Archive of Our Own

A small strip of land stretching into the sea like a finger poking into the waves, punctuated at the very tip by the shining beacon of the lighthouse. Grey clouds circle overhead. Gulls caw just below.

It’s not the type of ending MacTavish ever imagined for himself, but it’s an ending he doesn’t mind after a life of strict orders and battlefields and more responsibility than he knows what to do with. It’s silent here. Just him. The stability of a routine and distance from the stress of the rest of the world. The nearest sign of civilisation is the small wooden tower for the birdwatchers and the tiny trails walked into the grass around the coastline and the woods, although MacTavish hasn’t seen a soul wandering around. The nearest town is a drive away, a small thing with just the bare essentials. The only time he sees people is the stray fishing boat on the waves, slowly drifting back towards the pier near town.

It’s a comfortable routine and a predictable environment. He’s scoped out the whole location, because some habits are hard to let go of. He’s come to think of it as his, the same way he thought of home base as his. Except now his office has been replaced by the mechanisms of the lighthouse and his team by the wildlife that turns bold and brazen the longer he sticks around.

MacTavish has never thought of himself as animal friendly. Never really made an effort past giving his sister’s dog a few scritches. But the wildlife has decided for him, it seems, since the birds take to cawing at him from the roof of his small house by the base of the lighthouse, the occasional fox skitters by his lawn, and the squirrels come out in troves once winter ends. He’s grown used to it. Doesn’t let himself be thrown off by the hooting or howling from the woods, or the splashing from the sea, or the glimpses of shadows he spots when an animal scurries out of sight.

He’s grown used to it, but he also figures he’s familiar with the type of wildlife living around here. He knows what to expect. He knows what it feels like when there’s a presence around, an intuition in his gut, a prickling at the back of his neck.

It’s nothing more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. A brief glimpse of something.

Something – that is gone the moment he turns his head towards the sea. Dark waves in the dark night, simply rolling towards the shore.

Just light glinting off the waves, MacTavish concludes. The lighthouse flickers, lights up the empty sea, and MacTavish forgets about it.

Until he spots it again. A presence that is definitely there. A presence that is closer this time. Then closer again the next night. And then close enough and lingering so MacTavish can make out the shape of what is definitely a person. Yet even from a distance and in the gloomy evening, he can tell that whatever it is, it isn’t natural.

It’s that prickling again. That instinct, honed for decades. An innate feeling that something isn’t right.

The figure is too ethereal in the face, floating in the water too easily, watching with a piercing gaze that MacTavish feels from a mile away. He sees only the top of a head, so the eyes can’t be anything more than just barely above the waterline, yet it is utterly unbothered by how the seawater swells into its face.

With nary a splash, the figure is gone again. A blink, and the sea is empty.

Just his imagination, the rational part of his mind would argue, if he wasn’t so absolutely certain in what he’s seen. MacTavish has heard enough stories and tall tales, but it’s a different matter entirely to see it in person. He knows what it is. He feels the realisation settling heavily in his gut. Far enough from civilisation, he expected to come across rare occurrences. But not one like this.

He takes to calling it Ghost. It certainly disappears fast enough to be one. It lurks barely above the waves so MacTavish isn’t sure half the time whether what he’s seeing is real, a reflection on the water, a streak of moonlight, foam washing against rocks, or a figment of his imagination born from the buried wish to see.

It’s lonely up here, but he prefers it this way. After the mess of his life, this is easy – only the routine of his tasks, the simplicity, only himself to worry about. Only him and the sea and the scrap of land no one else is interested in.

He likes it this way. He’d have left if he didn’t. He’s spent long enough here that he would have to like it. Yet he lingers on the shore, squinting at the sea to spot his Ghost again.

They have a stare-off. MacTavish refuses to move, barely even breathe, much less blink in case he disappears from sight, watching Ghost bobbing in the water.

Seemingly human, he thinks, except for the eerie presence about him. It raises the hairs on his arms, brings up the recently latent instinct not to turn his back and reach for the holster on his thigh that isn’t there anymore. MacTavish doesn’t back off even when Ghost glides through the water, a little bit closer, never revealing more than just a glimpse of his face.

A pretty face, MacTavish decides, when the moonlight colours him in pale white.

MacTavish likes to stick to his schedule – wake early and sleep early, before the wet and cold of a late night can seep into his bones and the old instinct to rise with the sun suddenly jolts him awake. But Ghost comes out at dusk.

An hour’s shift isn’t much, MacTavish tells himself. He shifts his tasks into the morning, finishes early in the day, so by evening he’s sitting by the shore, listening to the waves, and keeping an eye on the sea.

Ghost showing up is a predictability now. A little closer, a little closer again.

MacTavish waits. He’s waited long enough in life that he has the patience, even if Ghost seems as skittish as the flightiest of strays. But curious, it seems. Maybe even more curious than MacTavish, since it’s Ghost who swims up to the shore where the seabed gets shallow. Too shallow for Ghost to hide himself anymore.

MacTavish drinks in the sight of him. Gentle waves lap against ghostly pale skin, a toned torso tapering off below water, shaggy wet hair stuck to his head, face all sharp angles. Seemingly human but for the parts covered in scales, shimmering white and blue.

The thing that irrevocably separates Ghost are the gills flaring at the sides of his neck. His eyes are a little too wide staring back at MacTavish, then suddenly too narrow, shining eerily in the low light. The lighthouse blinks and lights Ghost in momentary brightness, accentuating something about him that isn’t quite right.

MacTavish tilts his head and Ghost copies him.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” MacTavish murmurs. He doesn’t expect a response. Can’t even be sure whether Ghost hears him, much less understands. He’s going to take it as a good sign nonetheless that Ghost doesn’t suddenly disappear beneath the waves again.

There is a sign before the sandy shoreline by the birdwatching tower that says no littering. Up the road where there’s a tiny parking area for the nature reserve, the board warns not to feed the wildlife. MacTavish was given strict guidelines for these things when he took the job.

But there’s no one but him here, late in the evening with the sun setting behind him. No one to see him walking out with a bowl of leftovers from his dinner.

He’s heard the tales and he doesn’t know how well they hold up to reality – and he’s certainly not making a fool of himself by asking someone – but logic dictates that a mer eats fish. So he’s saved the skin and bones and head from his dinner and brought them down to the strip of sand where Ghost is already drifting in the water.

He’s farther away, so MacTavish can only see the top of his head, wet hair floating on the waves and keen eyes tracking him from the moment he stepped outside. It’s almost like he’s anchored, the way the waves don’t move him at all. Then he’s suddenly not, moving with seemingly no effort, and coming to a stop a step closer, almost like he’s mimicking how MacTavish walks up the beach.

MacTavish doesn’t know if he should say something. Doesn’t know if Ghost would even understand. A hello and how are you wouldn’t accomplish much. A useless comment about the weather we’re having. Explain that he brought him something. Laugh at what a fucking idiot he’s being.

Maybe it’s easier not to.

MacTavish takes the head of the fish and, even from the distance Ghost has put between them, he sees him perk up. He shows it, just to make sure Ghost sees what it is, then lobs it into the sea. It’s only years of experience that stop him from flinching.

Ghost dives in as if he’s chasing live prey. Water splashes, foams, waves crashing. Ghost’s figure arcs through the water, followed by what is definitely a glimpse of a tail. White and pale like the rest of him, sleek and quick as it pushes him forwards.

The ripples fade away and the water calms. Exactly where the fish head landed, Ghost resurfaces. Safe to say there’s nothing left. Nothing but the keen gaze Ghost pins him with, half his head out of water.

Maybe mers don’t even like the parts MacTavish has left. But his sister took a dog some years ago, one who would chow away at any remains. Good enough in his book. The skin and remnants of meat are slimy and slippery in his hand. It won’t fly as well. Selfishly, MacTavish hopes it’s reason for Ghost to end up closer.

It doesn’t even have time to land before Ghost is already chasing after it. A watery ruckus as Ghost lurches forwards, another glimpse of the fins along his sides, and then sudden calm again.

Part of him wishes he had saved some of his dinner. The logical part of him knows that Ghost is definitely capable enough of catching his own fish, if he’s this fast. Yet the first part wins out, because Ghost’s eyes go wide and dark again, staring him down as if expecting more.

“I’m out.” MacTavish shows his empty hands. “Gonna have to find more yourself, sweetheart.”

Ghost makes a sound. The first MacTavish has heard of him. A high-pitched chitter, clicking in his throat. Based on the tone and the glare he’s the recipient of, MacTavish figures he understands well enough.

“Tomorrow,” he promises. Ghost doesn’t seem happy about it. MacTavish isn’t particularly pleased either. Those dark eyes of his haunt him in his sleep. He ruins his planned schedule the next morning.

MacTavish likes to stick to a routine, yet now he’s taking the trip down to the town far earlier than planned to stock up on fish. Something cheap and easy to handle. “Trying out something new,” he excuses, when he buys out half the display counter.

