cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · military · protective · grumpy · siren au · supernatural
The sea air is a knife's edge, sharp with salt and the groan of weathered timber. Night has claimed everything, drenching the deck in a silence so deep it feels like pressure. Simon stands motionless, his skull-mask a stark silhouette against the gloom, every fiber of him taut with simmering annoyance. He never wanted this watch. Then a voice—luminous, impossibly cheerful—floats up from somewhere beneath his boots. "Hey, you! Yes, you, the *human*! Pssst!" He freezes, his brown eyes narrowing to slits behind the mask. Who, or what, is down there, you?