Aria's Pov
The air in Water Seven always carried the scent of salt, sawdust, and ships. For me, it also carried the particular spice of a certain shipwright's flustered exasperation, which I consider my personal perfume.
I found him, as I often did, in the afternoon lull at the Galley-La Company's main dockyard. Paulie was bent over a coiled hawser, his fingers—deft, calloused, perpetually stained with oil and tar—working a complex series of hitches and loops. The cigarette dangling from his lips bobbed as he muttered to himself, a technical soliloquy lost to the breeze.
I leaned against a stack of fresh timber, watching. I let my gaze travel the line of his shoulders, the tension in his forearms, the way his rolled-up sleeves strained just a bit. A slow, wicked smile spread across my face.
"You know," I said, my voice a lazy drawl that cut through the clatter of distant construction, "for a man who works with such stiff, unyielding material all day, you've got surprisingly graceful hands."
Paulie's shoulders jerked. He didn't turn. "Go bother someone else, woman. I'm working."
"Oh, I'm not bothering. I'm admiring." I pushed off the timber and sauntered closer, the wooden planks of the dock firm under my boots. I stopped just behind him, close enough that if he straightened, his back would brush my front. "That's a double carrick bend, right? For joining two heavy ropes? It's pretty. Almost… intimate, the way they weave together."
He stiffened. The rope in his hands went still. "It's practical. Nothing more."
"Everything's something more if you look at it right," I murmured, leaning in. My breath ghosted past his ear. "Take that rope. Strong. Rough. Meant to hold immense weight, to restrain powerful things. Makes a girl wonder what else those talented fingers could restrain."
That did it. Paulie dropped the rope as if it had burned him, spinning on his heel. A flush was climbing from his neck, vivid beneath his tan, up to the tips of his ears. His eyes, a sharp, flinty blue, were wide with a mixture of outrage and pure, unadulterated panic.
"You—!" he sputtered, the cigarette almost falling. "Have you no shame? None at all?"
My smile turned radiant. I placed a hand on my chest, feigning innocence. "Shame? Is that the thing that keeps people from saying exactly what they're thinking? From enjoying the view?" My eyes dipped, deliberately slow, down his frame and back up. "Yeah. I'm fresh out. Sold it for scrap last week. Got a good price, too."
He stared at me soundlessly for a moment before he took a furious drag if his cigarette and jabbed it in my direction. "Shameless! You're completely, utterly shameless!"
"And you're repeating yourself, handsome." I winked. "See? This is why you need me around. I keep your vocabulary sharp."
With a strangled sound, Paulie turned on his heel and marched away, his steps quick and rigid, the tails of his long coat flapping behind him like the banners of a retreating army. I watched him go, laughter bubbling in my throat, sweet and light. Teasing him was too much fun.
I made it a daily ritual.
I'd corner him by the blueprint tables, tracing a meaningless line on a ship schematic with my fingertip, asking in a husky whisper if the 'keel' was really the hardest, most central part to lay down. He'd glare at him, mutter something under his breath and just ignore me all together.
I'd find him eating lunch alone on a crate, plop down beside him without invitation, and muse aloud about how the rigging looked so complicated, all those lines pulling tight, holding everything up—did it ever make him feel tense? He'd choke on his rice ball and leave me the whole bento box in his haste to escape.
But the best one, the one I'd been planning, came on a day when the sky was a flat, iron gray, threatening rain. I'd asked—sweetly, for once—for a lesson. Practical skills, I'd said. I wanted to learn some basic knots.
Paulie, ever the professional, and perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by my relatively straightforward request, had agreed. We stood in a quieter storage shed, the air thick with the smell of hemp and pine tar. Lengths of new manila rope lay between us on a workbench.
"Right," Paulie said, clearing his throat and avoiding my eyes. He picked up a rope. "This is a bowline. Creates a fixed loop that won't slip. Essential for hoisting or securing." His fingers moved with sure, economical grace, looping, twisting, pulling. A perfect, sturdy loop appeared. "You try."