The kitchen nook in his house reeks and the bowl he’s piled everything into overflows by the end of it. Not supposed to feed the fucking wildlife, and here he is preparing a veritable feast for one. And timing it too, an eye kept on the clock throughout to make sure he finishes by sunset.

At least Ghost seems excited about it, far as he can tell, since he’s already waiting, floating close by. He peeks farther out of the water when he spots what MacTavish has brought with him.

If Ghost is getting a week’s worth of fish out of this, then MacTavish should at least be allowed a better glimpse of him. Or a glimpse of his face, at least, entirely out of water, gills flaring in the air where the waves dip beneath his neck, sharp eyes tracking every movement of MacTavish’s arm as he picks up the first piece he prepared.

MacTavish doesn’t see anything but splashing water and a flash of white scales and pale skin. Nothing, until the water calms again and Ghost resurfaces, big eyes following him. He lets the waves carry him a little closer, lured in by another piece of fish.

The water turns shallower, the waves gentler, a little more transparent where the water parts around his figure. It offers brief glimpses of where seemingly human skin gives way to iridescent scales, crawling up Ghost’s stomach before becoming sparse, expanding around his ribs as he breathes. The tiny fins at his sides flutter when Ghost tilts his head at him.

Don’t feed the wildlife and certainly don’t make fucking friends with it, yet MacTavish steps up to the water until it’s soaking his boots, then the legs of his trousers as he crouches and holds a piece in the water.

He doesn’t let go. Stays entirely still. Watches Ghost watch him, considering the opportunity, before gliding closer with barely any effort. Closer, where the water turns so shallow it’s almost clear, and MacTavish can properly see the rest of him.

The trimmed waist tapers into a white-grey tail reflecting the blue of the sea, extending the length of his body and then some. It sways lazily behind him, easing him forwards, drifting with the gentle rolling of the waves.

So close, MacTavish can’t decide which part of him he needs to memorise first.

Ghost climbs forwards on his hands, muscles coiled in his arms, fingers digging into sand. Fingers tipped with claws, MacTavish notes, sharp enough that with the speed Ghost has already shown, it would be no problem for him to rip MacTavish apart.

Ghost’s eyes stay wide, unnaturally so, pupils so big and black it’s mesmerising. There’s something so ineffable about him, about the face that looks human but undoubtedly isn’t.

He’s close enough to touch. Close enough MacTavish can pick out the scratches and scars across his face, harsh silvery lines twisting around his torso. Badly healed wounds, the type MacTavish recognises all too well.

Ghost slinks closer that last little bit, enough he would reach with a clawed hand to get the fish from MacTavish.

“Fuck, you’re pretty.”

His voice comes out as a low rumble. Words he hadn’t quite meant to say.

Ghost stops. Looks up at him, stomach against the sand and waves brushing up his back. He clicks back.

Then dips his head and snatches the fish from MacTavish’s hand.

His jaw unhinges. There are rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. A long thin tongue slips out. In less than a second, he’s swallowed it whole.

A flash and like it never happened, except for the stink still clinging to MacTavish’s empty hand. He knows a predator when he sees one. Seen enough in his life not to underestimate a potential enemy. Yet he keeps his hand stretch out, easily within reach of teeth that could snap through bone.

His boots are soaked and this is going to be hell on his knee later, but he holds Ghost’s eyes and waits. Stays as still as he can doing nothing but watching, watching as Ghost slinks closer again, leans down, and that sinuous tongue slips through his lips. Forked at the tip like a snake’s, flexible like a real limb, it curls around MacTavish’s finger and licks up whatever taste of fish remains on it.

When Ghost chitters now, MacTavish sees his throat working with it. A few clicks, a little quieter, as if matching MacTavish’s soft tone.

“Aye?” MacTavish has no idea what Ghost means, but considering his hand is still attached, it’s probably not bad. Ghost seems receptive enough, repeating the sound, a vocalisation that travels from his mouth down his throat, muscles flexing in his neck one after another. “Gonna let me?”

He has never been a fool for a pretty face, but he’s also heard the stories. Tales of rare sightings, twisted with every storyteller, more warnings added with each retelling. Bewitching and devilish and sinister – enough warnings that MacTavish should know better than to reach out and let himself be lured closer by those big eyes. He should have enough sense to know better, especially after seeing the teeth hidden behind pale lips.

Yet he reaches out, and Ghost lets him. Just the very tips of his fingers, slowly inching towards his cheek, easing towards the line of a scar slashed through it.

MacTavish gets the briefest touch of soft, cold, wet skin, before Ghost recoils. He lurches back with a loud splash, eyes narrowed sharply, front row of teeth bared on a hiss.

Like a feral cat, MacTavish can’t help but compare, and chuckle to himself despite Ghost’s indignance. Like one of those strays that asks for pets but bites when you try.

Except Ghost doesn’t skitter away. He stays put, pressed into the sand as if ready to push himself back into the sea. His fins flatten to his sides again the moment MacTavish retracts his hand.

Ghost’s eyes flick. So quick MacTavish would have missed it if he weren’t so taken by them. Ghost chitters again. The same sound, maybe. He struggles to differentiate between them. But the look is clear.

“Right. Of course.” He’s not disappointed, going back to the sand to fetch the fish. “Do you think you could come closer?”

Clearly not, by the way Ghost stays exactly where he is no matter how MacTavish gesticulates with the fish head. Its bulging dead eyes stare at him like he’s an idiot.

Fuck, he should have worn waterproofs. But his clothes are already soaking wet so it can’t get any worse.

He wades back into the sea, up to the calf, and holds the bowl out of reach so Ghost will have to take it from his hand.

The clicking is different this time. Less of a chitter and more like a chirp, a happy trill lost between the sound of countless teeth breaking through meat.

MacTavish goes for runs in the mornings. It’s a habit he’s kept for years and won’t be giving up, especially now that he can take the trail along the seaside, through the forested area where the ground is soft, then along the shore just before the ground turns sandy where his routine has changed to include gazing out at the sea, knowing he won’t see what he’s looking for.

He does see something, however.

Things wash up on the shore often enough. But even birds dropping their prey or a pod chased towards the shallows doesn’t result in a literal pile of fish. Put there with intent, stacked on top of each other like laid out at a market.

The only mark left behind at all are the sharp indents. Teeth marks. And many of them. Cleanly cutting through the scales, but refrained from swallowing the food whole.

MacTavish looks at the water as if expecting Ghost to be waiting and watching, yet the sea is predictably barren. Confirms some of his suspicions, however. Ghost can definitely come farther ashore than he did before, and his intentions are friendly.

But then the problem remains. What the fuck is he going to do with several pounds of fish?

He’s going to carry it back home, is what he’s going to do. And stink up his kitchen again preparing the whole pile, which is ridiculous, because ostensibly Ghost should be able to eat it with bones and all.

Maybe it’s that he doesn’t have much to do. Maybe it’s that he’s become soft. Maybe it’s that he’s become a fucking fool, but by the end of the day he’s waiting by the sea again, watching the sun set behind the trees as his indication for time passing.

Splashing draws his attention from the sunset. As if out of nowhere, Ghost has appeared again, gently flapping his tail in the water to catch MacTavish’s attention. The remaining red in the sky paints his scales crimson. The water leaves them shimmering.

Maybe they’re at the greeting stage now. Still, MacTavish isn’t sure what to say to him. Ghost beats him to it. He chitters something at him, a long series of clicks that MacTavish has no response to, so he defaults to what he knows.

“Brought this for you.” He is better prepared this time, wore waterproofs to wade into the water and offer the head of a bass to Ghost. Ghost slinks close with one smooth swish of his tail, hands digging into soft sand to lift himself up and eat from MacTavish’s hand.

Except for the part where he doesn’t eat, but only sniffs at the fish. Sniffs, then hisses, then pushes MacTavish’s hand back harshly enough he drops it entirely.

“For you,” Ghost hisses, and glares for good measure.

The words come out sibilant, awkwardly pronounced between the slim tongue and too many teeth. It’s about the last thing MacTavish expects to hear, which is why it takes him a long moment to parse the sound as words.

“Shit,” he mutters. “So you can understand me.”

“I have met humans before.” Ghost bares his teeth as he says it, which makes it all the more obvious his tongue isn’t quite the right shape to sound out the letters. The undercurrent of a hiss makes it clear that MacTavish should look at the silvery scars covering him in a different light – not from fights between his own species, then.

Ghost mustn’t appreciate his staring, since he picks up the bass the waves drag towards him and throws it back. It leaves a slimy splat on MacTavish’s chest. It’s slippery so he fumbles to catch it. He looks at the bugling eyes and the slightly gaped mouth and feels mildly sick at Ghost’s implication.

“I can’t eat this.” He tries for a gentler tone, since Ghost’s stare is sharp. “I made them for you.”

Ghost throws his head. He makes some series of clicking sounds, a low trill that isn’t the pleased type MacTavish heard before, before pushing himself away from the shore with noisy, cantankerous splashing. In an instant he’s disappeared again, only a brief white smear beneath the waves before he dives too deep to see anymore.

