#we foolish vessels

[junuve]

old creature art for the nier fic series (but like... obviously drakengard inspired)

#nier #drakengard #nier fan art #drakengard fan art #nier fanart #junuve's art #art #we foolish vessels #the author

[yeyinde]

SEA FEVER | Sailor!John Price x Reader

When he invited you to see his ship, half of it was—admittedly—a euphemism. A thinly veiled come-on. A facsimile of romance. Who wouldn't, after all, want to drift out to the open ocean, making love—or some sad version of it—under the stars on a clear night? And he thinks that might be fine. Maybe it's all you want from him, anyway—just a night. A moment. A memory to keep.  But John's always been greedy. The kind that wants, and wants. Once would never be enough, and he knows that if he sunk his teeth into you, a bite would never satiate his rapacious appetite, never quench the hunger.  And since he can't make a meal out of a morsel, he'd rather starve. 

tags: fluff, angst, unapologetic pining, obsession at first sight (but then love follows), blink and you'll miss it awful coping mechanisms (self-isolation, self-exile) and brief allusions to trauma (unresolved because this is about fucking the physical manifestation of the ocean, lads; it ain't about healing), egregious sea themes, a Newfie and his Newfie-isms, whirlwind romance; questionable sailing choices warnings: 18+ | allusions to smut but everything is brief and vague and more about the Feelings™ than the act, explicit male solo though but also very brief and about the Pining™. word count: 25k notes: unconventional leading man (haggard sea boy) romances local travesty (ambiguous, wishy-washy bartender) in a love affair no one asked for. That's what this is. Enjoy. 

*Suggestive themes are signified by a sailor's knot above the paragraph for those who want to read this, but don't care much for smut. SFW will begin with an anchor and wave divider above it. NSFW & SFW shown below:

—PRICE

The storm off the coast of Newfoundland is stronger than he'd anticipated. 

What starts as a bleak looking cloud on the horizon quickly churns the waters into a rough, sickly looking grey that rocks against his vessel without any respite. The cabin is in utter disarray within seconds of being battered by waves that seem to grow in size with each harrowing shade of charcoal blue the sky turns. 

A few warnings from local trawlers in the area, ones quickly turning into the nearby harbour, and a firm reprimand by the Canadian Coast Guard when he radioed back and asked if anchoring was a feasible option (oh, sure, b'y, the man said, his thick Maritime twang hiding none of his derisive scorn. If ye wan'na meet y'r mak'r, it's a safe place to capsize, luh. We'll risk our arses in the morn' when y'need savin', we do. If there's anythin' left of ya that needs savin', anyhoo), he's quick to follow their example. 

But, unfortunately, not quick enough. 

The sudden squall tears through his hull with a vengeance, ripping the sails from their perch with a gust of wind that seems determined to play chicken with the efficiency of his ballast tanks (a pyrrhic victory for Captain and her unquenchable bloodlust for trying herself on just how far she can list before rocketing back upright). He knows with full certainty, and innate experience traversing through the Gulf Stream when he was younger and much more foolish, that the damage is nearly catastrophic. Nearly, of course, because while it clipped his sails, he has engines to bring him back, limping, to the coast the Guard directs him to. 

"See there, y'er ten clicks away, b'y. Sending coordinates in a minute, now."

He's reminded of the warnings given by gnarled, old sailors who told him about the dangers of solo-sailing as he tries to be everything all at once to get his ship to the harbour they directed him to. Asking him, how can you be the captain, the navigator, and the watch all at the same time? When do you sleep? The answer, of course, is barely, but Price likes the freedom of being on his own. The isolation at sea isn't for everyone, but he takes to it with an ease that seems to defy all the gods of the ocean until he stands triumphant in his own domain, on his own ship. 

Until now, that is. 

Until he's battling with a handicap in the ocean. 

But somehow—luck, maybe—he limps his way to the port where he finds fishermen helping latch the vessels to the marina in the harbour. 

Shaded in a dreary grey, the port looks grimy and desolate from his cabin's porthole. A few wooden shacks on the beach are painted in faded primary colours and bear the quintessential marks of a seaside town—seashells, sailors knots (Carrick bend and Ashley stoppers), seahorses, and anchors. Without the dour grey of the downpour, he thinks it might be charming in a way. Quaint. There's a market to the west of him where stacks of lobster cages sit. Men in wellies and rubber dungarees shout orders amid the chaos of the storm, and he takes a moment to gather his things in a rucksack before he joins them on the deck. 

This late at night, there isn't much anyone can do but hunker down and hope for the best. The men point him in the direction of the closest inn—the only one, another jokes—and he tries not to think about how badly damaged Captain will be in the morning. His own stupidity, of course; he knew there was a storm coming but he underestimated how vicious it would be. 

With a nod of thanks, he sets off. 

Brushing against the Eastern coast of Canada was meant to just be a simple drive-by back to Liverpool. Barely a stop, really. Just a scenic route so he could spend his thirty-ninth birthday over the sunken wreck of the Titanic before continuing on the nearly week-long journey across the Atlantic. 

But instead, he celebrates it with a bottle of rum, and a ship on the verge of sinking—stuck, now, in Nova Scotia until he can find a mechanic to patch her up before he sets sail again. 

He sends a quick text to Soap about the delay—stuck in Canada, fuckin' hurricanes—and tries not to dwell on the sudden ease in his guts at the prospect of not going home anytime soon. 

(There are worse places he could be for his birthday, he thinks. Like Liverpool.)

The port he anchored his vessel to is a bottleneck between the last stretch of land for some hundreds of kilometres and the vast, ungiving ocean.

It isn't much to look at—just an empty boardwalk shaped like a horseshoe with most of the shops closed down for the season (or permanently, if the ramshackle state of them is anything to by), save for a grocer, an inn that takes up most of the middle section of the pier, a fisherman's village on the inlet with locals buying the wares from the lush waters filled to the brim with lobster and Atlantic salmon, a seafood restaurant, a cafe that moonlights as a pizza parlour in the evenings, and a pub—but it's enough for now. It's quaint, he thinks, even in its seasonal destitution. 

The buildings are all painted in faded primary colours that are washed out in the heavy rain that falls from some coastal hurricane just touching down in Labrador. 

It's one of those small seaside harbours that have seen better days. One with an economy wholly dependent on passing sailors just to survive, and he feels the despondency in the air like a thick, humid fog clinging to the skin of his neck. Fading signs. Peeling paint. There's damage to some of the buildings from a hurricane that must have swept through some several seasons ago, but the funds to repair are almost nonexistent, and so it sits. Festers. A broken reminder of how deadly the sea can be, even on land. 

The herringbone pier creaks under his weight as he walks the sandy trek from the marina beside the village to the inn (no vacancy, it reads, with middle letters flickering ominously), and he grapples with the unease that fills him at being on solid land for the first time in months. A strange, unshaky gait, as if the cartilage in his aching knees turned to liquid while he was at sea. 

It doesn't bother him too much—by the time he recalibrates to the weight of land pressing down on his soles, it'll be time to leave. 

Maybe. 

("It'll pass," the innkeeper sniffs when he asks about how long these things usually last. "Give 'er a week or so, and she'll blow right by. Might cause some floodin' in Halifax, but we're on the opposite end of 'er. Should be fine.")

It smells like rotten fish, blooming algae, and old frying oil—a typical thoroughfare for most of the harbours he's saddled up to in the years he's been traversing the open ocean. He breathes it in and finds himself already missing the potent loam that brims from the seawater at night. Salt, humus, brine, eelgrass; the ocean smells distinct in its rot. This, then, is a pale ersatz. 

He's been here for a short, few hours already, and still can't seem to adjust to life on land. To the smells, the sounds, the people—not that there's too many of them around here. Price would be surprised if this town's population was higher than three hundred. 

But it's stifling all the same. 

And cold. 

Being at the very tip of the Atlantic ocean, the weather is a near constant gloom. Grey, lacklustre skies smeared with thick, black clouds looming in the horizon like an omen. Salt-saturated air. It's a strange amalgamation between a chilling breeze from the sea and a dense wall of humidity even this late in September. It's uncomfortably thick under the veiled sun—a pale yellow hidden behind streaks of grey cloud cover. 

The best description for this little place is dreary. 

One he thinks might still be true even without the hurricane looming in the distance; a constant, inescapable chokehold within reach. 

In the interior of the small fishing village, people chatter aimlessly about everything except the hurricane (but he supposes that with the frequency of them happening, there isn't much else to say about them except, ah, fuck, again?). He finds a modicum of comfort in their strange twang—a mangled bastardisation of Irish, Scottish, and something unique to the barren, eastern coast of Canada. It almost feels like home, strangely. Like someone dropped him in the Canadian version of Cork, Ireland. 

The people he meets in passing as he drifts aimlessly between the shops, picking up something for dinner and a set of clean clothes, are friendly in an almost aggressive way. 

Then, of course, there's you. 

You weren't expected. A catastrophe in the making, one that he can see coming from a mile away. It's something he has a keen intuition for—being able to sense the kind of trouble that will make leaving harder than it has to be—and he knows better than to entertain this little fantasy, but there's something about you that makes him keep coming back. 

Maybe it's the booze you ply him with; top of the shelf despite adding it to his tab under a bottom barrel price tag. Or the fact that no one has been able to replicate the perfect whisky sour he had down in Barbados, but—goddamn—you come very close. 

Or maybe it's just exactly what it is:

Loneliness. Distraction. 

He's a man always on the move. One who hasn't kissed land in months. And you're—

Well. 

You're the prettiest thing he'd seen since a rainbow cast a glimmering ring on the horizon eighteen kilometres off the coast of the Philippines. 

He isn't old. Not in the way that matters, but the sea has a way of chipping people apart; ageing them in ways that land just can't replicate. He's not yet forty, but sometimes he wakes up after barely missing a brutal storm in the middle of the ocean, and he feels like he's almost sixty. Battered body, bruised and broken; sunscorched. Salt-weathered. 

You, though, make him feel his actual age. As if he's some young, dumb lad who ought to know better but doesn't care. Flippant in the way only the people in Liverpool can be. Young of heart. Dumb of mind. 

And fuck—

Thinking about that place, those goddamn idiots in the pub who didn't know what quiet meant, makes him realise just how much he misses it. Not home. Never home. Home is the sea. The ocean. Home is this little place between land. A wild, untamed beast. The place where, when he was eighteen and smitten, he threw his heart down to the bottom of that unending chasm of midnight blue. 

But you make him homesick, and he thinks he ought to resent you a little bit for it.

(He doesn't, of course; doesn't think he could ever hate you for making him feel even though he should because you make leaving harder than it's ever been, and he doesn't know what to do about that.)

It starts over a glass of whisky. 

He's no stranger to being the foreigner, the tourist. Price is a tall man with broad shoulders and a permanent smear of sunburn across the bridge of his nose, no matter the season. With his unkempt beard of wry umber curls, his deep timbre that sounds more like the battered engine of a classic, American muscle car, a sea-weathered gaze, and his penchant for a stiff drink and an unfiltered cigar, he has a tendency to stand out. 

(Or so he's been told.)

So, when you round the corner of the bar, brow ticking up in intrigue as he wanders in, sun-beaten and salt-slicked, he isn't surprised to hear you murmur:

"Not from around here, are you?"

Still. It makes him huff. "How'd you guess?"

Your other brow joins the first. "This town has a permanent population of maybe sixty people. I like to think I know every single one of them. You, however, I don't know."

"That so?"

You nod. "Yes, sir—"

And fuck. The way you speak, softly but with a rawness in your tone that's completely void of any false pleasantry, seems to notch somewhere in his ribcage, however dusted it is with barren white cobwebs.

"No. No sirs here," he finds himself saying, unprompted, and a little adrift from his usual character. He likes the importance that comes with being known as an authority figure; respected—the responsibility gives him something to do, and John has never really known how to be anything other than a leader, even when he shouldn't be. 

(Especially when he shouldn't be.)

"Then what should I call you, stranger?"

He shrugs one shoulder in a lofty reply, but doesn't give you his name. Not right away, anyway—he also thinks he likes the mystery of being a stranger in a strange land—but you don't press. Your hands lift, palms facing him, in a mockery of surrender. 

"Okay, stranger. What can I get for you?"

"Whisky," he says, a touch gruffer than he should be considering how nice you're being, but he's also never been the sort to care much about social niceties. "Neat. Bottle of spring water on the side."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you mouth the words back to yourself, a little smile clipping the corner of your lips. Bottle of water. It makes him huff again. 

"Good business to mock your guests, is it?" 

It's your turn to shrug. "Only when they don't give me their name."