I picked up my own rope. I mimicked his movements, but my fingers fumbled, making the knot loose and lopsided. I sighed, a theatrical little sound. "I'm all thumbs. It's so… stiff. Uncooperative." I held up the sad knot. "Maybe I need a teacher with more… patience. Hands-on guidance."
Paulie's jaw tightened. "Just follow the steps. Over, under, through the hole."
"The hole?" I echoed, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. I stepped closer, until the workbench was the only thing separating us. I held my rope up between us. "My rope seems to have a lot of holes. Or places that could be holes. If you know how to work it right." I ran my thumb slowly along the rough fibers. "Maybe you should show me again. On mine. Really… get a feel for it."
He flinched. A full-body recoil, as if I'd swung a hammer at his head. The rope he was holding slipped from his grasp and thudded to the floor. He stared at me, not with his usual blustering anger, but with something hotter, darker, more strained. His breath hitched. The blush wasn't just on his ears now; it painted his whole face, clashing with his orange hair.
"You are so…" he began, his voice low and rough, trailing off. He couldn't find the word. His eyes were locked on mine, wide and stormy.
I leaned over the bench, closing the distance. My smile was a predator's grin. "So what, Paulie? So clever? So observant? So very, very interested in how a master craftsman handles his tools?" I let my gaze flick down to his lips, then back up. "Say it. I love it when you try to find words for me."
The tension in the shed was palpable, a live wire strung between us. The air felt too thick to breathe. Paulie didn't run. He stood there, rooted, caught between the urge to flee and something else entirely—a magnetic pull, a furious curiosity. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a long, charged moment, he just stared, breathing hard through his nose.
Then, with a sound like a man gasping for air, he wrenched his gaze away. "Lesson's over," he gritted out, his voice gravel. He didn't run this time. He walked out, but his stride was stiff, unnatural, every line of his body screaming of turmoil barely contained.
I watched the empty doorway, my heart pounding a strange, excited rhythm against my ribs. That… was new. That was better than flustering. That was touching something real.
I had more plans to corner him, but then, the cold front arrived.
Overnight, it seemed, he built a wall of ice. He stopped reacting. If I made a comment, he'd give a grunt that wasn't even an acknowledgment and turn away. If I approached, he'd find a sudden, urgent task on the opposite side of the dock. His eyes, when they accidentally met mine, were shuttered, distant. The lively, exasperated flame I'd spent weeks fanning had been snuffed out, leaving only cold ash.
My own confidence, usually an unassailable fortress, developed its first crack. The teasing had finally gone too far. I'd broken the game. I'd seen a glimpse of something raw under his bluster and, like a fool, I'd poked it, and now it had retreated into a frozen shell.
I couldn't let it end like that. Not with this silent treatment. I cornered him, not with playful ambush, but with direct intent, in the dim, echoing quiet of the dry dock after hours. He was inspecting the hull of a large ship, a clipboard in hand.
"Paulie."
He didn't turn. Made a note on the clipboard.
"Paulie, look at me."
He started walking along the keel block, away from me.
Frustration, hot and sharp, lanced through me. I darted forward, grabbing his arm. He froze, finally looking down at my hand as if it were a poisonous insect. "Let go."
"No. Talk to me. What is this? The silent, brooding act doesn't suit you."
"Nothing to talk about," he said, trying to pull his arm free. I held tight.
"Bullshit. One day you're all sparks and shouting, the next you're acting like I'm a ghost. Did I finally offend your delicate carpenter sensibilities that badly?"
He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor. "Offend me? Don't flatter yourself." He finally yanked his arm back, turning to face me fully. In the gloom, his expression was hard, carved from the same wood as the ships around us. "Just figured it out, is all."
"Figured what out?"
"The game." He spat the word. "My turn to be played, right? Well it's no fun teasing a block of ice. So you can go back to your other distractions. Shouldn't be hard. You've got plenty."
I blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"Iceberg!" he burst out, the name echoing in the vast space. His composure cracked, revealing the seething heat beneath the ice. "Lucci! They're not enough for you? You need to add the dumb shipwright to your collection? Round out the set?"
The world tilted slightly.
Oh.
Oh.