It leaves MacTavish standing there stupidly, ankle deep in the water, a foul-smelling bass in his hands and staining his clothes.

He should have just left it. No need to put so much fucking effort into what’s clearly a wasted task. A task he made up for himself. And one that he clearly fucked up somehow.

He throws the bass into the sea for a lucky seagull to fetch and wades back. Should just leave the rest out here too for some animals to find. With the way he’s cut it up, it would be a fucking hassle to prepare it for himself now. He wouldn’t even want it. Just the smell of fish makes him scowl.

A loud splatter and a louder trill call him to turn around. Ghost swims towards him, a cod caught in his maw. Twice the size of anything that was in the pile from before and freshly caught.

Ghost swims all the way up to him, walking forwards on his hands where the water turn too shallow, and drops the fish at his feet. There are two rows of teeth marks across its back, deep and clean punctures.

MacTavish looks at the fish, at Ghost, back at the fish. He’s caught in a stalemate.

“I’ll have to cook it,” he hedges.

Ghost makes a huff like a snort, a face like scrunching his nose, and a sound like an unhappy rumble that, to MacTavish, sounds more like a purr. Yet he lies himself down, arms folded to rest his chin on them, narrowed eyes boring into MacTavish.

“I wait.”

It looks uncomfortable, the way the waves wash up his back, over his head, and into his face, but Ghost clearly prefers it to the drier sand. His tail floats lazily in the water behind him, too murky to make out the specifics of the fins along his sides or the shape of the tail fin, yet considerably clearer than MacTavish has seen him before. Like right out of the fairy tales. Except for the tetchy attitude.

MacTavish is out of options here, pinned under Ghost’s glare. Nothing else to do, he takes the fresh fish and brings it back home, making a mess of his kitchen to clean and filet and cook it in record time. He keeps fearing Ghost might leave, so between every step he wastes more seconds to move to the window and look at the shore. Against the dark sea and night sky, his pale figure stands out. Laying in the shallow water with his head tilted towards the house, it’s almost like he’s following MacTavish through the window.

The kitchen is a mess and he’s dripped water all over the floors. It’s hours past when he tries to go to bed. Yet it’s been so long since he last felt this wired, and all he’s doing is bringing a plate of fish to the beach.

Ghost makes that happy trill again when he shows up. And then that cute grimace when he smells what MacTavish has done to his catch. He’s pacified again watching MacTavish take a bite.

“Can’t you come on shore?” MacTavish asks. He earns a hiss for it, and a flap of Ghost’s tail that’s powerful enough to send droplets flying all the way to MacTavish.

“Come in water,” he counters. MacTavish would prefer not to, yet he scoots forwards so the waves lap against his boots. A good enough compromise, it seems, since Ghost seems entirely content to watch him eat like this.

Too content. It feels like being pinned under a sniper’s scope.

“I made these for you.” MacTavish offers him the diced fish again. Ghost is more receptive this time. He lets the bowl float towards him before taking a piece between sharp claws. He barely chews, throat working to swallow, and he doesn’t continue before he sees MacTavish break off a chunk of filet. His eyes stay firmly pinned on him, and MacTavish would like to meet his gaze, except he’s stuck balancing his plate on one palm and twisting off pieces with a fork, realising now that he definitely underseasoned it. Ghost makes a quiet trill every time he eats another mouthful.

At the back of his head, MacTavish has a feeling he’s got himself wrapped up in something. At the forefront, though, is drinking in the sight of this deadly, captivating creature he has managed to lure so close.

MacTavish refuses to analyse why the first thing he does in the mornings is walk across the house to the window overlooking the sea. The water is calm today, waves slowly crawling up the shore to where a line has been drawn in the sand.

The second thing he does in the mornings is go down to the beach to find what’s been left for him.

A row of trinkets is laid out in a row. Seashells and sea glass, old coins and amulets, warped metal and uniquely-shaped rocks. A variety of items neatly lined up, smoothed by the water and dried into the sand, since apparently Ghost has decided that MacTavish doesn’t appreciate his caught fish enough.

He should do something with these, if Ghost has decided they’re worthy. He gathers up the entire collection, washes it clean of any sand, and carries them back home. There’s no one out at sea except for the distant shadow of a cargo ship, yet MacTavish lingers for a moment anyway. That has become part of the routine too, a few seconds stolen out of his day between tasks.

He separates the trinkets into something he could work with and some that he’s no idea what to do with but keep on the windowsill. Ghost’s sight seems to be far better than his, so perhaps he’d see these little pieces of glass and stones glinting from all the way from the water.

The last piece of sea glass is round and smooth and as white as Ghost’s scales. It’s got a hole through the middle, eroded and smoothed out by years in the sea. If he tilts it just right by the light of the window, it reflects the blue of the sky like Ghost’s tail reflects the colour of the sea.

MacTavish also refuses to analyse why he undoes the clasp at the back of his neck to pull out the chain of his tags. He’s not lonely, he hasn’t grown soft, he’s not sentimental. He’s taken to keeping pictures on the walls that he used to keep at the bottom of drawers, and every now and then checks in with old contacts – but he’s not wistful or nostalgic.

He threads the chain through the white glass. It clinks against his tags, then warms up against his skin when he tucks them under his shirt again.

He doesn’t know what Ghost likes, but it gives him an idea.

There’s a routine he’s used to following to burn away daylight doing something useful, yet it still takes far too long for the sun to set. MacTavish is there early, sitting a little closer to the water every evening. Ghost is there early, face caught in red and gold from the setting sun.

“Hi.”

Ghost clicks back, a sound MacTavish has come to recognise as a greeting. He’s a sight that eases the tension in MacTavish’s shoulders. He refuses to analyse what it does to his face, and why he smiles like that as Ghost glides through the water up to the shore. He comes up to the shallows until he’s within arm’s reach, lying on his stomach, continuously braver in showing himself. His tail lifts out of the water with a dazzling rain of droplets, all of him stretched out like he’s preening.

Ghost makes another melodic trilling sound that MacTavish thinks refers to him.

“I made something for you.”

MacTavish unclasps his hand to show the bracelet – pinkish seashells woven together. He lets it dangle from his fingers like an offering, suddenly uncertain whether jewellery is anything mers even wear.

Uncertain, until Ghost perks up with a chirp. Up close, his eyes are so endlessly deep, dark like bottomless waters, open so wide MacTavish might just lose his balance looking into them. An excited flap of his tail pushes him another inch or two closer.

“Aye?” MacTavish asks. The waves leave his trousers wet – if Ghost isn’t keen on coming onto shore, MacTavish can move towards the sea.

“Aye,” Ghost mimics, the vowels a little wonky in his mouth, revealing the dozens of teeth that add an undercurrent of a hiss to everything he says. He lifts his hand up, big eyes expectantly locked on MacTavish.

MacTavish would have moved into the water anyway. Under that look, the thought to do anything else doesn’t even cross his mind.

Ghost’s skin is unnaturally tough to the touch, firm and unyielding when MacTavish gently tests it. Yet his hand is lithe when he cups it in his palm to ease the bracelet over the claws and onto his wrist. His touch lingers, since Ghost allows it, thumb brushing over Ghost’s knuckles, the back of his hand, up to the claws, sharp and strong like talons, yet strangely gentle as they graze over MacTavish’s wrist in turn.

MacTavish can barely blink before Ghost drags him into the water.

He splutters for breath. Blinks water out of his eyes. The waves splash into his face again, swelling taller in the open sea where Ghost has dragged him in a matter of moments.

Ghost’s hold is firm around him, and his speed far too great to keep up with. At least he knows MacTavish needs to fucking breathe, swimming on the surface, skimming the waves – except MacTavish can’t fucking see when the next wave crashes into them and he gasps in salt water.

As fast as it started, Ghost suddenly slows. MacTavish reaches out half-blind, squinting past the water dripping into his eyes, to grasp a handful of wet sand. Ghost lets go of him as he climbs onto a small isle. Nothing more than a speck of sand in the middle of the sea, far enough that land becomes hazy in the horizon. His lighthouse blinks intermittently.

“What the fuck, Ghost?”

Ghost chitters, seemingly endlessly amused at MacTavish’s indignance. And with no further explanation, he dips underwater again. Dives so deep so fast that MacTavish has no chance of figuring out where he went.

It leaves MacTavish alone on a lonely isle that’s just big enough to fit him. And far enough that he’s seriously considering whether it’s even feasible to swim back if Ghost has decided to abandon him.

Could be fucking worse, he figures. Ghost could have just drowned him.

He wipes the water from his face and ends up smearing the sand sticking to his palms through his hair. It’s useless to try to brush it from his hands. Somehow it got into his fucking shoes – but those are soaked through too.

Ghost emerges again with a graceful glide so it barely creates ripples in the water. He heaves a sack onto the isle. Fruits spill out.

“Eat,” Ghost tell him.

