23. Cyreus
Cyreus
TWENTY THREE
I have survived in Earth's oceans for nearly a century. I have endured storms that would shatter ships, pressure depths that would crush human submarines, and temperatures that would kill most surface dwellers in minutes.
Yet the steps from the shoreline to Meri's back door prove more challenging than any of these.
Each moment in full human form on dry land depletes me.
The air that’s so light compared to water offers no support for my altered biology.
Gravity exerts its relentless pull, forcing constant adjustments from muscles evolved for oceanic buoyancy.
Worse still is the moisture loss; my skin, designed for aquatic environments, craves hydration despite the evening's humid air.
Still, I continue forward. Three days without her has left an emptiness I never anticipated. After decades of solitude, the sudden absence of her presence feels like losing a limb.
The research vessel's aggressive patrols have rendered our usual meeting places too risky.
Their submersible drones map the seafloor with alarming precision, their sonar pings scattering marine life across the region.
Yesterday, one nearly detected me while I monitored their activities from what should have been a safe distance.
Which explains why I now find myself here, on land, approaching the small weathered cottage Meri calls home—a risk neither of us would have considered before Brian Donovan's arrival forced our hand.
I reach her back door dressed in mismatched clothing salvaged from beaches over the years: a fisherman's faded sweater, canvas pants from a capsized sailboat, boots washed ashore after last winter's storm.
My collection of human garments remains limited but functional, stored in a dry cave for rare emergencies requiring terrestrial appearance. The one where I first took Meri.
Drawing a breath to steady myself, I knock softly.
Something shatters inside, followed by quick footsteps. The door flies open to reveal Meri, her face transforming from alarm to astonishment.
"Cyreus?" Her voice barely carries. "What are you—how did you—"
"Surprise." I attempt a smile despite the growing discomfort of dry air on my skin.
She pulls me inside immediately, closing the door and drawing curtains with swift, efficient movements that speak volumes about her own tension .
"I can't believe you're here." Her gaze travels over me, disbelief giving way to wonder. "I never thought—I mean, I know you said it was possible, but—"
"Your note mentioned the researchers' patrols made our usual meeting impossible." I lean against the wall, trying to mask how taxing this land journey has been. "This seemed the logical alternative."
"My note just said I missed you. I didn't ask you to risk coming here." She clicks her tongue like an old worried woman. "You're dehydrating," she observes, worry replacing her initial shock as she scans my body. "Come with me."
She takes my hand, leading me through her cottage—a space I've heard described but never seen.
Despite my discomfort, I take in the details with the observer's instinct that has defined my existence: shelves of books on marine archaeology and ocean ecology; diving equipment organized with military precision; framed charts of local waters covered in handwritten notations.
The space embodies Meri herself—practical, ordered, yet filled with objects that reveal passion rather than mere utility.
She guides me to a small room dominated by a clawfoot porcelain tub large enough for a human to recline in. Steam rises from water already filling it halfway.
"I thought this might help." Her voice softens with something between worry and tenderness. "It's not the ocean, but it's wet. "
The thoughtfulness of this gesture strikes me in unexpected ways. “Thank you." My voice comes out rougher than intended, revealing emotions I typically keep in check.
She reaches for my clothes. The sweater once shone bright blue before saltwater and sun bleached it to soft gray. The canvas pants likely belonged to a sailor who never imagined them ending up in my hidden collection.
"These must be uncomfortable for you," she says, carefully unbuttoning the sweater. "Where do you even get clothes?"
"Beaches. Shipwrecks. Abandoned belongings." I allow her to help, appreciating the care in her movements. "Humans discard remarkable amounts of material in and near the ocean. I've been collecting useful items for decades."
"Your own personal salvage operation," she says with a half-smile. "I should have guessed."
When the last garment falls away, she guides me toward the tub. "Get in. You'll feel better."
I step into the warm water, and relief floods through me immediately.
Not just from the hydration my skin desperately needs, but from the blessed sensation of partial buoyancy supporting my mass.