You're quick in a way he doesn't expect. Snappy. Unpolished. But considering the way you walk around the bar, snatching up a bottle, and then a glass without even sparing a glance to see what's in your hands, it tells him you're familiar with this place. I know everyone, it screams. 

It's an inference—but he's always been rather good at those as well—that you've been here a while. Maybe this place is home to you. Maybe it has always been. 

Growing up in a dilapidated port town must have rubbed off on you in all the wrong ways. Waspish but still deferential to your elders. Quick with your words. Taking everything to the chin without a flinch. 

You grew up around sailors. Around men who can't seem to stand still on land long enough to call any place home. And he almost pities you for it. Almost. 

But he doesn't know you well enough to care. 

So, he doesn't. 

Motions, instead, to the cigar case he lays flat on the table after fishing it out of his front pocket with a small murmur to see if it's alright if he smokes inside. Places like these are so far behind on bylaws, he doubts anyone would blink if he smoked indoors, but it's better to be safe, he reasons, than to find himself on the curb nursing bloodied knuckles and a black eye. 

(One too many nights down in Manila taught him well enough.)

You nod, then look around the empty pub. "Go ahead. I don't think anyone here will mind."

It makes bark out something that sounds too shorn around the edges, too frayed and unevenly cut, to be a laugh, but it still makes your lips quiver, pulling up in a smile. 

"Glad you've got my back." 

He leaves it open. An empty space for you to fill in, give him your name. A proper introduction. 

Price isn't too surprised when you don't, and instead use two, well-practised fingers to slide his drink over to him, not spilling a drop. There's a flash of teeth. A mockery of a smile. 

And then: "drink up. First one is on the house."

"Well, aren't you charming."

"It's just good business," you quip with a little more teeth. "Gotta stay above the competition."

It pulls another bark from his chest. The second in less than ten minutes. He can't remember the last time he laughed this much, however lumpish and unrefined it might be. 

"It's working," he adds, tipping the glass in your direction. "Might come back for a round yet." 

"Just don't be a stranger." 

He should have been. 

Living a large majority of his life floating aimlessly in the vast expanse of the open sea has given him several insights into who he is as a person, as a man, and what makes him tick. The situations he was forced into, almost all of them being life or death, make him acutely aware of himself in a way that only those who have trust pushed past the limits of their mettle know. 

Price is good at spotting danger. Looming storms. Rogue waves. Reefs jutting out in the middle of the ocean.

And everything about you is dangerous.

He knows himself well enough to know that you're his kryptonite. His weakness. That those glossy eyes, your stubborn pride, your spitfire mouth, are all things pitted against him. All designed to make him suffer as much as possible. 

You're more dangerous than running out of fuel near Australia. Almost getting capsized off the coast of Sri Lanka. Surviving a sudden hurricane in the waters around Mexico. 

You—

You make him yearn. You make him want. 

You make him think about things he swore off of when he was eighteen and set sail around the world all on his own. 

For the first time since he left Liverpool in a boat he named Captain, Price thinks about home. Solid land beneath his feet. 

Dangerous, indeed. 

And despite everything warning him away, he goes back. 

Blames it on a litany of things—all half-truths that are only marginally easy to swallow. Things like: it's been ages since he had a stiff drink, and this is the only pub in some ten kilometres, or so. The only licence he cared enough to renew is his boating permit, and he isn't even sure if his driver's licence from Hereford is valid anymore. Never bothered much to check. 

He needs to get out, anyway. Has to find someone to fix the leak he'd sprung crossing the Labrador Strait. Needs to get more fuel. Enough to last him until he can get to Maine. 

And where else is he going to find anyone in this town to do all of that if not at the pub?

It's practical. A necessity. 

(And if he wears his nicest shirt that only barely smells sunbleached, then no one has to know.)

No one. Except you, that is. 

You wave to him in what's quickly becoming known as your usual greeting. A slight widening of your eyes, as if you're surprised to see him. Then a small quirk of your lips that always accompanies the briefest flash of teeth. If you're not busy making a drink, you lift your hand up, fingers loosely curled over your palm. A lazy wave. 

He echoes it all back with a sharp nod as he takes his seat at the bar. His usual, too, because despite having not been a marine since he was twenty-six, he still has the training he picked up ingrained in his marrow. Back to the corner. Exits in his periphery. 

(Old habits die hard, he thinks, and feels his heart leap to the base of his throat when you grin at him from over the counter, wide and infectious—)

He needs a smoke. A stiff drink.

There's an ashtray laid out on the table in front of him, a coaster with an empty glass. You're quick to rectify that, sidling up to his spot with a bottle of whisky tucked between your palm and thumb, a bottle of water secured in your grasp by just your pinky looped around the nozzle. 

"You should try my whisky sour," you murmur conversationally—like this is normal. Commonplace. 

It is in a way, he notes. But there's something much too domestic about the way you take him in. Fluffing pillows. Resting a cool hand against a warm forehead. Sweetness bleeds into his teeth, makes them ache. He needs to rinse it away before he gets a cavity. 

"Mm," he mumbles, fingers curling around the glass. The whisky is only slightly chilled—the way he mentioned he liked days ago—and he wonders if you took it out of the cool, let it sit on the shelf, waiting for him. He doesn't know how he feels about the idea of that. Of being waited for. Expected. "Not a fan of that nonsense."

Your head tilts to the side. Narrowed eyes reading him. Trying to sear through the layers that accumulated over the years, thick growths. Barnacles bunched around his body from stagnancy. He wonders what you think you see when you look at him. 

Wonders, then, why he cares so much about what the answer might be. 

John hides it all in a swallow. A gulp of whisky that never stops burning no matter how many times he washes his blues away with a swig of it. Lights a fire in his throat that catches and spreads through his chest, all the way down to his belly. Smoky. Ashes. He wheezes through the burn of it. Let it strip his insides, taking all the pollutants with it. The ones that build up whenever he catches sight of soft, coy smiles, and warm eyes. 

Dangerous if left unchecked. 

"You never know," you say, and he's already forgotten what you were talking about originally. Too many dips into the margins. Too much reading between the lines. "You might like it if you try."

And he knows, immediately, that he would. That he'd order whatever fancy drink you whipped up for him tonight with lemon and liquid cane sugar and a pinch of salt to cut the sweetness (your secret ingredient), and would do it for the rest of his life if he could. Would drink himself into cirrhosis just to see the way you smiled when you made it.  

He swallows it. Chases it down with water. He's always been rather good at that—running. Avoiding the things that make his heart thud, and the back of his neck prickle. 

So, he says: "nah, m'set in my ways." 

And you smile, let him flee. "If you say so." Then, with eyes that drop to the three wrinkles in his collar, and the ambiguous stain on the breast pocket of his shirt, you add: "don't you look nice tonight. Who're you trying to impress?" 

There's an itch under his skin. He paws at his pocket for his cigars. You meet him in the middle with a lighter in your hand, held out to him when he jabs the butt of one between his teeth. He needs the distraction. Needs nicotine to quell his nerves. Smoke-stained apathy. Just enough to soften the urge to do something ill-advised. To say something uncharacteristically flirty, like—

You. If you'll have me. 

(And then desperately. With a quiver in his voice, and blood in his throat; if you'll let me. I'll be so good to you, so, so good—)

"Mechanic," he rumbles, words muffled and gruff from around the end of his cigar. The way the flames catch the softness around the ring of your irises makes him ache in all the wrong ways. "Boat mechanic, specifically. To help fix up Captain."

"Captain?" You echo, brows rising. He leans forward, pushes the tip into the fire; inhales to let it catch. 

"M'ship," he rolls the word around a mouthful of smoke. "My first love."

"Ah," you say with a smile that tugs on the corners of your eyes. "She must be a thing of beauty, then." 

His mouth is already forming the affirmation—yes, she is—and the question—why do you think that?—but you beat him to it with a softness that hints at more, that lays itself bare on the grimy, acetone bleached tabletop:

"To make a man like you so smitten."

And Jesus Christ. 

What is he meant to say to that? How is supposed to respond with his heart in his throat, and pulse in his ears? 

He's too old for this shite, he thinks. Then, not old enough. Not nearly old enough—

"Right," he grumbles, gruff and unfriendly, and everything that's meant to make you stay away for good, to look at him like the sorry sap of an empty man he is. But there's a tint in his words. A blood-drenched fluster. 

You catch pieces of it, and smile behind the counter as you pour another drink. 

"Anyway," he's grasping at anything with knotted hands, something to take the edge off of his nerves. To put distance between this, you and him, and all the things that will eventually come after it. "This mechanic. Know where I can find one?"

The derision that dances across your pretty face has heat blooming in his chest. 

"Look around. This is basically a town hall meeting tonight."

He likes the way you ride sarcasm and sincerity so finely that he always seems to oscillate between believing your words or wondering if you're making a mockery of him. Most of the time, you seem to be—if only to get a rise out of him. To draw out his sense of humour, mordant and drier than a desert. One that pairs quite nicely with your own. 

(Another tip to the scale he tries not to think about.)

So he doesn't. He huffs instead as he ashes his cigar, and reaches for the glass with his other hand. 

"Well, ain't you funny." 

You are, of course. Of course. He thinks about the things you say to him when he comes down for breakfast at noon and dinner well after the sun has set beyond the horizon, making a meal out of the lobster rolls you make for him in the kitchen, the tuna sandwiches. The garlic shrimp. The salmon and rice. Idle comments about the locals—or lack thereof—and their spotty reputation. The history of the town. Of your Province. 

"You love it."

And God help him, he does. He does. He likes the way you drag snorts out from the depths of his chest, clearing out empty cobwebs, and filling the barren space with warmth. Or something like it. Everyone he's met so far always seems to want something from him, but you don't. You don't even make him pay for the extra heaping of lobster you pile on his plate even though he's heard you say it was an extra five dollars to a passing sailor. 

He seems to be your exception, and he doesn't know why. 

(Or maybe he does, but looking at it too closely fills him with dread. The kind he only feels when he finds out a storm cell is headed toward him. When he has to anchor down in a bay and settle the sickness in his guts as Captain is viciously thrown from side to side.

The morning after when he has to clean up the broken pieces and examine the extent of the damage, it's always filled with a sense of moroseness. Uncomfortable, in a way, like the aftermath of a vitriolic row, a devastating argument when he emerges with a sense of uncertainty, no longer quite sure he was justified in the things he said, the anger he felt. But too prideful to apologise. The awkwardness of navigating the ruins of calamity with a sense of regret that blooms alongside his lingering anger.)

So, he does what he does best:

"Not in your lifetime, love." 

He runs. 

Because lying has always come easier to him, hasn't it?

The mechanic is an old man with an accent thicker than his own. 

He speaks entirely in regional colloquialisms that Price can't make sense of. Even when he makes it known that he has no idea what the fuck the man is on about, he just breathes out his nose, as if to say, what can't ye understand about me words? and continues in the same mishmash of something that might be English, but honestly—John doubts it very much. 

Still. He's quick. He checks the hull, the mast. The engine. Checks off a list as he goes, muttering to himself (himself, because John stopped listening after the third, what? Come again? I can't understand you, mate that went entirely ignored save for a few, luh, buddy, I knows yer not stun but yer gettin' me right rotted, ye'are), and then slaps the side of Captain, nodding to himself. 

Three weeks, he says, words stretched out and stressed, like he was speaking to a child. 'ave 'er all fix'd up in t'ree weeks, b'y. 

Three weeks. 

It's in line with the seasons, too. If he times it all just right, he could be eating jerk chicken, curry, and oxtail soup in Jamaica soon enough. It would be stupid to go against the Gulf Stream (something he knows from experience when he was younger and dumber and thought he knew better), but a short stint across the Atlantic to Bermuda would suffice. Then once he's finished, he could set sail to the Azores, and then to Gibraltar, or Portugal, back up to the UK. 

Well, then. 

It's set. 

He hands the man a deposit, and tries not to think about the hourglass looming in the distance. 

Or you. 

(He always has to leave eventually. This, he knows, is no different.)

A routine forms. It's not terrible—not at first. Just an itch in the back of his head, talons raking across the inside of his skull, right behind his eyes. 

It's fine, he reasons, taking his spot at the bar while you bat away grabbing hands reaching for free beer, more booze. In three weeks, this place will be a memory replayed in his mind when the stretch of ocean idles, and loneliness sets in. A soft comfort for him to break into pieces, into regrets and spots of unhinged laughter when the isolation in a wet, unfathomable desert sinks its maw into his psyche. 

He'll resent himself, he's sure; curse the winds and the squalls that threaten to tear his boat into pieces. The idle sense of listlessness that comes with seafaring long distances. 