The bag as well as the fruit must have been stored in some underwater cove. The pear he picks up is soft and sodden. The canvas is entirely wetted. Though it’s hard to pick out, it carries a concentrated smell of the sea.

“Where’d you get this?”

“You don’t like fish,” Ghost explains instead of answering. “So you eat this.”

He settles himself in front of MacTavish, watching intently. So he is left with no other choice but to pick out something to appease Ghost.

The selection of fruit reminds him of the variety the market in the nearest town carries. A sack like this would be common for transporting produce. Small towns have a tendency to gossip, yet MacTavish hasn’t heard anything unusual. He doubts he will. The apple the picks out seems to have resisted the sea well enough. It tastes of brine when he bites. Yet Ghost trills happily, so it’s worth the odd flavour.

“You are going to bring me back, right?”

Ghost makes a sound like a grumble – frustration, disagreement, petulance, or something between them, MacTavish has come to assume. With one solid push of his tail he’s up on the isle beside MacTavish, laying down to set his head on MacTavish’s thigh.

“Not yet.”

All of a sudden, he doesn’t know what to do anymore. His hand hovers in the air, unsure whether he’s allowed to touch now that Ghost has practically settled in his lap.

MacTavish climbed up past where the waves reach, which means Ghost is almost entirely out of the water too, and it leaves all of him splayed out for studying – the colour and shape of him, the uncanny strength in his tail, the dozens of little fins along his sides. Yet MacTavish finds himself only looking at his eyes, the subtle curve of his mouth, the way his pale-pale face seems to go just a slight tinge of pink out in the open air.

“You are not,” Ghost’s eyes narrow, “happy?”

MacTavish has to look away, lest he say something incredibly fucking stupid. Lest he give in to the urge to drag his fingers through Ghost’s hair or brush his thumb over his lips. Though he can’t deny that Ghost is easier on the eyes than the endless empty sea.

“I’d prefer more warning next time.” Why is he talking about a next time? “I’m going to get sick, soaked like this.” He doesn’t sound nearly as frustrated as he should be.

Wind is blowing from the open sea, sneaking under his waterlogged shirt and across the back of his neck. He is definitely going to need a hot shower after this. But that’s not in the cards for him, apparently, since Ghost rolls farther onto his lap to look up at him, sneaking a claw under the hem of his shirt. Water drips from it at the slightest movement.

Ghost’s throat clicks as he speaks. “Take it off.”

MacTavish raises an incredulous brow. Ghost’s claw slides farther up, brushing against his stomach, the sharp tip poking at the fabric. Poking far too hard and stretching it to its limit.

“Don’t break it.”

Ghost looks at him with wide innocent eyes, as if he isn’t threatening to rip a hole into his shirt.

“Alright. Christ.”

MacTavish drags the shirt up and over his head, then wrings it out for good measure. A fucking pool’s worth of water drips out.

Ghost’s weight lifts from his legs. He makes a sharp chirp. His eyes are wide, pupils so big they encompass the entire eye, locked onto MacTavish’s chest. He reaches a hand out and lifts the chain around MacTavish’s neck onto one claw. Drags it forwards until he gets to this dog tags, and the white piece of sea glass beside them.

Ghost lets out a series of clicks. High-pitched and chirrupy. MacTavish has, self-admittedly, become decent at deciphering the sounds he makes, but this is definitely a new one.

“What does that mean?”

Ghost repeats it and splays his hand across MacTavish’s chest. Between them, the piece of glass turns simultaneously body-warm and sea cool.

“Me?”

It’s a pattern Ghost clearly wants him to remember with how he repeats it. His insistence shows in how he presses his palm firmer to MacTavish’s chest, firmly enough that he holds onto Ghost’s wrist for balance, fingers careful around the bracelet. Until Ghost simply pushes harder and MacTavish falls onto his back in the sand with a grunt.

Ghost hovers over him. He trails one hand down MacTavish’s jaw, the gentle draw of his claws almost ticklish.

“You have fur.” He drags his hand through the hair on MacTavish’s chest, pushing in the opposite direction, then downwards again, seemingly mesmerised by the coarse drag against his palm.

Ghost has always been hesitant with being touched, so MacTavish lays still under his exploring touch and only holds onto his wrist, thumb brushing over the seashells. He suppresses the reflex to shudder when droplets fall onto him, or when Ghost brushes over a sensitive spot, and certainly refuses to analyse why the tight feeling in his ribs eases when Ghost experimentally presses down on his chest.

MacTavish has grown used to the screaming of seagulls, birdsongs he can’t recognise, and the endless white noise of waves crashing against the shore. Yet, even so, the sudden sharp shrill noise cutting through the air makes him drop what he’s doing to rush towards the source.

Ghost is laying in the sand. MacTavish has become proficient at picking out the shape of him from any distance, even as just a speck in the water when the white of his tail is indistinguishable from seafoam against rocks. But now he’s here. Far up the shore. In broad daylight.

Another sound like a whine or a cry, and Ghost writhing on the sand. Helpless like a fish out of water, hands scratching at himself and the ground beneath him.

Fuck, something must have happened. A fishing net trapped around him, or an injury, some kind of wound MacTavish should be going for the first aid kit for instead of stumbling down the steep incline to rush to the beach. He nearly twists his ankle. Definitely hurts his knee. None of it matters as he slides to a stop beside Ghost, face-down in the sand.

“What happened?”

Ghost’s eyes lock onto him, endlessly dark. There’re no obvious injuries yet his entire body flops, tail kicking up wet sand. The clicks he makes are too fast for MacTavish to decipher them. He throws his arm out and digs his claws into MacTavish’s leg.

“Hey, hey,” MacTavish pacifies, gently prying his hand away before he draws blood. “What is it?”

Ghost’s hold shifts to MacTavish’s arm. His grip is almost painfully tight and pulls him off balance with a sudden tug to bring MacTavish’s hand to his body, unafraid of touch – the opposite, actually, with the way he presses MacTavish’s hand against himself. Ghost drags it over his stomach, down where skin turns to scales, and to his tail, wet with the sea.

Ghost rolls over with another of those yearning cries and—

He presses MacTavish’s hand to the slit at the base of his tail, the opening rubbed raw and pinkish. It looks sore, and Ghost writhes like it hurts, and it’s so much softer under MacTavish’s touch than the rest of him. Something viscous and clear leaks from him, sticking to his fingers, leaving Ghost’s scales slippery. Ghost’s guiding is quite unmistakable. MacTavish isn’t entirely clueless, even if he is staring dumbfounded at Ghost’s form.

Ghost’s cry peters out into a satisfied trill when MacTavish dips his digit inside.

“Fuck.”

Compared to the cool scales of his body, on the inside Ghost is ineffably warm. Warm, and so fucking tight, squeezing around just the one digit. Ghost’s throat vibrates with a series of clicks, his entire body wound up as he arches off the ground, claws tightly wrapped around MacTavish’s wrist to urge him to push deeper.

MacTavish hadn’t noticed the slit before. Hadn’t thought about it. But now that he’s presented with it, Ghost begging for it, he can’t stop the thoughts from flooding his head.

He’s noisier and more responsive than ever. Three knuckles deep and curling his finger, Ghost gives a bodily jerk, clicking and trilling like he can’t help it. Must be the season. Warm May weather and instinctual urges.

But Ghost hisses, “John,” in that wan tone, followed by that chirrupy trill, so he would like to think it’s more than just urges and necessity that brought Ghost to him. It’s more than that for MacTavish. His soft insides tempt him to push another finger to his slit.

It’s a struggle to fit inside, even with that slick coating his entire hand. It leaks out of Ghost as MacTavish presses farther in, prodding against hot spongy walls to make room. It makes a wet shlick as he pushes the digits in, Ghost’s slit clutching onto him as he draws them out.

Ghost clamps onto MacTavish’s thigh, then reaches higher up to his belt. MacTavish catches his hand before his claw can catch behind it and rip his trousers open.

“Isn’t this enough?” He curls his fingers and watches Ghost go limp, jaw falling slack to let out a guttural rumble. He asks, even though the wet heat is so fucking tempting, even though Ghost’s uncoordinated hand is dragging over a prominent bulge in his trousers. He’s not sure if he should. Not sure if he even could, considering the effort he has to put behind just thrusting his fingers into him.

But Ghost hisses and pulls MacTavish on top of himself. His tail trashes unhappily, claws digging into MacTavish’s arms, a whine in his throat.

Fuck, but that pretty face and begging cry could get him to do anything. Ghost’s slit is shiny and oozing with slick when he drags his fingers out to push his trousers down, only enough to fist his cock. He grinds over Ghost’s slit and the cool scales of his tail. Ghost arches into it. It makes him fucking dizzy, watching his clock slide over the puffy opening, covered entirely by his length.

“I don’t think this is gonna work,” MacTavish rasps. “I could barely fit my hand.”

Ghost throws his head back. “You’re just big.”

“Aren’t you just small?”

