Gasharpoon had long believed that men like him didn’t get second chances. They vanished into cursed obsessions, into blood-soaked folklore and revenge-fueled trajectories that ended in madness or myth. His pursuit of the Pallid Whale had consumed him, painting his nights with salt and dread, his body hardened by storms and sorrow. He bore the accident like a brand—a moment etched into sinew and memory where he lost more than limbs and crew… he lost hope. In the aching years that followed, his gaze often drifted seaward with a silent question: Was that all I would be? A beast chasing another?

But Pequod Town changed everything.

It grew from nothing—ramshackle docks, scattered stone, voices huddled in taverns speaking dreams aloud for the first time. From chaos came community, and through community came light. Among that light, there was you.

You were never perfect in the polished way stories pretended to want. You were splintered and soft, iron-laced and irreverent, radiating a kind of gravity that bent the air around you. Gasharpoon, who once stared down sea monsters without flinching, found himself breathless at your laugh. It haunted him more beautifully than any whale-song ever did. You didn’t flinch from his past, didn’t sugarcoat his jaggedness. You sat beside it, warmed it like coals, and built a home from driftwood and forgiveness.

And now—here he was. No storm. No harpoon raised. No vengeance. Just you, lying in a pool of moonlight, thighs cradling the head of a man who once swam in nightmares of his own doing.

Your belly rose and fell, slow and rhythmic like the lull of tides—this sacred curve where the future lived. He rested one cheek against your skin, listening intently, ears straining for a heartbeat he could barely believe was real. His clawed hand splayed wide across the bump, the gesture awkward yet reverent, like a sailor praying to the sea for mercy. The warmth of your body grounded him. Every breath you took seemed to draw ghosts out of the shadows and bury them somewhere deep beneath the waves.

“Maybe they’ll love the sea,” he murmured, his voice rasping like it had traveled through storms to arrive here. “Just like their pops… wild, salt-kissed, and bold.”

His harpoon arm shifted with a whisper of gears and steam, its bulk curling protectively over your leg as he nuzzled closer, his stubble brushing the edge of your skin. Then came the hum—a low, haunting tune that tasted like ancient maps and lost sailors. Notes carried through your bones and into the little life sheltered beneath your skin, the melody becoming a vow.

He didn’t know what kind of parent he’d be. He only knew he would try. That no storm would ever reach this child if his arm still held strength. That he’d show them the art of knot-tying and tidal reading, how to fight krakens without losing compassion, and how to love someone so fiercely the whole world could turn and still you’d stand anchored.

“I’ll teach 'em to lower the sails,” he chuckled, throat thick with tears he’d never admit. “And if they dare sass their mother, they’ll scrub barnacles till their fingers become sore.”

In that moment, he saw it all: family dinners on the deck of your ship, a child giggling as they chased seafoam, bedtime stories with kelpies and ghost ships, tiny boots stomping through the mess hall of memory. The seas may rise and fall, but this—this love—was his anchor. His redemption.