He's done it enough times to know that between the inexorable sense of freedom and insignificance in the gaping maw of an untamable beast, he always hates himself a little bit for not taking someone with him. 

Solo-sailing is ill-advised, but he's always been a stubborn bastard. Too prickly to be good company, too gruff to care. 

Maybe he'll ring Gaz when gets close to Europe to see if he's up for a stint jaunting through the ocean to see the Caribbean with him. Or Soap if Gaz is still hunkering away with the military. 

(You—

He doesn't think about that. Carves the thought out of his hand as quickly as it forms.)

But even so—

You're a constant on his mind. The first solid presence he's had in months, too. 

Despite his cantankerous disposition—sometimes he finds himself snarling more than conversing; sometimes he has this urge in his blood to lash out, to push things away just to see how far they go—you navigate his mercurial temperament with ease. His shorn, gruff words bounce off of your skin and fall to the countertop where you pick them up between delicate fingers and throw them right back at him—all with a smile. 

See, you seem to say. Nothing you can do will push me away so just shut up already and drink your fucking whisky, old man. 

He doesn't know if he believes you. Or the phantom echo in his head. 

"You're shedding," you murmur, drawing his attention back to you. At his raised brow, you lift your hand up in front of him, thumb and forefinger pinched together. 

It's only when his vision steadies that he sees the single strand of hair wisping up from between the tips of your fingers. A coarse hair of dark brown with lightened tips. 

His hand lifts to his beard, roaming over the wry curls peppered, unkempt, around the bottom half of his face. His moustache is overgrown, eclipsing the entirety of his lips. He feels the wetness from his whisky staining the ends.

You laugh when he pats along his cheek and jaw, as if he could find the missing follicle amid an unruly basin of knotting hair. 

"Ah," he rasps. "Guess I'm in need of a shave."

It's not a priority anymore. Hasn't been since he left the Navy, or when he realised how troublesome it was to try and shave his face while crossing the Atlantic. It just stopped being something he cared much about. 

But he feels the long ends catching on the rough patch of skin around his knuckles. Straggly and whitening at the tips. 

"Maybe," you quip with a shrug, and he can't really place the note in your tone that tries to linger between feigned indifference, but misses the mark entirely. 

You don't say anything else as you drop the fallen strand into the bin behind the counter, but as the night progresses, he catches your eyes straying toward him more often than usual, lingering on the expanse of his covered jaw. Something flashes in those depths—intrigue, maybe; curiosity—and John tries to convince himself it doesn't matter even as he pulls out money from his wallet at the crux of the evening when everyone has gone home, save for himself and you. The only two left in an empty pub. 

It shakes him, somewhat. As if he's only realising just now how normal this has become. For him to wait for you. To walk you to the edge of the boardwalk, where a little cottage sits across a sandy embankment. Home, you told him once. The first night he kept pace with you just to keep the conversation going. 

Never been anywhere else but here, you said, a touch wistful. Must be amazing, then. Going anywhere you like. Always at sea. 

He swallows down something bitter at the memory. Something aching and acrid. Yeah, he murmured when the silence stretched on for too long and he saw the apology forming on your lips. Nice. It's—it's good, yeah.

The years have muted the resentment he felt toward his home. His father, in particular. He doesn't think he's ready to step back into Hereford—maybe not ever—but he might be ready to see the old bastard's grave. Drop a couple of flowers down. 

The memories he has are embedded in thrown cast iron pots. Fist-sized holes in the wall. Sealed with bitterness, resentment.

He didn't know how to summarise all of that into something digestible for you. So, he didn't. Doesn't. 

(Can't, maybe. Won't.)

You'd stopped aiming for personal and instead focused your attention on the things that made him snort. Made him laugh. He can't remember the last time he had a moment to breathe. Land makes him feel claustrophobic. Itches under his skin in a way that drums up the instinct to flee. Or fight. 

But with you—

It's easy. 

It awakens something in him, too. Something that has been there all along, maybe. Lingering on the periphery. One he tried hard to ignore as it raked down his skull, leaving false starts in his bones. 

There's an attraction there, seeding in the gaps between your bodies. One that becomes harder to ignore as the days pass. And how could there not be, when you're pretty in a way that makes him flounder. That makes him want to bend you over the counter just to see what expressions he could pull out of you with a mere touch. The sounds—

Fuck. You'd sound so pretty, he thinks. Has thought. Many times in the sanctuary of his hotel room that stunk of algae and smoke. Images of you splayed out on the sheets, begging him for more—

His hand goes back to his jaw. Feeling the years of accumulated indifference beneath his fingers, and needing something—anything—to take the heat in his belly, the tremble of his hand, away. To keep the thoughts of you at bay, locked up tight for no one else to see. To know. 

John doesn't walk you home that night, opting instead to duck into a drug mart beside the inn, hands burrowed in his pockets, eyes lidded. Narrowed, almost, as he takes in the rows of cheap plastic he'll inevitably find at sea. 

He stands in the aisle for a moment, taking in the mix of English and French on the boxes, and trying to come up with reasons for why this is a good idea—outside of the way it felt to have you look at him with lowered lashes, flickering from his chin, to his jaw, to his cheek: imagining what might be under the bushel of thick, unruly hair. 

It doesn't surprise him that he comes up empty. That his head is filled with nothing but the illicit image of you leaning over him—

Stupid. 

He grabs the first box he sees, crumpling the cardboard from how tight he's clenching his fist. 

It isn't the first time he's thought of you like that, but it is in your presence. With you staring at him, filling in the blanks his uninspired memory couldn't conjure up. Talking to him, too—bloody fucking hell. 

All frayed whispers of: you alright, John? You sure? Well, if you say so. 

There's anger writ across his brow, more so at himself for thinking these things, for feeling them in the first place, but as he stalks toward the counter, frown buried behind a mess of overgrown, unkempt hair, and eyes narrowed into pinched lines, he's sure he makes quite the sight. Must, if the little jump the skittish man behind the register gives when he drops the box with a growled how much? is to go by. 

John's never been good at handling his anger. Trickle-down toxicity, maybe. He's sure some fancy therapist would be overjoyed to tell him all about it—about how he's never had a good role model when it comes to biting his tongue. Never had to, when his last name is enough to pass tests, climb ranks. 

Mean and drunk, his dad was.

And Price—

Well. Sometimes he feels himself getting there, too.

But this. This. It feels different. 

He's not nearly as angry as he is flustered, and like anything he isn't used to, he lashes out. 

John is sure they don't tip at drug stores, but he conveniently forgets his change in place of an apology when he storms out of the shop, ignoring the hesitantly called, uh, sir…? as he goes. 

It's fine, he thinks and tries not to let his mind wander into uncharted territory, musing about what you might have said. Might have done. 

Swatted at him, undoubtedly. Said something scathing about him being a prick for no reason. Put him in his place, kept him there. 

But he doesn't think about that at all. 

John stands in front of the grimy mirror in his hotel room with a brand new razor in hand, staring at himself, and wonders if you'd shave it for him if he asked. If you'd keep him in line during the long stretch of the ocean where everything is an endless crawl of muted grey-green, and take him down to the bathroom in the boat, one that's barely big enough for himself to fit comfortably, and perch him on the toilet while you tended to the too-long wisps of curls growing over his cheeks. 

The thought is an algae bloom in his chest. Ethereal, beautiful. But beneath the marvel of nature's potent splendour lurks a deadly danger—one toxic in its domesticity. 

Still. He latches onto it. Curls his worn fingers around the edges, clinging to rotting driftwood. 

He likes the way it fits in his chest. The shape of you moulding along the barren brackets of his ribs; slotting in like a puzzle piece. It's winsome. Dangerous. But he's always like a challenge. 

Always liked the way some things were meant to hurt. 

(And you—you look like you were made to ruin.)

Hair rains into the stained basin with each cut. Filling the chips in the porcelain, built up from years of carelessness and indelicate hands, until a light dust of burnt umber sits like a layer of snow across the surface, hiding the blemishes below. 

Each inch shorn off seems to regress him in age until he's less an unkempt seafarer, a wild man who feasts on tuna and loses his mind in the middle of the sea, and more like the thirty-something-year-old who still has decades ahead of him to try and regain his footing. 

The contrast is jarring. 

He runs the back of his hand across clean skin and nearly startles at the feeling of something touching that part of his face that was hidden for so long. 

He's reminded about something his dad used to say—nothing like a shave to make a man feel new again—and isn't sure how he likes the sour twist in his gut when he feels the truth in those words, however hollow and artificial they might be. 

The face that stares back at him is different from the one who wore a military uniform all those years ago. Cheeks sunken in. Hollow. Thinner from months at sea. His complexion is darker, sunkissed and tinged slightly red. A permanent sunburn, maybe. He thinks about the woman from Ghana who warned him with a finger pressed softly against the apple of his full cheek about skin cancer. Melanoma. 

Wear sunscreen, she stressed with a shake of her head that sent gorgeous locks of midnight black spilling over her bare shoulders. It reminded him of the deepest parts of the ocean that he crossed. Endless puddles that looked like little jars of ink across the vast expanse of the sea. You're too pale not to be wearing some every day. 

(After he left—twinned hearts torn asunder—he found a bottle of sunscreen stuffed inside his rucksack. It was the only time he can remember crying in some twenty-odd years—)

That man feels almost as distant as the sea is to him now. A memory. A moment when he was willing to carve off the best parts of himself just to make room for the loneliness; the self-flagellation in the form of isolation. What he'd thought he deserved. Maybe still does. 

He isn't sure what thoughts were rattling around inside his head at the time to make him leave the best pieces of himself with a woman who seemed too good to be true, but still wanted him, of all people, by her side. Those, too, feel far too distant to grasp. 

His hand is worn down. Knuckles more scar tissue than skin. Welts lined the inside of his palms—thickened flesh made from grabbing the ends of rope too many times to count as it reeled out of his grasp, cutting deep and cauterising the wound all at the same time. He should have known better, maybe. But when his anchor was tumbling down into an abyss, unattached to its cleat in the middle of the ocean, time for thinking was negligible. Nonexistent, almost. 

The accumulated scars—some from land, most from sea—discolour his skin until it's patches of ivory, pale pink, and mounted brown, all slightly hidden under a thin crop of wry topaz hair. 

His nails are short and lined with boat oil. Dirt. The beds are yellowing from nicotine. 

He scratches the rosy skin of his upper cheek where it meets the cut of patchwork mutton chops. His signature style when he was Captain. When he was responsible for more life than he knew what to do with or knew how to protect. 

(The men he couldn't save always seem to stack higher than the ones he did.)

John sees fragments of his old self in the mirror. Pieces of an incomplete puzzle he thought he left scattered on the battlefield, and then tucked inside a box when he handed in his medals for a trawler (a trawler for a sailboat). The fit is tight. It sits uncomfortably over his new skin—scarred and sunkissed—and he gives himself a moment to wonder about where he'd be in life now had he stayed behind. 

But a moment feels too long. Not long enough. 

He brings the razor up to his cheek and cuts the rest of that man away. 

He isn't him. Not anymore. 

(Hasn't been for a long time.)

The skin of his cheeks sting from the bitter evening winds billowing off the icy Atlantic and he's reminded why he kept his beard overgrown and thick when he was out at sea. 

November is a cruel month, he always found. Cold. Desolate. This close to the ocean, and he feels the chill deep in his bones, even though several layers of leather and fur. It's enough to make his teeth chatter. 

The fur lining the collar of his Levi's jacket does little to stem the vicious onslaught, but he makes a point to bunch his shoulders closer to the bottom of his earlobes in an effort to salvage some heat. Not that there's much to spare. 

But the walk from the inn to the pub is blessedly short, and the brief cold gives him enough time to clear his head. To think about turning back. Stopping whatever it is he thinks he's doing. 

He isn't a young lad. Not anymore. 

He knows this, of course. Knows it enough to feel the ache in his joints. In the raw scar tissue that is always a little tender in colder weather. Still. It wasn't enough to stop him from washing his clothes in the coin laundry of the inn. Buying fabric softener and forest-scented detergent from the grocer. A beanie (toque, he supposes, though he's never heard anyone out East use that word), some cologne—the expensive kind. Tom Ford, the lady at the cosmetic counter said. You look like you'd like this one best. 

He didn't ask why. She didn't tell him. 

It smells good, though. Like new leather, vanilla, and tobacco—a strange concept considering most of the time people couldn't stand the smell whenever he smoked, but maybe that's only in cigars and cigarettes. 

There was a moment when he stood in the washroom, buttoning up his freshly laundered (and newly purchased) shirt when he felt like a fraud. A goddamn muppet. 