Ghost hisses in outrage. It dies in his throat when MacTavish presses his thumb against his slit and watches his entrance struggle against the pressure. He doesn’t know the slightest about mer anatomy – maybe shouldn’t stick his dick in one – but it figures mer proportions are a little different.

Perhaps too different. Fitted proportionally to each other, but clearly not to humans. He’s not sure whether this could even work. But fuck if it isn’t tempting. Especially with Ghost trilling so sweetly at him. He clearly has no qualms about their difference. He also doesn’t seem like he can focus on much else but being filled.

MacTavish notches the head of his cock at Ghost’s slit and eases in. Just the tip looks too big to fit, the rim firm and a touch too unyielding. Yet Ghost arches into it, tail flopping under MacTavish’s bulk.

MacTavish hushes him. Rolls his hips and pushes inside, sucking air in through his teeth at the sudden tightness that envelops him. Another gentle thrust and Ghost’s sounds taper off, head fallen back and jaw slack. Another inch and Ghost’s slit clenches around him, far too tight, far too small, struggling like trying to push him out, clenching so MacTavish feels every single minute twitch of Ghost’s body.

He gets half way in when he meets resistance and slows. Spongy walls shudder around him, the rim unwittingly sucking him in, the head of his cock pressed against something vulnerable. No trace of that former puffiness is left with how thin he’s stretched.

Fuck, but if this isn’t the tightest hole he’s ever felt. It almost fucking hurts, in a heady way that mixes inexplicably with visceral pleasure. Ghost makes for a fucking sight, splayed out on the sand like this.

MacTavish draws back, when Ghost suddenly claws at his arms.

“More.”

“I don’t think I can—”

“More,” Ghost repeats, voice breathy in a way MacTavish didn’t know it could get. And MacTavish can’t deny the invitation isn’t tempting.

Ghost’s eyes roll when MacTavish pushes forwards again. Between tight walls and against that resistance. Encouraged on by Ghost’s arms curling around him and his sweet whiny cries, he presses a little farther, fitting a little more, griding against his depths. A touch deeper, the slightest push, another roll of his hips to feel the drag of Ghost’s walls around his cock.

The resistance gives and MacTavish pushes deeper. Ghost jolts sharply. Part of MacTavish fears he broke something he shouldn’t. But Ghost is clawing at him, so that must be a good sign, even if he feels Ghost’s body struggling around him where he’s buried entirely, all the way up to the hilt.

It’s so tight his cock barely has room to twitch at the overbearing sensation, leaking precum simply at pushing in all the way.

The sounds falling from Ghost’s slack mouth don’t make sense anymore – the clicks in his throat smoothed out, words incomprehensible with his tongue lax, eyes white from how far back into his head they’ve rolled.

MacTavish draws back. Viscous slick clings to his cock. The slit flutters around the tip.

The next thrust in is no easier, as if Ghost hasn’t opened up at all. MacTavish has to put power behind his thrust to sink in and carve a place for himself, to force space between those tight walls squeezing him so unbearably fucking tight.

Pinpricks of pain erupt on his back. Faintly, he feels cool air on his skin where Ghost has ripped holes in his shirt. It stings like its bleeding. Something wet trickles down his back like it’s bad. It doesn’t compare to the heat of Ghost’s slit encompassing him.

It doesn’t get any easier. Ghost squeals on every thrust. It feels like a fight against the tightness of his hole to satiate the urge to fuck as deep as he can.

Deeper than he should, maybe. Stretched around the girth of him, Ghost’s slit looks far too small to fit him. It looks like it hurts. It must, the way Ghost writhes. Yet he also cries out and claws at him when MacTavish draws back, jolting all over again when he sinks back in. Every time something inside him has to give, inner walls stretched too thin, struggling to accommodate him, the sensitive depths of his hole pulsing as MacTavish pushes past to press in to the hilt.

Thick strands cling to his cock when he pulls out, sticky like trying to keep him inside. It’s hard to go any faster when he has to force Ghost open again and again. He doesn’t need to when this is enough, with this ruthless heat coiling in his gut and wrapped around his cock. Definitely enough, with the way Ghost is already clinging to him, scratching his back bloody, writhing at the slightest touch.

MacTavish fucks in to the hilt with a grunt and grinds as if there’s any room left to get deeper, as if Ghost doesn’t make a shrill cry when he’s balls deep. He’s so fucking tight that there can’t be any space left when his cock pulses, filling Ghost up with cum. No room for it to even leak out with how firmly his hole is gripping MacTavish.

Ghost lets out a sated trill, dragged out and lazy, as he arches into it. His hold on MacTavish goes slack, arms simply falling to the sand when MacTavish pushes himself upright. He’s entirely limp. His slit gives a wet sound when MacTavish carefully pulls out. Ghost whines weakly, his hole pulsing with sensitivity yet the rest of him too fucked out to do more than twitch. His slit is red and puffy, quivering in his wake, gaped open. The rim flutters, struggling to close.

The claw marks across MacTavish’s back burn in the brine-filled air. Sweat beads on his temples. Maybe it’s the aftereffect of Ghost’s hole or simply the sight he makes that has arousal still thrumming through him.

Cum oozes from Ghost’s slit. Slowly leaks from his fucked-open hole. MacTavish thumbs it back inside. Ghost makes a shrill squeak when he rubs his cum against his spongy walls. Then follows it with that chirrupy trill.

“Aye? What is it?”

Ghost reaches out his hand. It flops back to the ground half way. MacTavish leans close to make it easier on him, lets Ghost curl an arm around him, claws dragging across the back of his neck. Ghost trills again.

“I got you, sweetheart.”

“Mate,” Ghost slurs against his jaw.

MacTavish recoils. Ghost’s arms around him keep him close. “What?”

Ghost repeats the sound again, the series of clicks that MacTavish took to mean his name. Yet Ghost’s tongue licks over his cheek, slit leaking slick again, trilling mate into his ear in the middle of what has to be mating season.

“Oh, fuck.”

MacTavish didn’t think it was this serious. Didn’t think it was more than curiosity for Ghost – even though he’d come to think of Ghost as his, adjusted his entire routine around him, keeps an eye out for the pretty pinkish seashells he likes and brings food to the beach to eat together.

Ghost trills again – the trill MacTavish knows well from how often Ghost makes it to call to him. “More.”

He gives a weak flap of his tail, otherwise seemingly fucked-out and limp, yet still entices him with sweet chirps.

Doesn’t have to entice him too much. The sight of his gaping slit does more than enough. Ghost’s dark eyes do the rest. Fuck, but MacTavish has really got himself inextricably tangled into this. He doesn’t think he minds.

Even fucked once already, it’s no easier to push in, Ghost’s slit alluringly small next to MacTavish’s cock.

But the whole day is still ahead, and Ghost seems just as eager as him to find out how well he could be moulded to fit him.

Sometimes it feels like Ghost knows the area fat better than MacTavish does, even though he insisted on scouting the region when first taking the job. Yet here he is, on some thin strip of land below the cliffs, only accessible by the sea and even then really only viable because it’s a mer taking him instead of a boat.

Well into the summer, MacTavish prefers slightly more privacy than the shorelines where the stray birdwatcher could spot them. Here, they’re out of sight of everyone but each other. Which also means that Ghost can be as loud as he can be. And MacTavish finds great enjoyment in testing his limits.

Three fingers deep, the result is a constant trill, interspersed by the trashing of his tail, partly in the water, and the clicks that cut off before Ghost can get the full sound out. MacTavish recognises the pattern of it anyway. He could guess even without hearing.

Ghost is bloody possessive, with how often he declares MacTavish his mate.

And fucking eager for his touch too, even outside mating season. Happy to roll over for him and let MacTavish pin him down, fingers teasing his slit open until its drooling and puffy.

He has to start anew every time, stretching him open as if it’s their first time. The cool spray of the sea hits his arm while tight, tight heat encompasses his fingers. Thick slick sticks to his digits when he drags them against Ghost’s walls, withdrawing.

“Anyone ever eaten you out, sweetheart?”

Ghost still shudders under the vestiges of his touch. Then his eyes narrow, face scrunching into an adorable frown. “No one eats me.”

“Not what I mean.” MacTavish huffs a laugh. He pushes Ghost down by a hand on his chest. “But you’ll let me, right?”

Ghost chirps a yes with barely a consideration. He’d say yes to anything MacTavish would ask of him, he figures. It’s only fair, considering how alluring Ghost can be when he wants to.

“Lie still.”

MacTavish keeps his tail pinned under his own weight as he shifts downwards. The waves will leave him wet again, but he’s grown used to it. Spends more time partway in the water than out of it, these days.

Ghost’s scales are shiny where slick covers them. A pulse and more oozes from his slit. MacTavish presses a thumb in to pull it open, reveals the pinkish insides, already tightened up again the moment MacTavish stops forcing him open.

He swipes over Ghost’s entrance with his tongue. He tastes like the sea – salty and tangy and slightly sticky. Not a taste he minds. Especially when just the first swipe of his tongue gets a squeal from Ghost.