So that was it. He'd seen. Of course he had. Nothing happened in the Galley-La offices without a dozen eyes noticing. My flirtations with Iceberg, and Lucci. Flirtatious that had lead exactly where I wanted. Paulie had seen me slipping out. Seen the looks. Put it together.
I crossed my arms, tilting my chin up. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a defensive spike of anger. "So what if I have? What does that have to do with you and me? With any of this?" I gestured between us.
"There is no 'you and me'!" he shouted, the sound raw. "That's my point! There's just you, playing! I'm just another knot for you to tie and untie, another stupid reaction to collect! You don't care about me at all!"
"Don't you dare say that," I snapped, stepping into his space. My own voice rose to match his. "Don't you dare. How can you stand there and say I don't care? Who spent two weeks learning the difference between oakum and pitch just to have an excuse to listen to you rant about caulking seams? Who memorized your coffee order—black, two sugars, from the stall by Bridge Two—and had it waiting when you pulled an all-nighter on the Sea Train modifications? Who noticed you favoring your left wrist after that beam fell and left a tin of that strong liniment from the west market on your toolbox without a word?" My words were rapid-fire, each one a bullet of evidence. "I pay attention, Paulie. I see you. That's more than most people get from me."
He was staring at me now, the anger draining from his face, replaced by a stunned confusion. The shouting had stopped. The dry dock was silent again, save for the distant drip of water.
"Why then?" he asked, his voice quieter, almost a whisper. It sounded bruised. "Why them?"
I looked away, out at the skeletal ribs of the ship in the shadows. The truth heavy on my tongue. No way to explain I wasn't from this world, or that I knew things that would happen in the future, so I took my chances now.
"I'm leaving, Paulie," I said instead, the words final and flat.
He flinched as if struck. "What?"
"Leaving Water 7. Soon. Maybe tomorrow."
"Why? Because of this? Because I—" He reached out, then let his hand fall.
"No. Not because of this. I was always leaving." I met his eyes again, and mine were serious, all the playful light gone from them. "And when I go… it's not likely we'll ever see each other again."
The finality of it hung in the damp air. All the fights, the teases, the fleeting moments of heat—they were about to be severed, cut loose forever. Paulie said nothing. He just stood there, the clipboard hanging forgotten at his side, his shoulders slumping under the weight of my words. The proud, flustered, brilliant shipwright looked… defeated.
The silence stretched, vast and aching.
I moved.
I closed the distance between us in two swift steps. There was no playful saunter now, only intent. I saw his eyes widen, saw the question forming on his lips. I didn't let him ask it. I reached up, my fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled his mouth down to mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim, a contradiction, a final, desperate argument made with lips and tongue. It was salt and smoke and the faint, bitter taste of coffee. It was the culmination of every loaded glance, every double-edged word, every ounce of tension we'd built between us. I kissed him with all the shameless, impulsive fire he accused me of having, and for a heartbeat, he was rigid with shock.
Then, with a groan that seemed ripped from his core, he responded. His hands came up, not to push me away, but to grip my hips, dragging me flush against him. The clipboard clattered to the stone floor, forgotten. His kiss was clumsy at first, all pent-up frustration and raw need, but it quickly found a fierce, matching rhythm. It was a battle and a surrender all at once.
When we finally broke apart, gasping for air, our foreheads pressed together, he was the one to speak first, his voice shaky, breathless.
"Y-You… you just think I'm going to fall for this, don't you?" he whispered, his eyes searching mine, vulnerable and afraid. "That you can kiss me and it'll all be fine. You're so… so full of yourself."
I smiled then, a real smile, soft at the edges despite the hunger in my eyes. I traced his lower lip with my thumb. "Maybe you can teach me to be humble," I murmured.
That was all the invitation he needed, or all the courage he could muster. Without another word, he took my hand, his grip firm and sure, and led me out of the dry dock, through the silent, sleeping shipyards, and into the modest, cluttered sanctuary of his room above the carpentry shop.
The door clicked shut, sealing us in a world of wood-shavings, blueprints, and the faint, ever-present scent of the sea. Then his mouth was on mine again, and any remaining thought was burned away.