This isn't him. He reeks of smoke, salt, and sun-dried sweat. He scrubs his clothes clean with extra shampoo inside the shower on his boat when they start to smell a little too pungent, even for him. He doesn't shave. Barely showers—

Who needs it when he can just anchor on a reef, or a distant, uninhabited island and take a dip in crystalline waters for a few hours? 

He feels—

Stupid. 

But he can't deny there's something a little invigorating about slipping a clean body inside clean clothes. Dressing up like some young lad taking his girl out to see a film, grab a burger to eat. Maybe bum around Liverpool until he had to go back to the barracks. 

He bit his tongue until he tasted iron and slipped on his jacket. Pulled the beanie over his head. Sprayed some cologne on the sleeves. And then kept his head low to avoid anyone's eyes, even though no one in this town has really bothered to get to know him like you had. 

John just feels a bit like a swindler. This isn't him. 

Fancy shirts. Clean jeans. Boots. A new leather jacket. Cologne. Barefaced. It all feels like a hollow pastiche of some clichè role he's trying to fill. Leading man, or something stupid like that Soap might jostle him about. 

Who're ye tryin'ta be, Cap? Tom Hardy, aye?

Fuck. Fuck. He should leave, just go back to his inn—

But the door is already opening. You're looking up, taking him in, and then—

Nothing. You offer a slight nod. No smile. No wave. And then you're looking away, eyes dropping back to the tabletop you're always cleaning despite the stains and the stickiness never going away. 

He expected worse, maybe. His hand reaches up as he steps inside, feeling the uneven skin beneath his palm. Rugged craters. Knicks from the blade when he got too close to his skin. Scars, maybe. Patches of hair he missed. 

He wonders what you thought when you saw it. Chiefly disappointed, perhaps, that whatever image you had in your head of him, all clean-shaven and dressed up, wasn't quite the same as reality. There's a sinking sense of disappointment in his guts, but it's almost minuscule compared to the relief of knowing that you don't care. Maybe it'll be enough to quash whatever has been rotting in the crevasse between you. Crush whatever idealistic notions of him you have in your head. 

John would rather you were bitterly disappointed now than realise it after. Regret. A mistake. It's good. Fine. 

It's only when he takes his usual seat does your head pops up again, eyes cutting across the counter to stare at him. 

And—

Shit. 

The way you look at him knocks the air from his lungs. The deep appraisal, the shock, the curiosity, and the—

"Wow," you whisper, eyes widening. He isn't sure what you think, but he knows that look in your eye; a keenness. Sees it sometime staring back at him in a cup of amber when you don't notice him looking. Shit. Shit.  

He clears his throat, uncomfortable under the intensity of your stare, and tries to soothe his nerves as quickly as he can, patting down for his cigars left somewhere in his pocket. In one of his pockets. Fuck—

"Well," you breathe, and he dreads your words immediately, not quite ready to hear them without something in his veins to dull the pinballing emotions in his chest. "Don't you clean up nice. Didn't recognise you at first."

He grunts. "Yeah, yeah. Talkin' nonsense now, aren't you?"

"Nonsense?" You echo, tone subdued, now. Soft. Too soft. He hates the way it makes his chest feel like it's caving in. "What? A handsome man like you can't take a compliment? That's a surprise."

Handsome. 

He feels his pulse in his throat. Heat under his collar. Something spreads across his skin at words, glueing itself down, uncomfortably tight—constricting, smothering—and he fights the urge to reach up to his neck, clawing at it until it's all gone. Peeled off in strips, taking with it jagged swaths of too-hot flesh. 

Your words are painted with too much sincerity, and it drips over his skin—thick and oily—until he's stained in the offering they make. Drenched in the sudden realisation that this is far too much than he can handle. 

That he needs. 

The way you're looking at him—bare-faced honesty, scoured of anything other than a genuity that trickles into the gaps in his crumbling chest, sticky filament made of saccharine promises and a dizzying sense of open affection—makes him heave; chokes him on the embers of that tantalising what if you let echo in the recess of words. 

It isn't grabbing, or taking what he wants. This is you lying flat on the table. His choice to reach for it. To curl his fingers around the bulk of it, feeling the heat in the palm of his hand. 

And he wants. Oh, how he wants—

But it feels a little bit like a betrayal. Self-sabotage from within as his body turns against him. Feelings conspiring with his whims, the ones that force out their pleads between bloodied teeth; yearning as they rattle the cages of this forced prison. Lost in absentia. 

He can't make sense of the tremors that follow, roaring through his chest in a deluge of innominated emotions that seem to shake the foundation he stands on. He reaches, but can't seem to grasp them. Temporal feelings without cause. Intangible. They slip through the gaps in his fingers. Slide off of his flesh as he was trying to catch mercury in the oil-slick palm of his hand. 

John can't make sense of it. Why him? What's drawing you to him outside of carnal attraction? It's always been there—that magnetic pull: his marrow to yours. 

But for the first time since he traded in medals for oars, he feels the pull back to shore. That unquenchable urge to dip his toes into the sand. To keep his feet firm on dry land. 

The feeling of it itches in the palm of his hand. 

And like most things, he doesn't understand, doesn't agree with, he feels the unrelenting urge to lash out against it. Push back. Carve out some semblance of distance between the thing he doesn't understand, and what it's making him feel.

And then he snaps. Bites back against the headiness admixing in the back of his head; noxious, dangerous. It's a discomfort. A slash of clarity that makes him all too aware of himself. Of you. This. Everything. It's too much. 

So easily swayed by a pretty word. What a damn fool. 

The snort he gives in response is a gnarled mess in his throat, all mangled up and shredded on the barbs of his sudden vexation. "Flatter all the poor sods like this, do you?"

It crackles in his chest. Smouldering embers. Dampened by the blood filling his lungs, choking him on what spills out of the shattered levee. 

This isn't—

Isn't him. It isn't you. 

He feels claws raking across the inside of his skull. Sharpened talons digging vengefully into the back of his sockets until it aches. Forcing him, maybe, to see the aftermath of his anger. 

"No," you say, pulling back. Stepping away from him. Giving him space. Not enough, and entirely too much. A sad echo snakes through the crevasse. Glass breaking. Shattering. He thinks of self-sabotage. Tastes it in the back of his throat. "Just you."

It's mean, awful, when he huffs, asks: "yeah? Why bother?" 

"Why not?" You volley back, and he can't quite place the look in your eye. Disappointment, maybe. Something tinged in regret. "Maybe I want to. Maybe I—"

You don't finish. 

Good, he thinks. Good. Stay away. Far away. 

And softer. Softer still—

It's for your own good. Better off this way. Don't turn around. You'll only end up hating what you see. Regretting what you find—

"Don't know what you're getting yourself into." His words are stagnant. Hollow. The consistency of ash between dry palms. He tries to swallow, but can't. Can't. Gives up instead, adds: "won't like what you find, either." 

You hum and it hurts. "Maybe I might. Can't be all bad under there." 

They're sharpened with an edge of sincerity he can't bring himself to acknowledge, not now; not yet, so he huffs instead, and brings a cigar to his lips just so he doesn't have to respond. Doesn't have to engage again. Can't, he thinks, with a cigar between his lips, stuffing his mouth full. 

A pathetic escape. He's never been the type of man to retreat when it isn't the best option strategically. Or when he has no other choice, and too many men on the line. 

But he can't—

(Knife to his chest, you walk away. 

Blade against his tongue, he says nothing to call you back.)

A fissure sits at the zenith that once was a sense of ease, comfort. It leaks a coldness that shakes him to the core when it drifts over gaping wounds and milky-white bones.  

(All of his own making, of course.)

In the midst of it all, he tries to convince himself that this is the right thing to do despite never being a man of altruism in his life, and the lie pools in his empty gut where it sloshes around in the shots of whisky you still pour for him even though he can he see the cruel lashes of his words striking over your expression when you look at him when you think he isn't watching you back. 

Better this way, and he downs a shot just to ignore the merciless echo that asks, for who?

Both of you. Both. 

Because despite what you might think, or whatever little fantasies you made up inside your head about him, he knows they aren't true. They aren't him. 

A man who climbed ranks on the back of his last name. A borrowed legacy with no honour of his own. One who had no qualms about crossing lines that others couldn't until they blurred, until his morality was a sickly grey. 

Until a prison cell in Siberia rewired the fibres in his head, and he was forced to reconcile the unignorable truth that stripped of his rank and the protection he offers there is barely any discernible difference between him and them. The enemy. 

He thinks of Gaz, and the words he uttered become a portend for the calamity of a man who always seemed overly keen to take things too far. 

It's them or us, he used to say. Them or us—even as he tossed an innocent man over the ledge to fall to his death. As he let a child watch him emasculate his father when he knew pride was all they had left, doing nothing in the end but creating another monster for him to hunt down at a later date. Threatened families. Threatened men. Women, children. 

His punishment was nonexistent. Self-flagellation in the form of exile. He cast himself out to sea and pretended it was enough. 

How is he supposed to pretend who is he isn't? How is he meant to touch you with blood writ in the lines of his palm? 

Selfish. Mean. Cruel. 

So, he lets it rot—just as he does with everything else.

There have been others, of course; but Price has always been attracted to older women. Laugh lines and crows feet; swatches of grey kissing their temples. A certain coldness to their touch. An unspoken understanding that everything that is, and will ever be, between them is temporal. Love was just a crutch. A fallacy uttered in the dark to soothe the rugged parts of themselves that worried they might never be enough. 

He can handle women like that. Prefers them. 

The youngest he's ever dated was a woman his own age, and he realised soon after that there was a disparity between he couldn't placate. One that left scars. 

He's a mangled soul in a young man's body. Rough and callous and unwilling to compromise. He's more scar tissue than man, and what can he offer someone idealistic with inexperience and youth except a bitter tangle of hurt that cuts deep. 

But you're an outlier, he finds. Only shades younger than himself, really, but it's not so much your age, but the way you carry yourself. Heart on your sleeve. Aching for love. 

He can't give that to you. 

The last time he tried, he ended up sneaking out on a woman in Ghana, leaving the pieces of him behind that dared to even try. 

He can't offer you anything that isn't temporary. 

And he thinks that might be fine. Maybe it's all you want from him, anyway—just a night. A moment. A memory to keep. 

But John's always been greedy. The kind that wants, and wants. Once would never be enough, and he knows that if he sunk his teeth into you, a bite would never satiate his rapacious appetite, never quench the hunger. 

And since he can't make a meal out of a morsel, he'd rather starve. 

He thinks about leaving six times in three hours, but you carry on as if nothing has happened even though he catches weariness in your gaze whenever you look at him. His glass is filled but the conversations are bereft of their usual cheekiness. The gaps between are no longer filled with his scored laughter or your amused hums. 

You spend more time away from him than you have since he first sat down. The deviation away from what quickly became a bruised touchstone, laden with clumsy fingerprints is jarring, but he can't claim to be upset by your distance when he was the one who caused the rift in the first place. 

So, he drinks. He smokes his cigar. Tries to not think about why his hand itches in a way that he knows can only be sated by sliding his knuckles across the worn wood of the table, linking his fingers with yours. It's a stupid whim. He swallows it down with a shot of whisky that makes his stomach curdle. Seals it with an inhale of his cigar. Forgotten, now. Covered in ethanol and smoke.  

But even with the crowbar in his hand, he can't stop himself from watching you. Eyes trailing along the paths you carve between old wooden chairs, and scowling men waving their hands at the staticky television set, upset by yet another bad call by the referee. 

(He's always thought it was stereotypical to equate Canada with hockey, moose, bears, geese, and maple syrup but so far, he's seen nothing else play inside the pub—aside from a polar bear warning being issued out for northern Newfoundland—but sometimes, the shoe just fits.)

You sift through the throng carrying drinks in your hand and impish grin at the men you recognise. Words he can't hear, ones he isn't privy to, are spoken softly and reinforced with a small grin. Seeing it on your face, pointed away from him; meant only for another, is a white-hot dagger to guts, scraping across his delicate insides. 

The flashes of anger are directed inward. Each stab is a reminder that they once were for him. That had he not gone and ruined a good thing, dangerous though it might be, you'd have been standing in front of him, curbing nonsensical requests over the bulk of his shoulder, unwilling to leave from your perch across from where he sat. 

(Hindsight is a brutal, bitter mistress, but it has nothing at all on pride.) 

He swallows it. Smokes. Pretends he's interested in the game that plays but it's just flashing colour on an oversaturated screen. A foreign language to his ears despite the words on the chyron flickering past in his mother tongue. 