He holds Ghost’s slit open with his thumbs, pushes his tongue inside, and tastes that burning heat of him. He can’t reach as far and doesn’t stretch him as much as his fingers, yet still Ghost’s slit squeezes around him, unwittingly pushing the taste of himself onto MacTavish’s tongue with how he clenches. Makes it a fucking wonder that MacTavish can even fuck him. Also makes it really fucking obvious how sensitive Ghost really is.

The slightest movement of his tongue has him chirping and crying. The top half of him writhes, the bottom half pinned down but trying to. Visceral jerks that he can’t seem to control, and each one floods MacTavish’s mouth with that briny taste.

MacTavish forces him open to give himself more room and Ghost that stretch he’s always vying for, even though it feels like MacTavish has to break him open again. Ghost will tremble yet still beg him for another finger, to fuck him proper, like he can’t get enough despite how responsive he always is – like he doesn’t care at all for his own limitations, or how forcefully MacTavish has to stretch him to make it fit.

It’s a little easier now, dragging his tongue along the spongy walls. Seeing what sounds he can coax from Ghost by mouthing at his slit. Finding a new angle to catch him unawares as he pushes his tongue inside.

Ghost claws deep trenches into the sand. His cry dies in his throat. His whine is weak and feeble when MacTavish licks over him again. His slit is gushing out slick like trying to temper the feeling, but usually it’s just more incentive to push in deeper, to see how much is forced out when MacTavish sinks in to the hilt and takes up all the space in his body.

In his mouth, he discovers, it feels viscid like honey, sticking to his teeth and the back of his throat. He tastes the brine all the way down in his chest. A fair reward for the wounded sound Ghost makes when he licks over the deepest parts of him before withdrawing, wiping the excess on his face off on the back of his hand.

Ghost always looks dazed, after. This deep-sea predator tamed into nothing but a panting heap. His slit tries to close again, despite how insatiable Ghost himself is. His gills flare like searching for water, yet he lies so perfectly limp and pliable in the sand.

MacTavish climbs back up the length of him to hover above him, cupping his face in one palm to guide Ghost’s eyes, eternally dark next to his pallor, to find him. The pink twinge on his cheekbones is the darkest MacTavish has been able to coax from him. Might be the darkest he’s able to be, since Ghost vehemently denies any ability to blush.

“Suppose no one’s done this to you either,” MacTavish murmurs. He holds Ghost’s face steady as he leans down and slots his mouth over his. Gently coaxes his lips to part to push the taste of himself into Ghost’s mouth. He gently runs his tongue over the rows of his teeth, then the softness of his lips as he pulls back.

Ghost blinks up at him. “Why do you do this?”

“It’s affectionate.”

Ghost eyes narrow for a frown, dipping to stare at MacTavish’s mouth like that holds all the secrets to kissing. He grumbles somewhere deep in his chest. His tongue slips out to lick over his lips, only a brief flash before it retreats again.

“I like it,” he declares then, and nudges his head into MacTavish’s palm holding his cheek, tips his chin up to – what MacTavish assumes – ask for another.

“Like this,” MacTavish murmurs against his mouth. “Copy me.”

Ghost’s lips part easier for him. His tongue flicks against MacTavish’s, a little too oddly shaped to mimic him perfectly, but Ghost is certainly trying. A little too mechanical with it, a little clumsy, but his chirp tastes sweet when he pushes forwards, refusing to let MacTavish break the kiss.

His tongue tastes of salt and the aftertaste of fish – something MacTavish has become used to with a slight shift in his diet, considering that Ghost insists on bringing him his catch of the day. It’s slim and dexterous and fast, and darts to lick over MacTavish’s lips all the way up to his cheek – which isn’t exactly part of the kissing he’s trying to teach, but allows Ghost nonetheless, his mouth skimming over the side of MacTavish’s face.

He brushes his thumb over Ghost’s lip. It’s turned warm from his touch. “You don’t do anything like this?”

Ghost clicks a no and shakes his head.

“Affection is—” And he lurches up suddenly, scraping his teeth across MacTavish’s jaw, nails dragging down his back. Light enough it’s only a graze, that it leaves behind a tingling sensation. Ghost tucks himself under his chin to bite at his collarbone. A slight pressure to let him feel the sharp points of his teeth before it retreats and Ghost follows it with his hand, claws scratching over his shoulder, down his chest. Gentle, compared to how deadly MacTavish knows them to be.

It’s something Ghost has always been doing, he recalls. But clearly hasn’t been able to decipher the meaning of it until now. All those playful bites and gentle nibbling, how he likes to run his hands over MacTavish’s chest so his claws leave goosebumps behind, how his teeth always drag over MacTavish’s hand when he handfeeds Ghost. The equivalent of pecking him whenever he’s within reach, apparently.

It means MacTavish has some catching up to do. Especially considering the scratches healing across his back from when Ghost can’t help but tear skin open whenever MacTavish fucks him.

He grabs Ghost’s jaw and leans close. Pauses just before their mouths connect to hold Ghost’s eyes, voice stern to make his point clear. “Don’t copy this.”

MacTavish kisses him again. Gently at first, just a brush against his mouth, ignoring the obvious invitation of Ghost’s tongue flicking out.

MacTavish adjusts the angle just a bit. Then bites down on Ghost’s lip.

Ghost’s trill and eager jolt nearly push him off-balance. The arm curled around MacTavish’s shoulders tightens, the tips of his claws dragging down the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

Ghost’s skin is a tougher than his own so he isn’t afraid to bite down harder. Ghost certainly appreciates it. Makes a pretty sound for it. Looks familiarly hazy in the eyes when MacTavish looks at him.

“Again.”

Insatiable and demanding. MacTavish wouldn’t expect anything else.

He bites at Ghost’s mouth again. Then pulls away before Ghost can get the idea to mimic it. Presses a kiss to his jaw instead, dragging his teeth down the line of it. Down to his throat which Ghost eagerly presents for him. MacTavish feels the vibrations of his chirping against his mouth when he leaves a kiss on his neck, then feels it bodily when he digs his teeth in. The pattern for mate again, resonating through his bones with how loudly Ghost vocalises it.

“Mate,” MacTavish echoes, a murmur against Ghost’s lips that he feels stretching into a smile against his own.

“Say it,” Ghost’s tongue flicks out to swipe over his mouth, “properly.”

MacTavish pulls back to frown at him. “What?”

Ghost trills, as if in demonstration. And then stares at MacTavish expectantly. He lets out an incredulous laugh, because Ghost can’t be serious, but then he pulls himself closer by the arm slung around MacTavish’s shoulders and repeats the sound, a fast series of clicks that he’s memorised well by now.

“I can’t make that sound.”

“Try.” Ghost’s face brightens with a grin. One that shows the front row of his teeth and stretches unnaturally into his cheeks. Reflecting the hazy grey light, his eyes might as well be shining with mirth. MacTavish rolls his.

He grunts at the back of his mouth. It comes out deep and scratchy and more like clearing his throat. A sound that Ghost clearly isn’t happy with, even though MacTavish can’t pitch it much higher, and definitely not as high as Ghost.

He clicks his tongue instead. A couple slow, off-beat clicks that don’t sound anything like a mer.

Ghost breaks into a chitter. His simper spreads wider. He nearly doubles over with how he’s laughing at him, only growing louder when MacTavish scowls at him. A high-pitched fast twittering in his throat, his eyes squinted from how high his cheeks lift, though his claws are gentle dragging over the back of MacTavish’s neck.

Ghost pulls him close and presses his mouth against MacTavish’s in what seems like an attempt at pacification. It definitely works, even if MacTavish has to adjust them to slot them together properly, and cup Ghost’s face to hold him back from actually biting down with his teeth. It doesn’t stop his tongue from flicking out.

“I want to try,” he declares.

“Try what?”

He makes a show of dragging his tongue over his mouth again. “Eat you.”

“Oh.” MacTavish looks at his mouth. “No.”

Ghost recoils. His face scrunches up in dissatisfaction – an expression that still remains sweet, even if Ghost grumbles lowly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” MacTavish mollifies him. Though it’s not exactly effective when he’s denying Ghost. “Your teeth would hurt me.”

He presses his thumb to Ghost’s lips to demonstrate. They part for him, let him ease the finger inside, and right away his teeth graze the calloused pad, drag against the knuckle. Like resting on a bed of nails, as he pushes his thumb farther into Ghost’s mouth, between the rows of teeth. Gently grazing his thumb, yet still threatening to peel through the thin layers of skin when MacTavish follows the curve of a fang. He holds back a shudder at the image of it surrounding his cock.

Ghost chirps dejectedly. His eyes are wide, tongue flicking against MacTavish’s thumb. His lips are tempting, plush, hide the danger until MacTavish pulls his bottom lip downwards to reveal the glint of his teeth.

“I can’t?”

Fuck, but Ghost’s expression makes something twist in his chest. The downwards tilt of his mouth and the sad eyes and the trill. Ghost has always been alluring, uncannily so, but it’s an entirely different side of him when he’s being crestfallen about it.

