's lost count - he would have sworn that he could hear the sea roaring in approval in his ears, pounding, pounding, pounding with his heartbeat. It's natural. This. Them. He can't think straight anymore, but he's almost sure that it's the sea and that's all he needs to know because now he's lost.

(It says something that he doesn't care he is, but he doesn't know what.)


I might possibly have an obsession with Lavender. Also with the male, and with the possible ship of this, and there might possibly be more coming. There might possibly be more of my other chaptered fic, as well, for anyone (if anyone is) who is following that.

Taking the time to review would make me happy, but I just hope you enjoyed it.