John thinks about packing it in for the night. Heading back to his empty hotel so he can think about you in peace—in vivid, fantastical images of equilibrium; comfort—and finds that might be for the best. For both of you. Some distance to soothe the ache he caused. To reacclimate back to strangers in a dilapidated pub. A sailor and bartender: ephemeral, the way it ought to be. The way it must. 

With his dwindling pack of cigars slipped into his breast pocket beside the lighter he nicked from you ("people always seem to leave them behind in bars," you'd winked, handing him an ugly lighter in the shape of a bear with a pipe in his plastic mouth. "I picked out the one that made me think of you."), he finds himself at a loss for a reason to stay. All packed up. Ready to leave. 

He raps his scarred knuckles on the table, a final farewell that he can feel heavily in his bones, filled with iron as they may be. Still. Still. It's for the best.

Whose, he still doesn't know. His own, undoubtedly, in that selfish sort of way that makes it feel selfless. Like it's the right thing to do even though he bloody well knows it isn't. Won't be. That he'll think about this moment in time when he's all alone at sea and cuss himself out as he readies for a squall. 

John means to leave, but a man gets to you first. 

The man makes a noise in the back of his throat. A complaint, maybe, but it's swallowed by the creak of the floorboards when he sways on his feet. 

"Listen t'me, you—"

But you're not. You make a move to turn around, and he seems to realise you're not paying him any attention. Anger flickers over his slack face, and he's reaching for you with a clumsy paw before John has time to move. The moment he makes contact, fingers skating off the sleeve of your shirt, he's out of his chair, letting it clatter to the ground. The noise is swallowed by all the chaos. Murmurs, shouts. The music feels so out of place in this moment when he can feel his blood run hot, turning molten in his veins. 

"Hey—!"

But your hand is gripping his wrist, pulling him off of you, before John can finish. Eyes narrowed, jaw set, you shake your head once before pointing to the door with your free hand. 

"It's time for you to leave." 

He pitches a fit. Petulant whinging that cuts through the noise. Vague insults hurtled at you, words of complaint that barely make you flinch. 

John's rushing over before he can even think—thoughts all asunder, bouncing around his head in an unrefined mess of shorn noises and fervent anger—but you stop him with a jerk of your head. No, it says. I don't need you. 

And you don't.

The swelling chaos dims and in the aftermath, he realises he's the only one standing. The only one hovering in your periphery as you shove a man twice your size away from the counter when he tries to swipe a bottle as he leaves. 

Everyone is watching, wary, but there's an unspoken sense of understanding amongst them that makes him feel decidedly like an outsider, and wholly out of the loop. 

Where he's from, if you see someone being harassed, you step in. 

Things, apparently, are very different here. 

He catches your eye when you turn back toward the interior after slamming the door shut, and there's a moment where he almost rushes to your side, checking you over for any marks that man might have left behind, but you're shaking your head before he can even lift his foot from the floorboards. As if you know. And maybe you do. Maybe you know him more than he knows himself. Maybe, maybe—

You give him another shake. No, it says, and the soft quirk of your lip echoes in his head, a soft: down boy that makes him bristle. 

It's telling, of course, that he still heeds your wordless command. Hackles lowering, muscles unfurling from their rigid coil. 

Your nod, then, is a soft purr that rolls through his guts like a marble. Good boy. 

John feels leashed when he settles back into his chair. Anchored. All it takes is a nonverbal cue from you, and suddenly, he's tempered. Tamed. 

As if to reinforce the thought, his hand strays to his chin, feeling the scarred, bare skin under his palm. All done because of a simple glance, a fleeting moment of curiosity from you. 

He isn't sure how he likes the fit of it around his neck. Too tight, maybe. Dangerously claustrophobic. But it sits there, untouched. He has no desire to pull it off. To divorce the collar from his neck. 

(Maybe, maybe, he thinks he could get used to the way it feels.)

As he settles in his chair, his eyes never stray from you, standing lax and unphased against the door, chatting idly to the patrons who murmur in tones too low for him to pick up over the rhythmic echo of the sea shanty and the slew of voices in the background, cheers from the hockey game that hasn't quite held his interest long enough for him to know the score. Nothing is amiss, it seems. As if bullying out men twice your size was a regular occurrence—not even newsworthy enough to pull gazes glued to the flashing television, or stop the minutiae of mindless conversations from happening in sparse passels around the pub. 

But it changed something for him. He feels it in his chest, his guts. Something dislodged from the cornice, falling down inside of him in an endless spiral. A sudden freefall. 

He comes to the startling realisation when you look up at him as you pat someone on the shoulder, smiling softly—all forgiven in an instant, the crevasse sealed over in a thick bed of cobwebs—that he wants. Has wanted since he first lumbered into the pub and was met with a raised brow, and a cheeky wink. Not from around here, are you? and he was gone. 

Lost in the swell of you. 

Your mouth moulds around the words, pleading with him over the heads of everyone else, wait for me.

But John had no plans to go anywhere else. 

"I'm okay," you tell him hours later, hands buried in your pockets, eyes gazing up at the midnight blue sky. "Seriously."

There's a multitude of things he wants to say. All threads of lingering, unresolved anger brought on by that man who put his hands on you. Who thought he could. 

Maybe a little bit of it is directed at you, too, for not letting him rip that man into pieces even though he knows it's not your fault. Leashed, he thinks, and rubs absently at his bare neck. 

"Yeah?" He murmurs, voice raw. Eroded down to bare scraps, scorched and pulsing with the poison of anger. He tries to clear it. Swallows down the acrid tang that coats the back of his throat even still, hours later. 

Your head rolls toward him slowly, chin still held loftily up to the sky, and when your eyes meet, he thinks of rogue waves. Capsizing in the middle of endless azure, exposed to elements and predators. To the murky depths below in burnt sapphire.

He swallows again, but it's hard to get anything down when his heart is in the way. 

"Yeah, John. I'm good."

Your words take the shape of a breath, gently ghosting over a scraped knee. It's not meant to convince, but rather soothe, and something about that, about the softness in your eyes and way you speak tenderly, cautiously, as if he might startle, makes him feel hot beneath his collar. Flustered. Foolish. A litany of things he ought not to feel, but does because it's you. 

(Because it's always been you.)

"Right," he grouses, and tries to find his way out of the canyons inside your eyes. 

It's hard to escape when everything looks the same, when it all beckons him deeper. Stay, stay, it whispers over artfully crafted gorges and deep ravines, a stunning beauty that makes nature feel like a paltry imitation of the carvings in your irises. 

In the sandy shores of a small inlet nearly eclipsed by the sea, you turn to him fully, eyes smouldering embers catching in the flush of the full moon, and say, thank you, John. 

He scratches at the collar around his neck, and thinks about throwing away the key.

"What for?" He says instead, brows knitted together—a perfect pastiche of a fisherman's knot. It's rough: words scraped from the thick of his throat, raw and pulsing and dusted in smoke, but you don't baulk at the artificial ire that oozes between his nicotine-stained teeth. No. You lean into it with a smile. 

"Defending me. Trying to, anyway," you tack on with a small huff at his expense, a finger poking at his inflated pride. In jest, of course, but it still makes him frown. "I guess I just got so used to sticking up for myself that I forgot how nice it was to know someone is looking out for me, you know?" 

"Should be expected." 

There's a heat simmering beneath his tone. An underlying sense of anger that hadn't abated entirely yet, just began slumbering. Dormant, but still burning. Still hot enough to hurt. 

"Maybe," you hum, and the blitheness in your tone makes him bristle. Hackles raising. "But it's probably for the best."

"Tell me how none of those fuckin'—" There's a snarl in the back of his throat. He swallows. "None of them standin' up for you is for the best, 'cause it looked pretty fuckin' cowardly to me."

"If they defend me every time something like that happens, then it'll only be worse when they're not around. Most nights, it's just me working. I gotta know how to take care of myself just fine—"

"—shouldn't bloody 'ave to—!"

"—and I need them to know it, too. That if they try anything like that, I'll kick them out. I won't go screaming for help just because they're being rude. I'll handle it on my own because I have to."

It quiets him. Not enough to quell the anger burning in his chest, or the urge to tear them into pieces for sitting back, watching you get disrespected while they throw peanuts at the television screen, and jeer about something as arbitrary as a fucking game, but he finds something akin to understanding. Common ground. 

It makes sense, suddenly, even though it sets his teeth on edge and makes his knuckles itch. 

"No one else will do it for me, y'know?"

"I will."

The words tumble out before he can make sense of them in his head. A disconnect between his mouth and his thoughts, eroded by the smoke leaking into his throat. The fire in his chest. 

A mistake, maybe, because they're futile. Pointless. More so a whim of pride, a flash of possessiveness just to stroke the smouldering embers of the ego you bruised earlier with the tip of your finger. 

(Or maybe they're the afterbirth of his righteousness; that insatiable beast he conceived into the world he swore he'd save—no matter what—only to realise somewhere after leaking madness into the fibres that he was making more monsters than he was culling. 

A lingering remnant of when he bore the burden of the world on his shoulders during a botched pantomime of Atlas.)

You know it, too. "You won't be around all the time, John."

He tastes salt in the back of his throat. It burns when he swallows. When the words that tore through the seam of his lips dissolve into ash, into smoke. 

Your hand on his shoulder is meant to be placating but it feels like a dagger to his gut. 

"I can take care of myself. Been doin' it all my life, anyway."

He can't make sense of it. Can't understand how your words fill the hollow crevasses inside of him until he feels more like a mortal man than an untouchable mountain. 

You bring him back down to the solidness of land, of the earth. An anchor. 

John touches his neck again. "Yeah," he rasps. "I get it. Now, let's get you home."

He thinks about you. 

A lot would be an understatement considering how many times he's taken you to bed, pulled you down into the sheets with him. Tangled limbs. Rushed breath. He thinks of you now, too, with heavy eyes and a little smile, beckoning him forward. 

His own illicit sanctuary. A place in his head where he ruins you over, and over, and over again until there's a permanent stain on the tips of his fingers, the back of his throat. A constant reminder of you—the way you smell, sound, taste—

It's been a while since he had a moment like this, when he could relax, feel himself—already half-hard when he palms himself through his boxers—and just—

Lose himself. Body melting into the sheets. Tension bleeding together into one mass that pools in his lower belly, coalescing into a tight knot in his groin. It spools, pulls taut, when he runs the flat of his palm down the length of himself until he meets the soft flesh of his perineum. 

It's easy to tilt his chin up, eyes gazing at the seashell colouring of the popcorn ceiling, stroking himself in slow, unhurried rolls of his hand, and thinking of you. Your hand on him. Your breath tickling his ear, spurring him on. 

"Come on, John," you'd say in that voice made to bring him to his knees. "You can go faster than that, can't you?"

He responds instantly to the faint echo in his head, grunting at the pleasure that races down his spine. Tugging on that tightly wound knot until it trembles. 

His hand around the length of him is replaced with yours. Tentative, exploratory strokes from frenulum to his thickened base; up, up, a teasing swipe of your thumb across his weeping slit but only enough to make his hips arch off the bed, and then you pull away, down. Down. Over and over again. He thinks of the way your breath would feel ghosting over his temple. The press of your chest when you leave over his shoulder. 

John rocks into it, hips undulating with each pass of the hand that is too gnarled, too scarred to be yours; lost in the fantasy of your presence around him, on him, in him. 

Maybe your other arm would be tucked under the nape of his neck, bracketing him into your body. A safety net. A security blanket. You'd toy with his cheek—twee and gentle; a ginger touch to offset the illicit press of your thumb into his frenulum. Lean over, too, perhaps, and press those inviting lips to his. A soft kiss. Barely a whisper. A brush.

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, chasing the phantom taste of you that isn't there. He imagines you'd taste like the sea. Briny, but mild. Salted winter melon. A sweetness, too, beneath the tart tang of iodine, but one that was metallic—copper. Iron. 

Pleasure knots in his groin—tighter, tighter, tighter—and even with each stroke a pale imitation of your warm flesh on him, he finds the spooling coil building in a quick crescendo of bliss to be somehow more potent than it ever was. A feverish heat at the mere thought of you. 

It builds. Builds. And breaks—

Your name is a broken snarl in the back of his throat as he spills over himself in thick, molten ropes. Each pulse of his heart floods more liquid heat onto his hand (hot enough, maybe, to burn), and he leans into the sudden deluge of a chemical frenzy ripping through his synopses—all liquid euphoria, static endorphins, and a heady rush of dopamine that makes the edges of his vision blur just a touch when he blinks his tired, heavy, eyes open, staring back up at the off-white ceiling. 