MacTavish takes a heavy breath. He’s never considered himself a fool for a pretty face, yet here he is, doing something incredibly fucking foolish. Though for more than just a pretty face.

“If,” he starts, and Ghost suddenly perks up, “you only use your tongue.”

Ghost clicks a yes. “Promise,” he says with a hiss that sounds mildly dangerous. It probably says something about MacTavish that it gets his cock hardening. It probably says more that he stands up to push down his trousers.

Ghost holds himself upright with his hands gripping MacTavish’s hips. His eyes follow as MacTavish pulls himself out, holding himself by the base, feeling the blood and arousal thrumming as he slides his hand over his length.

“Careful,” he warns before Ghost leans in.

His tongue flicks out to swipe over his length, making little chirps and twitters at what he tastes. Then leans in closer to let his cock drag against his cheek like he’s scenting himself, from the base to the head, where he focuses with his tongue, curling around the tip in a feeling MacTavish is sure nothing else can mimic.

It’s flexible and fast, licking over him one moment and coiling around his length the next, leaving thin little stripes of saliva behind. He chitters happily when MacTavish grunts. Keeps repeating the path he takes until he gets a groan and MacTavish lets his eyes fall half-lidded.

They immediately snap open again when Ghost brings himself close to the head, hand tangling in his hair and tugging when his tongue withdraws. But Ghost only purses his lips, those dark eyes of his tilted up at MacTavish as he presses a gentle kiss to the head of his cock, then slowly drags his lips downwards, kept tightly shut so MacTavish feels nothing but the plushness of his mouth.

“Do you not,” Ghost stares up at him, “like it?”

“I like it.” Should be obvious by how heavily his cock lands against Ghost’s cheek, how he holds himself by the base to make it easer for Ghost’s tongue to get to him. But Ghost draws back instead, eyes narrowing.

“You are not wet.”

“I– usually am not.” MacTavish frowns at him. Ghost mimics the expression, makes a low grumble like he doesn’t believe him. Which doesn’t make sense, except that MacTavish’s cock has been dripping with his slick whenever they’ve done this before. “When do you usually come?”

Ghost tilts his head at him, chirping.

“When do you,” MacTavish tries to rephrase, “feel the most pleasure?”

Ghost blinks, eyes wide and innocent, like it should be obvious. Many things that should be obvious but aren’t, apparently.

“When you first touch me.”

“You mean when I fuck you?”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, squinting. His expression scrunches up as he tilts his head the other way. “When,” he repeats again slowly, picking out every word like he got them wrong the first time, “you first touch me.”

The image comes to mind unbidden. Ghost writing underneath him when he gets his fingers into his slit, and how he keeps writhing when MacTavish finally works his cock into him, and how he always writhes the same way, making those choked noises and leaking slick, indistinguishable from the start to the end.

“Oh.”

It makes sense, then, why Ghost is so wrung out afterwards, when he’s kept on that high for the entire time. And so fucking sensitive that just one finger is enough, let alone anything else.

Ghost chirps at him, a low worried tone. MacTavish clears his throat. It definitely says something about him that his cock twitches against Ghost’s cheek at the realisation Ghost has just granted him.

“I’m not like that.”

Ghost jerks back, mouth curving down into a frown. MacTavish cards his hand through his hair to bring him back close.

“Here. Give me your hand.”

Carefully, he closes Ghost’s fist around his cock and lays his own atop. His touch is cool, makes his breath hitch in his chest, and the threat of his claws – out of the way yet still dangerously close – makes heat coil in his gut.

“Like this.”

He guides the pace with his own hand. Ghost’s grip is a touch too firm, but so is the press of his tongue when he swipes over the head of his cock again, circling and coiling as if to find every tiny spot that makes his length pulse in his palm.

Fuck, but he makes for an alluring sight, that pretty face and deadly claws – willing and happy to get MacTavish off, constantly looking up at him with those big eyes, glimmering whenever he earns another grunt from MacTavish.

Precum beads on the tip and Ghost swipes it up in an instant. His throat works as he swallows. His trill is so sudden and loud MacTavish nearly jolts. A happy trill. One of the happiest. He presses his lips to the head and flicks his tongue over it, impatient and needy. His hand is pliable under MacTavish’s fist, so he speeds it up, guides Ghost to grip him a little tighter, and holds himself back from bucking his hips past Ghost’s lips that gently vibrate with his constant chirping.

“Fuck,” MacTavish groans, head tipping back, cock pulsing in the tight grip of their hands. Yet he forces his eyes open to look at the wonder on Ghost’s face when he licks up every drop of his cum with dexterous swipes of his tongue.

He doesn’t sound this enthusiastic when MacTavish brings him food. Doesn’t sound this happy when he announces he has the entire day free to spend with Ghost. And MacTavish hasn’t fucked him, which means he’s entirely coherent and present and energetic, and licking at the tip of his cock even after he’s emptied his balls onto his tongue.

MacTavish keeps himself from jerking in oversensitivity, just barely. He’ll allow Ghost a little more before he insists on a break. And then most likely figure out the limits of his refractory period when Ghost will undoubtedly want to repeat this.

“With your palms,” MacTavish grunts. “A little lower.”

Ghost’s chirp lifts on a question as he shifts his weight.

“Aye, like that. You don’t have to be so gentle.”

Ghost kneads down firmer and MacTavish feels his muscles loosening under his touch. He groans, head resting on his forearms, quiet waves washing up to his stomach as a compromise between meeting on land or the sea.

There was an unused slipway here, half broken and crumbling from a century ago that he adjusted for them to make meeting more comfortable. It also means he doesn’t have to deal with the endless fucking sand. A little padding to make it softer, except for the sharp pieces of coral Ghost insists on decorating with.

MacTavish relaxes into it as Ghost puts his newly-learned skills to use, softening the persistent ache in his back, the fatigue in his shoulders. He follows it with a gentler touch, claws dragging up the back of his neck and through his hair.

“You’re changing colour.”

MacTavish grunts. “Comes with age.”

Ghost flattens himself against his back, chirps against his temple. Something sounding vaguely concerned.

“I’m fine,” MacTavish assuages him. Ghost scrapes his teeth over his jaw, then presses his mouth to the corner of MacTavish’s when he turns his head. “I know. Love you too.”

Despite the sun or the wind drying him out, Ghost is always more than happy to lay in the open air. He lets MacTavish turn and makes that purring sound low in his chest as he settles on top of him. It’s a weight MacTavish has become familiar with, Ghost snuggling against him, head set on his chest where he likes to listen to his voice and heartbeat, claws drawing endless patterns into his skin and dragging through his chest hair that he still finds fascinating.

Wrapping his arm around Ghost to keep him close has become second nature. The slow life has grown into a comfortable routine. Ghost curled up on his chest in the mornings after nocturnal hunts, MacTavish bringing him new treats from the market, Ghost insisting they hide in some cove when the weather turns stormy so MacTavish won’t have to go back inside to keep himself dry. Not the ending he would have imagined for himself, but certainly not one he regrets.

Ghost chirps, a pattern he hasn’t heard before.

“What’s that?” He brushes a half-dry lock from Ghost’s forehead, looks down at him where he’s snuggled up in his usual position to soak up MacTavish’s warmth. “Hm?”

“Difficult to say,” he mutters. “It means,” he hisses vaguely, “life mate.”

MacTavish frowns at him. “I thought mers mate for life.”

Ghost scrunches his face in a show of dissatisfaction.

“But this is—” he repeats it again, which doesn’t explain anything but let MacTavish memorise the sound, another to add to his vocabulary. A series of clicks melding together into a melodic warble, and accompanied by a look that feels like it carries far more weight than MacTavish can interpret.

“Which means?” he prompts. Ghost huffs and twists to lay down flat on his front.

“There can only be one,” Ghost insists. His hand presses down on MacTavish’s ribs a little too hard, as if physically trying to push the thought into him. “There can ever only be one. It is impossible to think of another. In any world. At any time. It is always you.” His fingers curve, claws pinpricks on his skin, faint marks that will disappear in a day.

“You are—” he repeats the clicks, frowning at his inability to translate. “—Eternal.”

MacTavish blinks at him. He opens his mouth to answer but he’s not sure of the words to say. It is… a lot to suddenly be faced with.

Ghost hovers over him, palm pressing down above his heart and steadily threatening to break something, his stare so dark and firm, eyes almost wet with his insistence to convey what he means.

“Does love you not mean that?”

MacTavish clears his throat. “It can mean many things, depending on how you say it.”

Ghost grumbles, face scrunching. He throws his head with a low hiss, “Difficult.”

“Not with you,” MacTavish quickly interrupts. He cups Ghost’s face, guides his attention back to himself. “With you, I love you means that you’re my— life mate.”

Ghost’s whole face lights up. His trill is the happiest MacTavish has ever heard him. He scarcely has a moment to appreciate the sight before Ghost is leaning down to bite at him, a row of harmless nips along any part of him he can reach.