He was shy, at first, despite the boldness of his kiss. His touches were tentative as he peeled my shirt over my head, his calloused fingers skimming my skin like he was handling rare, fragile silk. He mapped the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, with a shipwright's reverence for form. When his hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, he watched my face, his own flushed with a mix of awe and anxiety.
"See something you like?" I breathed, arching into his touch.
He just swallowed hard and ducked his head, replacing his hands with his mouth, his tongue swirling around one peak while his fingers teased the other. The sensation was electric, sharp and sweet. My head fell back with a gasp, my fingers tangling in his orange hair. "Paulie…"
He was a quick study, his initial shyness melting under my vocal encouragement. He learned what made me gasp, what made my nails dig into his shoulders. He kissed his way down my stomach, his stubble a delicious scratch against my skin, and when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and smallclothes, drawing them down my legs, he paused, kneeling before me, looking up the length of my body.
"You're…" he started, then shook his head, seemingly beyond words.
"Shameless?" I offered, grinning down at him.
A huff of air, almost a laugh, escaped him. Then he leaned in.
His mouth on my cunt was hesitant for only a second before he found his confidence. It was clear he was operating on instinct and intense focus, the same way he'd approach a complex jointure. He licked into me, exploring my folds with a thorough, dedicated curiosity that quickly turned devastatingly effective. I cried out, my hand flying back to brace against the wall as my knees trembled. He held my hips steady, his grip firm, anchoring me as he tasted me, learned my rhythm. His tongue was relentless, circling my clit, dipping inside me, until I was shuddering, chanting his name in a broken mantra, my climax crashing over me with a force that left me seeing stars.
As I came down, panting, he rose, kissing his way up my trembling stomach, my chest, capturing my mouth again so I could taste myself on his lips. The intimacy of it was dizzying.
He undressed himself with less ceremony, fumbling with buttons and belts, his eyes never leaving mine. When he was finally bare, I let my gaze roam. He was leanly muscled, all tensile strength from years of physical labor, a faint dusting of hair across his chest trailing down. And he was hard, his cock standing thick and flushed against his stomach. He seemed almost embarrassed by his own arousal, a fresh wave of pink coloring his cheeks.
I reached for him, but he caught my wrist gently. "Let me," he said, his voice rough. He guided me back until my knees hit the edge of his narrow bed, and I sat, looking up at him. He knelt again, this time between my spread legs, his hands sliding up my thighs. He kissed the inside of one knee, then the other, his breath hot. His fingers found my entrance again, slipping inside me easily, still slick from my first climax. He pumped them slowly, watching my face as he added a third, stretching me. The fullness was exquisite, a promise of what was to come.
"You're so wet," he murmured, more to himself than to me, his eyes dark with wonder.
"For you," I sighed, rocking against his hand. "All for you, right now."
He leaned forward, replacing his fingers with his tongue once more, licking deep, making me writhe. He brought me to the edge again, coiling the tension tight in my belly, before pulling back, leaving me gasping and empty.
"Paulie, please..."
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low thrum against my skin. He looked up, his blue eyes blazing with a need that mirrored my own, yet still shadowed by that lingering hesitation. "Tell me."
I grinned, even through my haze of desire. "You know what I want. You know what you want too. But you're too shy to say it, aren't you? You probably don't want to become as shameless as me."
He flinched, but didn't deny it. He just stared, caught between wanting and some ingrained propriety.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice taking on a new, commanding tone. I pushed myself up. "Then you don't have to worry about that. Let me."
I nudged him back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. I stood over him for a moment, letting him look his fill, before sinking to my knees on the rough wooden floorboards in front of him. I took him in my hand first, feeling the heavy, velvety heat of him. He jerked at my touch, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth.
"Ah—Aria..."
"Shhh," I soothed, stroking him slowly, from root to tip, my thumb smearing the bead of moisture at his slit. "Just feel."
I bent my head, my hair falling like a curtain around us, and took the head of his cock into my mouth. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through me. I swirled my tongue, tasting the clean, salty essence of him, before sinking down further, taking more of him into the wet heat of my mouth. My hand worked the base in rhythm with my lips, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently.