The surge and plummet of adrenaline leaves him feeling fatigued. A bone-deep torpor that comes swiftly in the simmering aftershocks of his pleasure. 

He could close his eyes now and sleep—even with the mess on his hand, come cooling against his heated flesh, growing tacky and uncomfortably wet as it sat there. The idea is more appealing than standing up and washing himself down, and in his sudden languor, he haphazardly lifts his hand away from his still-throbbing cock softening against his damp thigh, and pats the mess on his hand against the extra pillow he doesn't use. It's hardly the cleanup he needs, and he knows washing the dry come from the coarse hair on his thighs and groin is going be a nuisance in the morning, but he can't muster the energy to open his lids past half-mast let alone stand and hobble his way into the washroom. 

(And maybe he doesn't want to see himself in the mirror right now. Doesn't want to contend with the same routine of thinking of you, getting off to the thought alone, and then slinking into the tub for a quick rinse of his regrets. Not tonight, anyway—)

So, he stays in bed, laying there in his own filth, and still thinks of you. With his eyes closed tight, he doesn't have to face the reality of your absence. Of his dirty whim that sullied you in his head (over and over and over again—). His loneliness. 

And it's nice to bask in the glow. To imagine you beside him still. 

John's never been as delusional as now when he can taste the Caribbean sun on his tongue. Feel the salt on his skin. He smells sand. Feels it under his back as he lays down with you curled over him, hand tucked against his chest where it belongs. Dosing under the shaded pyre. You'll catch fish in the morning. He'll take you out to places you'd never been, all of them. Every single one. Until the world is shaded with your fingerprints. 

He's never been much into lyricism, but you make him contemplate the dividing line between prose and poetry, and where he fits between the two. The bridge, he thinks. The gaps between words, the space between letters: heart and soul (and the tangibility of them both). 

He wants to go there with you. 

The vision of you laying with him in sand embeds itself in the weakened link of his splintering resolve, eroding the chain away until it breaks, and the next night finds him sitting in the same spot, drinking the same whiskey, but his thoughts are subsumed by you. 

Without it keeping him at bay, he makes a terrible decision—one he wishes he could blame on whisky, but he's sober in a way he hasn't been in years—but when he looks up at you, twenty minutes past closing after everyone has stumbled out of the pub, something blooms in his veins. 

It's white-hot—hotter than the sensation of being shot in the thigh by a stray bullet when he was still figuring himself out in a battlefield—and dredges up dormant feelings he hasn't made room for since he was twenty-seven and fell in love in Ghana. 

It's cacoëthes. 

(But maybe it's been heading forward this all along. Ever since he saw you tug around a man twice your size, and wanted to bruise his knuckles on this stranger's enamel. The one who dared touch you. Disrespect you.)

John makes the awful choice to kiss you.

It starts with a look. 

The night ends later than usual—a hockey game between the Pittsburgh Penguins and the Ottawa Senators draws a big, rowdy crowd of nearly fifteen people ("truly record-breaking numbers," you quip with a grin) that bemusingly celebrate the Senators' victory and mourn the Penguin's loss at the same time ("it's a cultural thing—Sydney Crosby plays for the Penguin's," you tell him as if it explains everything)—and when he finally pockets his cigars, the sky outside is already dusted with crops of mauve as the hazy sun tries to blink through the thick clouds of gunmetal and charcoal. 

You wave to the fishermen on the boardwalk as they prepare their empty lobster cages for the morning haul, and he tries to think of every reason why he shouldn't be standing with you right now, puffing away on one of his last few cigars. 

There are multitudes, of course, all of them eagerly buoying to the surface, and just as viable as the last. Just as concrete. But that's the thing about desire, isn't it? Reasoning is skewed. Malleable. For each con that is squashed by the claws of fatigue, a pro subsumes in its stead. They add up. The scales tip. And all at once, he's no longer oscillating between no and here's why, but how come. 

How come he can't give in, if only just once? 

But once will never be enough. He knows this. He knows it, and yet—

When John happens to glance at you from the corner of his eye, he finds you turned to him already. Watching him. 

Despite what the furious stutter in his chest at this bare appraisal would lead him to believe, this isn't anything new. 

(Neither is his reaction. The blood rushing in his ears. The hiccup of his heartbeat.)

You've always unabashedly worn your curiosity like this. Open, bare. Letting it moulder on the very ledge of a cornice for all to see when they looked into your eyes. Liquid gems, molten coins. They've always gleamed with a sense of misplaced curiosity whenever they rested on him; seemingly lost in the labyrinth of your thoughts as you tried to unravel the reef knot that is John Price. 

He supposes it's the novelty of a man washing up on shore in the middle of what's meant to be the most boring season of the year—your words, naturally. Nothing ever happens during hurricane season, you mentioned to him once. The maritime is quickly forgotten about until summer when stupid tourists head to Halifax or Peggy's Cove in droves. 

Until him, that is. 

(Until you, as well.)

But the look you grace him with right now is somehow on the precipice of being both foreign and familiar at the same time. A muddled sense of jamais vu that seems to wrap itself around his throat, pressing taut to his pulse. Mocking him. Confusing him. It's all a muddled mess of known and unknown and—

Want to know. Need to.

He knows this look. Knows it as intimately as he knows the hand he used to stroke himself, pretending it was you. Your touch. It's want. It's—

Desire. 

Intrigue. 

You stare at him—unabashedly, as always; lost in your perplexing keenness for him, for the man he is (and the one he definitely isn't)—and John sees that same, misplaced rapaciousness in the shaded valleys and unfathomably deep ravines. It's an almost visceral hunger that seems to eclipse everything else; colouring the topography of your gaze in its wake. The glittering scales of a meandering coelacanth. 

Getting caught looking at him in such a way does little to embarrass you. If anything, having his eyes meet yours seems to subsume want with need, merging the two until all that gazes back at him from that prismatic abyss is desire crushed into diamonds from the absolute pressure that leaks from the black holes in the centre. 

He's been warned before about sirens and sea monsters, but standing in front of him with the raging ocean as your backdrop, he finds he cares very little for portends after all. 

John gives you every chance to pull away, to tell him this is a mistake, that you don't feel the same way, that you couldn't possibly do this, but you ignore all of them. Every single one until his hand is around your waist, the other cupping your jaw, and your breath is on his tongue. 

You make the first move. He doesn't know why that surprises him—you have this way about you that reminds him of rogue waves: an untameable suddenness, brash in everything you do; untempered by man and their flimsy metal cups in the ocean—but when you curl your fingers into the Sherpa lapels of his jacket, and wrench him into your sphere, tidally locked in your pull, he finds himself adrift. Lost. The only thing keeping him steady is you. Your touch. 

Your lips are searing when they bite into his, bruising and all-consuming. He likes the burn of it.

It's a kiss just as much as it is a slap to the mouth. A reprimand. How dare you keep me waiting? And somewhere deep in his chest, something unfurls. Something comes loose. Wants to apologise, wants to beg forgiveness, but the words are stifled by your lips sliding against his, your fingers touching the parts of his cheeks that haven't known the feeling of another since he was twenty and grew it out as long as he could get away with it in the military. You hold him. Anchor him in place as you take, as you badger his body into yours, trying to syphon all of the air from his feeble lungs. 

He lets you, rocking with your demands the same way he would a sudden squall, his body a ship in the vast clutch of your ocean. 

The tip of your nose slots into the corner of his own when you tilt your head into the kiss, tongue sliding, liquid, molten, against the seam of his mouth. Humid breath paints the skin under his eye until it's tacky with condensation, and he wants to feel your breath on him everywhere. Wants to touch the places your breath ghosted over with bare fingers to feel the remnants of what you left behind. 

(He wants it to stain him. Leave a permanent mark for all to see. A sailor claimed by the sea, by rogue waves, and the embodiment of a pelagic calamity in the shape of you.)

His lips part just enough to let the tip of your tongue slide in, to touch his in a gentle kiss. A perfunctory greeting for what will, hopefully, become routine because he knows what you taste like now—seagrass, fennel and yew arils—and doesn't think he has the strength to let it go. A new addiction forms somewhere in the catastrophe of his hindbrain, the same place that yearns for nicotine and alcohol to blur the rugged edges of a childhood he can't quite manage to let go of. One that bled putrid blood into his adolescence, his adulthood. That makes running his first thought in the face of anything that has the capacity to heal. Or sacrifice himself for some greater good he could never really bring himself to believe in, despite the words he preached like a scratched record—we dirty our hands so theirs stays clean. A fallacy, of course, like many things in his life. A broken, fractured homunculi trying to navigate a world it wasn't made for. 

But you soothe those parts, don't you? Palliative comfort in the shape of something that has the measure to hurt, to ruin. 

—and fuck, does he want to be ruined by you—

You pull away from him as if you can taste his debauchery, his need, on your tongue and want to skewer him through the heart with it. The distance feels vacant and endless: a devastating bergschrund.   

You blink at him, eyes heavy and full of promises, of wants. The sight of your red tongue brushing over your wet bottom lip nearly makes him ascend to some spectral plane of existence where nothing but the alluring sight of you lives in his consciousness, and it's only your hushed words—raw and tempered—that reign him in. 

"Come back to my house, John."

It's not a question. He knows it in his bones. Just like he knows it could never be one—never—because doesn't have the willpower to say no. And you know this, of course. Have known it from the beginning when you peeled back the rotting layers, flaying his walls from his skin just to learn his name. 

("It's Price," he growled out, words masticating between clenched teeth. "John Price.")

He wears his want in cinder and ash. Feels the fever under his skin.  "Fuck—," he rasps, throat scorched. Brittle charcoal. The words taste like wood chips on his tongue. "What are we waitin' for then, love?"

The billowing sea breeze howls outside of your small house on the mouth of the inlet, an enchanting soundscape that seems to amplify the soft noises that spill from your lips at his touch. 

You burn like the sun bearing down on the desert of the ocean, and he feels your scorching presence between the split of his shoulder blades, liquifying the knobs of his spine until it pools in the clefts of his back. 

Boneless, broken, he loses all sense of himself as he ruts into you like a man who's never been touched before in his life—clumsy, selfish, and unpractised. Your pleasure is the equinox in the centre of his head, a reachable goal he strives for, but each shudder that leaves the column of your throat seems to shatter him into fragments. He wants, wants, wants: there's a war in his head, in his touch. Greedily, he learns your topography until it's ingrained in his marrow. Until he knows where each dip and fold, every scar and blemish, on your skin sits, waiting for the worship of his touch. 

He yields to you. Offers himself up at your altar—yours for the taking—until his sacrifice is met in seasalt and bliss. It's by this flickering dawn that spills into your bedroom window, the one that faces parallel to the sea—always there, in the corner of his eye—where his resolve is laid to rest on a bier. 

It burns on the pyre when your fingers thread through his hair, gripping tight as he falls into pieces in your arms, buried as deep inside of you as he can get. And it's here, safe in the bracket of your legs, spread wide to accommodate the staggering bulk of his body, he finds both nirvana and damnation—his own personal hell nestled in the crux of your thighs.

"Stay the night," you whisper to him, the command slurred on the tobacco that leaks from the burning tip of his cigar. 

One down, he counts; two more to go. The sight of the dwindling pack seems to notch inside his aching ribs, bruised with the cuts you made into his marrow until a scar in the shape of your name formed, seems like a portend. 

He stares at the brittle pieces of the tobacco leaves in the metal tin like they might divine the ancient wisdom of augers and the seers who gleaned hidden truths and hindsight in a teacup, but all he gets is the heady scent of nicotine for his search. 

"Mm." 

Your hands press against his naked back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch before they move around his midsection, fingers digging into the plush flesh of his belly—too much lobster rolls, he'd snarked when your teeth sunk into the softness put there by you; a fullness he hasn't felt since he was eighteen. You knead his skin, thumbing over the indents of your teeth, a perfect tattoo, before you hum in satisfaction, the sound of a cat eating its catch, that makes his spine thrum. 

"Good," you husk into his shoulder blade, teeth peppering nips across his sun scorched skin. "'cause I'm not done with you yet, John."

He shudders. "Fuck, love—gonna send me into an early grave."

It draws a simmering chuckle from deep within your chest. Sparking embers. The heat thrills him. 

"A lovely way to go," you murmur, hands drawing intricate webs over his torso, tangling through the coarse hair that gathers in dark swaths of brown across his body. "And I'll even give you a proper sea burial."

The thought alone strips his soul from this prison of bone and flesh. To be known so innately is a dangerous thing, he finds; so deceptively addicting, so achingly good, and he wants to run from it just as much as he wants to bask in the feeling. 

