Mythical Monster You Never Knew You Wanted

Selkie

*** these are the pronunciations for the names...trust me***
Deaglan: Deck-lan
Ciaran: Kree-awn
Breac: Bre-ack
***gaelic is not a phonetic language ***

The market street was busy in the late morning. The sun beamed down as gulls cried and bickered on the rooftops, soaring with the salty sea breeze. People moved from stall to stall buying fish and vegetables, quibbling over price and laughing at fishermen's tales.
It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. A fisherman, Deaglan by name, watched from afar, untangling his nets and tagging them for repair. The seals had been through his nets, chewing the lines and eating his fish.
They were the menace of all fishermen, but Deaglan couldn't bring himself to hate them. Like him, they were just trying to survive. Besides, there was something calming about an early morning, grey light before dawn, sitting on the deck of his boat and watching the seals play.
Heafting his nets in a wicker basket he started to town, weaving in the crowd and picking up the supplies he needed as he went. He loved the small island village, but none the less, breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the crowd and back to his cottage by the sea. He rubbed his hand wearily over the whitewashed stone. It would need to be done again. And his roof was is terrible need of a patch or five.
It was too nice to mend nets inside Deaglan hauled his basket out and hung his netting on the line, dragging a bucket over to sit on as he went to work. It was tedious work, his calloused weather and work worn fingers nimbly picking at the holes and slowly sewing the correct weave.
"Bloody, sod awful-!" He cried, jabbing his thumb for the umpteenthtime and leaping to his feet, but he fell silent. He was facing the beach, the waves slapped against the rocks, rubbing them smooth with there touch and casting tangles of weed onto the colorful pebbles.
A man was walking along he shore. His hair was brown, his clothes worn, even from this distance Deaglan could tell, and he was barefoot? His trousers were rolled high on his calfs, the freezing water not even seeming to bother him and it snatched happily at his toes, rushing to hug his ankles.
He looked, familiar, somehow, yet Deaglan was sure he would remember if he'd ever seen the man before. He was just staring, wistfully out at the sea. He almost looked lost.
Deaglan rushed to think, was there another cottage on this shore? Town was south of him and the harbor was to the east, but the only other cottage was Breac's to the west, where the man had come from.
Steeling himself quickly, suddenly conscious of the fact he hadn't shaved in a week, and pulling his dirty blonde hair into a quick knot at the back of his head, Deaglan strode, with every air of confidence, out to the waters edge.
"Excuse me?" He said, his voice softer than usual.
The other started and whipped around, prepared to run if he had to. Deaglan lost all thoughts of what he had invented to say. The man had high cheekbones, a smooth tanned completion and large brown eyes that seemed to melt your heart. A cut across the bridge of his nose and an fading shadow of a bruise were the only things that marred the handsome face of the stranger. The only thing Deaglan was for sure of, is he definitely would have remember that face had he seen him before.
"Uh...uh, h-hello, hi, uh, I'm Deaglan." He stammered, his voice suddenly catching up to him as he realized he was staring with his mouth ajar. "Are you alright, you just looked lost."
After a moment the man nodded slowly. He took a step back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He looked once over his shoulder as he walked back to the west.
Deaglan rubbed the scruff on his cheek, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.
The man didn't look back until he reached the cottage on the far end of the shore, long out of sight. Before he could turned the handle and let himself in the knob was wrenched from his hand and the door opened.
Breac was a sturdy intimating man, his hair edging on grey at the temples, his beard speckled, the face, still handsome, but undeniably weather worn and lined. He let his piercing gaze linger on the man before him. At last the smooth brown eyes turned away.
"Where were you, Ciaran?" Breac asked.
"Walk." Ciaran said, simply.
"Not a swim?" Breac breathed darkly. Ciaran half shook his head before thick fingers curled tight in his hair and dragged him over the threshold, the door slamming behind him. The fist loosed on the silken, dry, locks and Breac caressed his cheek tenderly. Ciaran closed his eyes, jaw clenched, but didn't flinch away. He knew all to well what would happen to him if he did.
The lips of the other meet his as rough knotted hands snaked under his shirt and unlaced his pants. The hands turned him and shoved hard in the small of his back, causing Ciaran to stumbled towards the bedroom door.
"Undress."
What choice did he have...