I sink down until the water covers my chest, my legs already beginning to revert toward their natural state beneath the surface.
"Better?" Meri kneels beside the tub.
"Much." I rest my head against the porcelain, allowing myself a moment to simply absorb the comfort after the stress of land travel. "This was thoughtful. "
"I've been thinking about our situation all week." She trails her fingers through the water, creating ripples that send pleasant sensations across my increasingly responsive skin. "About the limitations we're facing. About potential solutions."
I study her more carefully, noting the shadows beneath her eyes, the strain evident in the set of her shoulders. "You haven't been sleeping."
"Not much. The researchers are asking more questions around the harbor. Donovan cornered Fergus twice yesterday." Her hand moves absently through the water. "I miss you. Miss diving with you. Miss... everything."
The raw honesty in her voice echoes emotions I've been suppressing since our forced separation. I reach for her hand beneath the water, our fingers interlacing. "I've missed you too. More than expected."
A smile touches her lips. "For a centuries-old alien, you can be surprisingly sentimental."
"Only with you." I tug gently on her hand. "Join me."
Her eyebrows lift. "In the tub? It's barely big enough for you."
"We'll manage."
She needs no further encouragement to undress. When she stands naked, she surveys the logistics of the small space. "This will be cozy."
"I can adjust." I shift in the tub, my lower body reconfiguring to create room. The warm water has allowed me to partially return to my natural state—my legs now merged into a streamlined form while maintaining enough human appearance to fit the confined space.
She steps carefully into the tub, settling between my legs, her back against my chest. Water sloshes over the edge, but neither of us notices. The simple contact of skin against skin after days apart carries unexpected weight.
"This is nice," she murmurs, relaxing against me. "Different, but nice."
"Different indeed." I encircle her with my arms, adjusting to the novel sensation of holding her in this limited space, in this human environment.
Underwater, I can envelop her completely, my appendages providing support from multiple directions simultaneously.
Here, I must rely on more constrained contact, more human patterns of touch.
She turns her head, seeking my lips. I meet her halfway. The kiss begins tentatively, as if we're learning each other anew in this unfamiliar context. But our days apart have stoked a hunger that quickly overwhelms caution.
Her tongue slides against mine as she shifts, turning to face me more directly. Water spills over the tub's edge as she straddles my torso, her knees finding purchase on either side of my hips. The position brings her wet heat against my cock, already rock-hard and aching for her.
"I've been thinking about you," she whispers against my mouth. "About this. Every night since we had to separate."
"As have I." My hands grip her waist, fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Though I never imagined quite this setting. "
She laughs softly, rolling her hips in a motion that sends a jolt of pure need straight through me. "Improvisation is one of my strengths."
"Among many." I bite down her neck, marking a trail across her skin. Underwater, I would already have her pinned with multiple appendages, stretched open and writhing. Here, I have to rely on hands and mouth alone—a limitation that makes me want to devour her whole.
Her fingers pull at my hair, guiding my mouth to her breast. I take her nipple between my teeth, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp.
The sound goes straight to my groin. I suck harder, watching her face contort with pleasure.
Human intimacy demands a different kind of focus—without my tentacles, I can only attack one target at a time.
There's a savage satisfaction in the simplicity of it.
"God, I've missed your mouth," she moans, arching her back to push more of her breast against my face. "Missed your hands. Missed everything about you."
I slide my hand between our bodies, finding her slick and ready.
Even in water, I can feel how wet she is—hot and swollen against my fingers.
I thrust two fingers inside her without warning, watching her mouth fall open in shocked pleasure.
She's tight, gripping my fingers like she never wants to let go.
I curl them forward, finding that spot that makes her shake.
"Cyreus," she gasps, grinding down against my hand. "I need you. Now. "
In water, I would keep her on the edge for hours, using multiple appendages to torture her with pleasure until she begged. But my own need has become a feral thing, demanding satisfaction after days of separation. I want to claim her, mark her, remind her body who it belongs to.