His soul is hungering for something he's never tasted before—until now, until you—and that unquenchable devotion glues to the very essence of him; a tick burrowing into his skin until it rots. 

He fucks you against the window running parallel to the sea instead. Unmaking himself in the clutch of you until your fingers thread him back into some semblance of a man with a soul made for the sea. 

(A place he wants to go with you.)

The unread tobacco leaves in bone china end up spelling out the end in a red flash on his phone. 

A voicemail is a cruel reminder of the looming deadline on the horizon. 

Fixed 'er up fer ya, b'y. She'll be ready in a night or two. Right time for lobster, too, yeah? Anyhoo, call me when you get this. 

What was once anticipatory now feels too much like being caught under a guillotine. He pretends his hands are not shaking when he calls the man back.

The man meets him by the harbour. 

"Should take 'er out," he says, wiggling a tooth pick between his teeth. "You know 'er be'er than I do. Make sure she's good t'go, ya'know?"

He hums something that might sound like an assent to unpractised ears, but the false starts in his rib cage flares up, a deep ache that rattles through the scarred brackets and leaves the seam of his mouth in a muted snarl of discontent.

Ready to go, he thinks a touch cruelly in a shorn off form of self-harm. Just to make it hurt. Just to feel it agony ripping through the gaps between his bones. 

Right. Right. 

How is he supposed to leave when he left so much of himself inside of you?

"Come with me tomorrow. Want to show you something."

"Oh, yeah?" You murmur, brows bunching together in a way that makes his teeth ache. "And what's that?"

His thumb brushes your pulse. "Mm, 'bout time you met Captain."

Newfoundland lingers in the backdrop for most of the day, rising above the waters in a rocky formation of evergreen against dark blue. 

You spend most of it leaning against the port, eyes wide in wonder at the absence of land, a mere pinprick in the vast sea, and he wonders if anyone has ever taken you out this far. Showed you something this haunting, this mesmerising. 

(Selfishly, stupidly, he hopes he's the first.)

The sea is calm. Almost eerily so, but he basks in the gentle rolls of the waves, the serene waters. It's picturesque in a way, the sight of an old postcard with a basin of pure azure and molten yellow sun, haloed in soft rings of ocean. 

As you fawn at the beauty around you, quiet in your musings, he grabs his fishing pole and sets out to catch dinner. John hasn't looked too deep into coastal fishing laws, but from your soft snort, he thinks it might just be on the side of illegal. Still. The coast guard isn't around, and he doesn't think you'll tell on him—at least not if he catches you a salmon and makes you an accomplice. 

The day dwadles, sun fading into a stunning sunset. 

He catches Atlantic Salmon, and spots a commercial lobster trawler in the distance. When he radios over, they offer a trade. Salmon for lobster. You laugh as the men toss over a cooler full of fat lobster for a wriggling salmon that nearly slips from his grasp. 

It's in this exchange—and a day on the water—that he realises just how much he missed this. This. Being on the water. Dependant on no one but his own knowledge, his foresight. Always just on the side of illegal in coastal waters. Making trades, and bartering for dinner. It's peace. Or as close of an approximation a man like him might deserve. 

A tried and true native of the land, raised on fish and crustaceans, you teach him the proper way to prepare lobster and Atlantic Salmon, sucking your teeth at his lack of spices in his threadbare cupboards. You make do, and he can't remember the last time he had something this good. 

"Just wait," you huff. "When I have a full kitchen with proper seasonings, I'll make you something even better."

There's a tightness in his chest at the prospect of next time. "Can't wait." 

It's a lie. Barefaced and ugly. 

He offers beer instead. Brings out some of his hidden whisky. 

"Not gonna be too drunk to get us back home, are you?"

Home. He is home. Has been since he kicked off from the marina, his hands curled around the leather steering wheel. The bumps of the waves against the hill. 

He wonders what you think about all of this; his kingdom at sea is nothing special. Modest, in many ways. Sometimes the toilet in the washroom leaks. He only really has warm water on Tuesdays. Something with the tides, probably. Spiders have taken a permanent refuge in the closet adjacent to the kitchenette. He thinks he might have some exotic stowaway lurking somewhere, too. A mouse of some kind, maybe, from when he was in Madagascar for a brief interlude. 

The boat is never still, always rolling with the waves. Rocking. He's grown used to the feeling of it. Much too accustomed to always moving, never being still, to ever feel any modicum of comfort on land. 

Thinking about it, about returning back to the inn tonight when the water is this serene, and the moon is this sull, pitches something ugly in his chest. Reluctance. And maybe the urge to show off. To share. 

"Want to spend the night?" 

You make a comical picture with your fingers tugging desperately on the cork of a wine bottle you found under the sink, blinking at him owlishly as you process his request, and he smothers a laugh in his chest at the sight. He knows if he lets it out he'll never look at wine or owls without thinking about you, but maybe you're already ingrained in his head. Stuck there in places he can't reach, can't scrape out. 

"What?" You ask, lightly. "Out here?"

"Why not? We're close to the Labrador Strait, too. Could drop anchor now. Head back in the morning."

"Is it—?" You stop yourself from finishing with a shake of your head, and a sheepish smile. "Nevermind. Yeah, um. Yeah, I'd—I'd really like that, actually."

Is it safe, he knows you were going to ask. The question would have made him roll his eyes, and bark out something that could have been a snort of derision or a condescending laugh. He was a bloody marine, he'd have griped. I know these waters better'n I know Liverpool.

But you didn't. You didn't ask. 

The harshness of the nevermind sounded like a self-admonishment for even asking such a thing. It's possible he's reading too much between the lines, but he likes the implicit trust that bleeds through—a touch of hesitation stifled by the immediate certainty that John will keep you safe. 

He likes the fit of it. The way it curls around his pride. 

"C'mon," he murmurs. "I'll show you around."

"It's small," he grouses, a touch uncomfortable as you patter around the bedroom that's barely bigger than a linen closet. It smells like him, he reckons. All smoke, tobacco, and stale sweat. Nothing pretty—not like your sheets that smell of fresh pine resin, or your room the scent of cornflower. 

The ship itself is considered a luxury on the ocean—old, but meticulously maintained—and its age bleeds through the panelled walls, and the clumsy decor. Built largely for dedicated seafarers, the cabin boasts two bedrooms (the captain's quarters being the largest, and the crewmates dorms still stained with rust from where the nails keeping the bunk beds in place during listing started to erode), a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a small space inside the helm that could be considered a small living room—squinting, of course, required. Still. It's home. It's—

The manifestation of his pride. His loneliness. His wants. 

(The walls are drenched in his madness. Do you see his ghosts when you look around—)

"It's cosy," you volley back, barely paying him much attention as you prod at his bare-bones; his sanctuary. He pretends the words don't stroke his ego in the perfect way. "It must be quite the sight to wake up to a sunrise on the sea." 

"Mm, it is."

It's unlike anything he'd ever seen before. A nearly endless roll of cerulean in all directions that almost blends seamlessly with the cyanic sky. Plumes of sea clouds. Birds swooping overhead. 

Often, he finds curious sea creatures coming up from the depths to investigate his boat. Pods of playful dolphins arching through the waves. A mother whale and her calf, nearly the length of his sixty-foot sailer. Rays. The occasional shark when he's fishing, lured in by the struggles and the flash of blood in the water. The feeder fish congregate beneath his boat, picking at the barnacles growing or the smaller fish gathering there for safety. It becomes its own ecosystem after a while, drawing in Remoras, various sharks, tropical fish, and barracuda. 

He mostly gets avian visitors resting on his hull. Great Albatrosses and Cormorants. The odd Pelican closer to shore. Mollymawks, Northern fulmar. 

The open ocean is a vast desert. Sometimes he goes days without seeing any signs of life. It comes with a sense of peace that is indescribable—an awe deep-rooted in his bones, one tinged with fear of the yawning abyss that rolls out in all directions as he knows, without a doubt, that he is less than a mere pinprick in the sea. Humbling. Awe-inspiring. It all coalesces into an experience he can't put into words. One that he yearns for when he's on dry land. 

One that he wants to show you. To share with you. 

A silly whim, of course. Strangers don't traverse the pelagic zone together. 

He shakes it off. Recalibrates. Tries to centre himself, and shuck the thoughts of waking up to a perpetual sunrise with you. The ochre crest of it illuminates a deep blue sea for miles and miles; bare from pollutants that seep into the aether near the coast. Lights that dim the coruscating beauty above. 

But as much as he thinks sunrises and sunsets are a thing of beauty, he knows there's something else you'll like much more. 

"C'mon," he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. "Wanna show you somethin'."

You don't hesitate this time. "Lead the way, captain."

(And oh, how the coy honorific rumbles through his marrow.)

That something is the reason he became so addicted to the sea. It's a darkness unlike anything else he'd ever experienced before—a complete absence of light that usually pollutes the sky in the cities, one that people often think is escapable in the countryside away from bustling metropolises. 

That has nothing on the ocean after dusk. 

To describe the sensation would be pitch blackness. A black hole. Everything is swallowed up by it—complete antimatter—until the horizon and ocean merge together in an unfathomable pit of tenebrousness. It looks like spilled ink across a page, everywhere the eye turns is shrouded. Indescribable. 

When he's in an inlet, or off the coast of an inhabited island, he used to turn the floodlights of his ship off just to see what he couldn't see, and it was endless. A vacuum. Terror drenched over him in almost equal measure to the absolute awe that rolled through his chest like a tsunami. 

It was the infinite darkness of space mirrored on earth. An uncanny image. Pure nothingness.

There was more light when he closed his eyes than when he had them wide open. Phosphenes brighter than the world around him. 

A harrowing, everpresent experience that notched false starts into the parentheses of his ribs, and made him ache when he wasn't surrounded by water. 

He keeps only the navigation lights on when he leads you to the deck, and the sharp gasp he hears makes him burn, knowing exactly what you must be seeing. Feeling. 

Even at the very tip of the ocean, barely with your toes in the vast abyss, the absence of light pollution gives way to a stunning artefact in the ancient sky. Nebulae clouds. Gleaming stars. In the distance, he spots the coruscating light of Mars, visible to the naked eye. 

The moon sits in the equinox, casting out a blanket of light over the rhythmic swell of the still-black water. It paints the surface lily white. 

He stands beside you, eyes greedily taking in every flickering emotion across your awe-slacked face. Each expression categorised and filed away. A preview to the experience going inside you as you gaze up at the night sky. 

"John…" it's a hushed whisper, drenched in a reverence so thick, so palpable, he thinks he can reach out and catch the ghosts of your wonder on the tips of his fingers. "It's…"

You trail off, but he knows. He knows. 

His hand brushes yours. "Beautiful, ain't it?"

Wordless, and maybe a little bit speechless, you nod, eyes still fixed on the indistinguishable horizon as your hands slip into his. 

The stars are still caught in your eyes even after he leads you to a small sitting area with steps leading into the water. He warns you about sea lamprey and cookie cutter sharks when you try to dip your feet into the basin, laughing at the small squeak you give when you wrench your toes out of the water, drawing your knees tight to your chest. 

Sharks hunt at night, he reminds you with the same cadence as a conman. 

The sideward glance you give in response to his mirth spumes a strange effervescent feeling in the pit of his chest. Humour for the sake of it. He can easily imagine many nights like this with you, basking in the bloom of the ocean, the splashes in the distance, the steady rock of waves licking against the boat, and it's something that seems to syphon the breath from his lungs, knocking him offkilter for a moment. Skewing his perspective. 

It's odd, he finds, to be so attune with someone so fast. To connect on a level that feels deeper than what it is. It jars him as it shatters through that ironclad resolve he wore around his heart.

"Why the sea?" You ask after a moment, thumb skating through the pebbles of condensation that gathers around your bottle. 

The sight of your wet finger shouldn't be as enticing as it is, but the way you stroke the nozzle makes his stomach burn with a heat he hasn't felt in a while. It's gentle. Soft. He wonders if you'd be that tender with him—

The thought is shattered when you glance at him, eyes searching for an answer hidden in blooming blue. There's muted curiosity eked into the divot between your brow—unconsciously done—and he forces himself to turn away lest he reach out and soothe the wrinkle for you. 

(You never know how much you furrow your brow around him. Price isn't sure if that's a portend, some archaic warning of the inevitable frustration you'll feel toward when all of this is over. When the hurricane season passes, and the waters are once again chartable—

Another thing he doesn't want to think about.)

He chews on the question for a moment, making a show of reaching for the—nearly empty—carton of cigars from his breast pocket (another run to Cuba is imminent, he reasons, and tries to convince himself he's not stalling). Deft, practised fingers pull one out, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as he measures just how much of himself he wants to give away to you. 