It’s almost ticklish, the way his teeth drag over his skin. Until it turns precariously close to dangerous when he puts a little too much force behind the bite. MacTavish would temper him, ease him back, but for how eager Ghost seems and how he’s still tittering.

“You do something differently with life mates?”

Between digging his claws into MacTavish’s side and nuzzling into the crook of his neck to rub his scent into his skin, Ghost rasps, “Bite.”

“You already bite me.”

Ghost clicks a no. “Bite until it bleeds.”

It takes a moment for the understanding to settle. And then the words are already on MacTavish’s tongue. Not like it’s a big commitment or anything, a bite that would inevitably scar, and maybe scar dangerously deep, considering the strength behind Ghost’s bite. As if there isn’t any threat of infection or deeper injuries, as if he wouldn’t have to meticulously tend to the wound, wherever Ghost even decides to place it.

Yet looking up at his gorgeous face and pretty eyes and listening to his happy trill, the words hesitate for only a moment.

“You can bite me.”

Ghost doesn’t even make a sound. He freezes entirely, and the only reason MacTavish is sure the world hasn’t paused is because he feels the soft movement of a breeze against his face and the gentle wash of waves against his legs. The fact that Ghost has, however, has him feeling like he may have crossed some immensely important line with too much nonchalance.  

“You will let me?” Ghost asks as if he hadn’t expected the opportunity to ever come. He’d been calling MacTavish his mate far longer than MacTavish realised what he meant. Figures he’s been thinking of MacTavish as eternally his for some time now. And come to accept he wouldn’t get to seal it the way he’d want to. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere that won’t kill me,” MacTavish jokes. It doesn’t seem like it lands right, considering the severity of Ghost’s features.

“I would never kill you,” Ghost emphasises, and caresses down the side of his face with his claws for good measure. He’s taken to rapidly clicking low in his throat between words, so it nearly sounds like he’s speaking twice at the same time, calling MacTavish his while insisting, “I will go mad and rip myself apart when you die.”

It feels like a promise. A vow that MacTavish wasn’t looking for but is made for him nonetheless.

Blotting out the daylight of the sky above him, haloed in the overcast light, MacTavish thinks he understands anyway.

He cups Ghost’s cheek and draws an arc underneath his eye with a thumb.

“Not planning on dying.” His nails are too short to mimic Ghost’s scratching, but he understands anyway as MacTavish drags the tips of his fingers across his jaw. “So I’d rather have your bite.”

Ghost makes a sound like a coo, something like a choked cry. He tilts his face into MacTavish’s touch, sweet and adorable and heartbreakingly sincere.

In a blink he dips his head and his teeth are embedded in MacTavish’s side. He grunts against the sudden pain. Suppresses the reflex to rip Ghost away and only fists his hand in his hair. No fucking reason to wait then, apparently.

Ghost’s jaw is unhinged, opened unnaturally wide, clamped around his ribcage and fit to rip half his torso off. MacTavish feels as he bites down harder, teeth piercing skin, muscle, digging dangerously deep, until the whole thing burns as one giant wound, blood trickling from in between his teeth, staining his lips red.

MacTavish breathes out slow, steady, and holds himself consciously still as Ghost’s teeth withdraw. He’s being careful not to hurt him further, but it hardly matters when he already feels lightheaded, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He’s been hurt countless times, has the scars to prove it, and this time he wants the wound – still, it hurts like a fucking bitch.

Ghost laps over the mark with quick swipes of his tongue. It fucking stings when the waves wash up and over the wound.

MacTavish carefully looks at it. Outlined in bleeding crimson, three rows of Ghost’s teeth mark his side. It takes up half his chest. Almost looks like multiple bites overlayed. It cuts through existing scars, far more prominent than anything else that has ever marked him – and ever will, if either of them have any say about it.

The burn of the wound slowly recedes. The blood coagulates. Ghost makes sure to lick over every inch of it nonetheless. Mers must deal with wounds like this better, considering how careful Ghost is acting about it, laying himself on the opposite side and keeping his touch so light MacTavish can’t even feel it.

Fuck, it’s gonna be a hassle to bandage it properly back home. Going to hurt again to disinfect it. But a problem for later, and not one MacTavish significantly minds having.

“What do you do?” Ghost asks, and looks up at him with those big eyes, expectant and sincere, almost like he’s waiting for a bite in return, though he knows very well how blunt human teeth are in comparison.

“I can’t do it right now,” MacTavish says.

Ghost makes a small, feeble cry. He’s picked up the habit to make a face nearly like a pout – one so wounded that MacTavish hasn’t been able not to give in when he looks at him like that.

“No, not because of you.” He cups Ghost’s face. Fuck, it hurts to move his arm on his injured side. Soothes it a bit to have Ghost nuzzling into his palm. “I just need some items first.”

That means he’s driving into the city the next day. His bandaged side still aches, though it’s shifted to the good kind of ache now. A type of gentle sting he felt in his chest too, listening to Ghost’s upset whine when he said he’ll be gone for the day.

And he figures it will take the day. He doesn’t need anything extravagant for himself, but Ghost deserves more. He’d like more. MacTavish has only a faint image of what more looks like.

Some days later, MacTavish thinks he’s figured it out.

Ghost is already chirping at him from a distance, waiting for him on the shore. For reasons unknown, MacTavish feels fucking nervous. He could take this path blindfolded, knows Ghost’s greeting by heart, already carries his bitemark spanning half his chest that still aches lest MacTavish forget its existence.

“Hi.” He kneels down to Ghost’s level to let him bite at him, soft nibbles along his shoulder. Ghost rubs his cheek against his neck, though MacTavish still hasn’t figured out which one of their scents he’s spreading around whom. When he pulls back, the evening sun reflects orange in his eyes.

“Got something for you.”

Ghost perks up. Eyes sharp to follow where MacTavish pulls the box out of his pocket.

“It’s customary to ask first,” he explains, then flips the lid open. A silver ring lays on the cushion, mother-of-pearl inlays, shining in the fading light. He thought himself above practising, but now his voice comes out as a rasp, low enough for only Ghost to hear. “Will you marry me?”

The moment lingers. A second dragged out where Ghost doesn’t know the exact script to follow, and MacTavish is content to watch the open wonder on his face.

A moment, and then Ghost chitters a yes. Repeatedly and rapidly, that MacTavish would have a hard time figuring it out if he didn’t understand him so well.

He lurches forwards, and barely catches himself before bounding right into MacTavish. His eyes flick between him and the ring. “I am supposed to say yes?”

MacTavish laughs. Can’t help but simply keep looking at him, pretty thing that he is. “Yes.”

And even more so when Ghost grins like that, all sharp teeth and mouth stretched a little too wide, trilling that happy chitter that makes MacTavish’s heart flutter stupidly in his chest.

He takes the ring from its cushion. “Give me your hand. The other one.”

The silver matches him. The pearl glints like his scales do. Ghost keeps himself entirely still as he slides the ring onto his finger, gaze following him as if cataloguing the smallest of movements.

MacTavish takes his hand and brings it up to his mouth to press his lips to the ring. Between them it turns body-warm and sea cool. Ghost chitters like he can’t help it.

“Again.”

He lurches forwards. MacTavish catches his face before he unbalances himself, then leans forwards to kiss him properly.

He’s got another ring in the other pocket, subtler in design and in his own size, since it was never a question of Ghost’s answer. Rather, it’s becoming a question of when he’ll get the opportunity to retrieve it, considering how unwilling Ghost seems to put any distance between them.

As if MacTavish is making any more effort to pull away, twisting his fingers into Ghost’s hair to keep him close, brushing his lips over Ghost’s before pulling with his teeth to coax out that trill.

By the time Ghost does allow them some distance, he feels breathless in more ways than one. A matching band around his own finger, clicking against Ghost’s when he insists on comparing, tasting the aftertaste of him at the back of his mouth, heart a little too big for his ribs where it’s beating against the outline of Ghost’s bite.

“This means,” Ghost starts, suspiciously eager, “that you can finally bring me on that date.”

MacTavish rolls his eyes and sighs with exaggerated exasperation. It doesn’t come out as exasperated as usual this time.

He’s renovated the whole bathroom for Ghost, considering it’s not good for him to be entirely out of water for too long. All that planning just to fit a bigger bathtub – one that’s ludicrously sized, considering the size of the room. But he took measurements and it will fit Ghost well enough – if he’s content to let part of his tail hang over the side. And deep enough it will fit them both, which he figures will make up for the other shortcomings.

“Alright.”

Ghost makes a surprised chirp, as if expecting to be turned down today of all days. Then he perks up, staring at him with dark eyes like MacTavish hasn’t already given in.

“Come here.”

He lifts Ghost into his arms. Ghost is more than happy to lay against his chest, arms around his shoulders, and peering at their surroundings the entire walk from the shore to the house.

It’s fitting that this is the first night MacTavish carries Ghost across the threshold of his home.