His hands flew to my head, not pushing, but gripping, his fingers tangling in my hair. "F-fuck," he stammered, his hips giving an involuntary little thrust. "Oh, god, your mouth..."
I hummed in approval, the vibration making him cry out. I bobbed my head, establishing a steady, sucking rhythm, using my tongue expertly, reveling in the way he completely fell apart above me. The shy, flustered shipwright was gone, replaced by a man unspooling under my ministrations. His breaths came in ragged pants, his praises and curses a broken, filthy litany.
"I can't—I'm gonna—"
I pulled off with a soft, wet pop, looking up at him through my lashes. His face was a masterpiece of agonized pleasure. "Not yet," I whispered. I rose, straddling his lap, my cunt hovering just over the tip of his aching cock. I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaning close so my lips brushed his ear. "You're so good with your hands, Paulie. So good with ropes." I nipped his earlobe. "Don't you want to use them on me?"
He shuddered violently. For a second, he just stared at me, his mind visibly wrestling with the depraved suggestion. Then, with a growl that was pure surrender, he reached for the coil of spare, soft line he kept on a hook by his bedside—not the rough hawser, but a smooth, sturdy cord used for detailed work.
His hands, which had been trembling moments before, were suddenly steady, sure. He looped the rope around my wrists, not tying them together, but creating a complex, beautiful harness that bound my wrists in front of me, leaving my arms free to move but clearly, artfully restrained. The knots were snug, secure, but not painful—a testament to his skill. He did it quickly, efficiently, his focus absolute. The feel of the rope against my skin, the knowledge that his knots held me, sent a fresh, shocking bolt of lust straight to my core.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice thick.
"Perfect," I breathed.
That was all the confirmation he needed. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging in, and guided me down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide.
We both cried out. The feeling of being filled by him, so completely, while bound by his work, was overwhelmingly intense. I was stretched, full, connected to him in the most primal way. For a moment, we just stayed like that, joined, breathing each other's air, foreheads touching.
Then I began to move.
I rode him with a slow, grinding roll of my hips, taking him deep, letting him feel every inch of my tight, wet heat. The rope around my wrists brushed against his chest with each movement, a constant, tactile reminder. He watched, mesmerized, as I took my pleasure from him, his hands moving from my hips to my breasts, pinching and teasing my nipples, then down to where we were joined, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing tight, frantic circles.
The pace quickened. The bedframe, sturdy as it was, began to creak in protest. My movements became more urgent, my breaths coming in sharp, sweet cries. "Paulie... yes, just like that... oh, fuck, right there..."
He was muttering too, a stream of consciousness lost to sensation. "So good... you feel... Aria, I can't hold back..."
"Don't," I gasped, slamming down onto him, taking him to the hilt. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
With a ragged shout that was half my name, half a groan, he obeyed. His hips pistoned up into me as he spilled deep inside me, his body convulsing with the force of his release. The feeling of him pulsing within me, hot and endless, tipped me over the edge immediately after. My own orgasm tore through me, blinding, milking him through every last shuddering wave. I collapsed forward against his chest, my bound hands trapped between us, both of us slick with sweat and spent.
For long minutes, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the distant cry of gulls outside the window. The rope felt heavy, significant, on my wrists.
Eventually, Paulie stirred. With tender, careful motions, he undid the intricate knots he'd tied, his fingers gentle as they freed me. He rubbed the faint marks left on my skin, then, without a word, scooped me up into his arms. He carried me to the small attached washroom, where he cleaned us both with a warm, damp cloth, his touch reverent and thorough. He was silent, his expression unreadable.
Back in the rumpled bed, tucked under a thin blanket, the cool night air finally touching our heated skin, he spoke. His voice was quiet, hoarse from use.
"You won't tell me why you're leaving?"
I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. The vulnerability in his eyes was stark, naked. I reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. A smirk, familiar and teasing, tugged at my lips, though it felt softer now.
"What's the matter, shipwright?" I murmured, my voice a sleepy purr. "Gonna miss my shameless ass?"
He huffed, a sound that was almost his old self, and caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm before tucking it against his chest. "Shut up," he mumbled, but he pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around me, holding me as if I might vanish before dawn.