(All of it. Every part—)

The paper absorbs the whisky staining his lips when he skewers it between his teeth, a futile effort to keep the hollowness between his lungs and ribs from aching. He thinks about blaming the curdling weight in his stomach on the thought of a ruined cigar—soaked tobacco won't draw as good as dry—but he knows himself better than that. 

It's the suddenness of your query, maybe, but a part of him had been waiting for this very question from the onset of—this. You, him. Together. It seems to be one of those things that just comes up, doesn't it? An unavoidable collision into abject disappointment. 

In all his past flings—calling any of them relationships feels juvenile for what it was: quick, ephemeral pleasure in a foreign land, always lasting just long enough to patch up his boat; he won't disrespect the partners he had by giving it more potency than it deserved—this had been the epoch. The moment when they realised he was never really in it. That his foot was already slipping over the ledge of his boat, head full of the places he'd go next. Always alone. Without company. 

Some take it in stride. They know not to expect much in terms of commitment, or loyalty, from a man who reeks of the sea, and wobbles on land. They don't begrudge him the briefness of the affair, or the lack of a promise to write, or call, or see them again, some other time. When you pass through here next… always seems to be the sentiment at the cronis. The end of them. It never goes anywhere, but it's never finished, either—because it never really began, did it?

He rarely goes to the same place twice unless he needs to (Barbadian whisky, Cuban cigars, fish and chips in Liverpool for the holidays notwithstanding). 

And despite how many times he's been asked this very same question, usually with less clothes on, he never really has an answer. Not one that's enough. 

"Where else would I be?" He muses instead, blinking up at the indigo sky. It's an unforgiving nothingness up there, too, isn't it? "Workin' some job in an office? Military? Nah, would bore me too much. M'better off at sea."

"All alone?" You fill the gap he didn't realise he left empty. "Isn't that—"

He doesn't think he can bear to hear you say it—

"Yeah." 

—so he doesn't let you. 

His cigar tastes stale. Wet tobacco. Ashes. He draws in a deep hit on the next inhale but it curdles in his mouth, leaks poison into his bloodstream. He feels dizzy with it. Offkilter. 

When he invited you to see his ship, half of it was—admittedly—a euphemism. A thinly veiled come on. A facsimile of romance. Who wouldn't, afterall, want to drift out to the open ocean, making love—or some sad version of it—under the stars on a clear night. 

He'd take you to the spot where land was swallowed wholly by the horizon, until all you could see was the midnight blue ocean pressing down on all sides. Gentle waves rocking the ship. The stars coruscating in the indigo sky like glittering diamonds held up to the light. The murky haze of Juniper in the distance. A splash from a whale breaching the surface. 

It would have been a nice evening. He'd have drinked whisky with you—smuggled out from his secret stash of the best kind you could find in the Caribbean—and taught you how to smoke a cigar. 

You'd have laid down beneath the stars, head swimming with the buzz of alcohol. John would have leaned over you, charting the open awe in your gaze as you stared up at the heavens. 

Maybe you would have tried to ask a question, or marvel at the wonders of the world that might have only ever been seen by you. The first person to take in this view in all of history. Considering the vastitude of the ocean, it would be a real possibility. The very first. He'd give that to you. The first, the last, the only. All yours. 

In return, he'd steal a kiss. Swallowing the question from your lips with a slow, sensual roll of his tongue grazing yours. All coy and soft. Saccharine. You'd taste of whisky. He'd drink you down in several mouthfuls, unable to get enough, until you were keening into the night, begging for more. More, John, more. 

It blankets his thoughts, and the regret he feels at the loss is potent. Fragments of a good night flash before him—your fingers curling around the quilt he laid out on the deck, digging those talons into the meat of his shoulder until it breaks skin: a permanent scar. A jagged, silver meteor across milky flesh; he'd catch a glimpse in the mirror and think of you. Whisper-soft kisses. Your body opening up for him, eager and needy, calling out in a siren's song for more. 

(Who is he to deny you when you beg so prettily?)

Instead it metastasises inside of him. Malignant and pestiferous. Leaks rot into his bloodstream until all he can taste is the petrified residuum of regret, bitter and acrid. 

Some selfish part wanted something nice for himself. A respite from the eventual end careening toward him at a speed he can't avoid. 

The ruined tatters of it simmers in the air. A noxious miasma that seems to shake something inside of you loose. Maybe you see it, too. The loss. The end. The eventuality of a bitter, and quick, conclusion. 

You're quiet even as realisation darkens across your brow. Flattens the awe in your eyes with the cold douse of water to a burning flame. Clumped ash piles around a damp campfire. 

The flames were not smothered slowly, gently, like they should have been, like he wanted them to. No. No. They were snuffed out in a quick end. Brutal and unforgivable. 

And you say: "oh." 

As if you get it, but you don't. You don't because you think about forever when you look at him. It's not your fault, though—never. Because he hasn't said a word about leaving even though it stuck to his teeth, tarry and vile. A resinous stain he chews everyday, blackening his teeth until they rot. 

But he's a coward. A fool. The taste of you is sweet enough to drown out the bitterness on his tongue, and maybe he's using your kindness a bit too much—no. No. Not maybe. Certainly. Definitely. He's using the cloying taste of you as a buffer to everything weeping from the cesspit inside of his chest. 

Then: "oh."

It's almost prophetic in a way. Cyclical in its heartache. 

He wants to apologise, but he isn't sure where to start. How does he say sorry for something of this magnitude? 

He doesn't. He can't.

John lets it necrotise instead. 

"Well," you say after a moment of silence. "When are you—?"

You don't finish. Can't, maybe, and he doesn't begrudge you the inability to utter that succinct finality. Not when he doesn't think he could, either. 

So, he says, "soon."

But you ask: "how soon?"

And he's reminded, quite vividly, of packing his things in the back of his nineteen ninety-five forest green Tata Estate when he was just shy of eighteen. His dad fuming on the porch. 

You're nothing without me, he'd spat. 

He was right, of course. Despite everything he tried, the only place that ever gave him a chance was the military solely for the thinly concealed awe that leaked in whenever he uttered his last name. 

But there was freedom in leaving. In skirting around the army for a place in the Royal British Navy—separate from the shadow of his father, his grandfather, but still riding on their coattails. John quickly found sanctuary at sea. At the unignorable distance put between himself and all the terrible memories in Hereford. 

In the middle of the ocean, that bastard's shadow couldn't reach him. 

And now—

Nothing does. 

How soon, you ask, but the real question should be: how dare you. 

"Mm, a day, maybe—if the weather holds." 

And it will. He's checked the forecast meticulously. Radioed in and asked about that pesky hurricane that seemed to fizzle out without much fanfare afterall. All the answers he got were the same. Perfect window, they say, is between dawn and mid-morning. There's gonna be some heavy winds on the coast, but if you set sail early enough, you'll miss it entirely. 

"Ah," you murmur, and there's just the faintest echo of your realisation at uncovering yet another one of his half-truths. You know he'll be gone the moment he drops you off on the harbour. "Okay."

John doesn't mean to put all of this on you so quickly. Everything just spiralled, spun, until it was a big, tangled mess beneath his feet. Time a mere whisper in the wind. His absence is a glaring black hole that you can't avoid. 

It's all pithy excuses that do little to assuage the weight of everything he'd done, but you take it right on the chin like he knew you would. A sharp nod. The barest hint of a frown. 

That is the only thing you can do, isn't it? Swallow it whole and try not to choke on it because no promises have ever been uttered between him or you. Nothing to substantiate this growing, cancerous lump of emotions that feel too fast and too slow, and too—

Dangerous. Perfect.

In his silence, a crater forms again, and he's reminded how much he prefers the sea to people; gyres to love. The brittle embrace of his cabin to the warm arms of a lover. 

He was made for the ocean. Meant to sink into algae blooms, and discover reefs untouched. To battle waves bigger, more meaningful than himself, and find sustenance on crated bartletts and scored tuna. 

But—

But. 

His hands curl around your waist, pulling you back into the broad expanse of his sun warmed chest. The heat of him liquifies your spine, and you melt, readily, into him with what might be a sigh. 

It's all so quick, isn't it? And yet, he can think of nothing else except the almost perfect torture of waking up beside you each morning. Of suffusing his atoms to yours. 

"Come with me," he murmurs into your hairline, breathing in the scent of you. Loam. Pine resin. Soft and earthy. And that's what you are, aren't you? Made for the land. The earth. Gaia. Terra. Can he really take you from this place and expect you to live like him on the sea? 

You don't answer. He feels the disappointment like a searing knife to his gut, but he understands. Gets it. This isn't the sort of proposal a sane person would make to someone they've known for only a few, short months. 

He wonders if you think he's only saying it to get into your pants. He probably isn't the first—and definitely wouldn't be the last—to make a litany of false promises just to taste you on his tongue, but he means it. Means it with every fibre of his body. Captain is roomy. Has always been too big for one person—too lonely. But it's a heavy question. A big ask. One that he selfishly presses into your hands as he litters your neck with kisses sharpened with the edge of his teeth. Leaving his mark on your skin. A semi-permanent stain only he knows is there. 

It's easy to pretend this won't be the last time when he lays you out on the sheets, fingers digging into your skin as if he was trying to crawl inside of you—and maybe he is. Maybe he wants to. Maybe he could stay suffused to your ribcage for the rest of his life, waking up and falling asleep to the sound of your beating heart, and die a happy man. For once in his life, something that belongs to him that isn't shadowed by ghosts or regret. 

(Something he will never, could never, deserve.)

There's something heart achingly desperate about the way he clings to you. Folds himself over you, murmuring promises and pleas into the bruised skin of your neck. Soft murmurations easily swallowed by the sounds you make as he ruts into you at a maddening pace. All clumsy and unrefined because he refuses to let go of you. Refuses to unglue his skin from yours, his teeth from your neck. 

He's never had it like this—drenched in sweat, pinned in place over top of you like a weighted blanket; sloppy, messy—but he feels the curl of addiction setting in when he feels the hiccups you make when he pushes in just so. When your flesh dents under the tips of his fingers, and he feels your bones in his grip. Each moan, every tremble and quiver somehow magnified in the small cabin that's much too big for one person. 

John wants to take you to this reef he stumbled onto off the Azores. Wants to walk on the sandy atoll, and fuck you under the stars. The first—and only—people on earth to feel the white sand under their skin, to whisper into the inky black of night. 

You'd like it there, he thinks. This lonely, isolated patch of land just barely rising out above the ocean. Filled to the brim with tropical fish, and hammerheads. Sea turtles. Orcas chasing seals in the distance. 

He presses his lips to your hairline, and breathes life into this little picture of you on the shore, whispering promises wrapped in desperation, devotion, into your skin. 

"John," you gasp, and he's not sure if it's a reprimand—please, please, please shut up, stop talking about that because you know I can't, I can't—or a plea—take me, bring me there, please—but he doesn't stop. Can't. He's too invested in this picturesque fantasy, the same one he dreamed about when he fucked his fist to the thought of you. "John, please—"

His veins are filled with blood-red wine. A sudden potent cocktail that makes him dizzy. Drunk on the wisps of ethanol that burrow deeper into his body until it floods his atrium. 

John wants to lean into it. Relish in the white-hot heat of it all. Wants to drag you down into the sand, into the unending sea, and stay there forever, just at the cusp of where land meets water. Your own kingdom in the domain of Poseidon. Children of Phorcys. Pontus. 

You grip him tight, and he thinks like this he could pretend it's not the last time. That when your body shudders beneath him, it's not out of sorrow or finality. 

"John," you say, but he can't bear it. He kisses you instead. Drows in the taste of you until his head spins. Spins, spins—

He wakes up in a tangle of limbs. Your arm strewn across his broad chest, anchoring him to the bed below. Your head nestled in the crux of his armpit, nose pressed tight to the swell of his ribcage. Mouth open, he notes, drooling into wry curls that blanket his torso in swaths of dark umber. 

With you very much cocooned to his side, thigh trapping his pelvis down, he feels the sharp sting of claustrophobia raking talons over the bone encasing his eyes. He's buried under you—your body the soft swell of tumulus—and for a moment he nearly forgets himself. Nearly bolts from the bed, your arms. The room. Running, running—it reminds him too much of being a captive. Tied down. Restrained. Unable to move of his own free will—

But you mumble something in your sleep, the words lost to the blood rushing in his ears, and he finds the pieces of himself he'd lost. Lulled, almost to the point of complacency, by your breaths ghosting across the thick, coarse hair on his chest. Rhythmic. Calming. 

He leans into it. Buries himself deeper. 

You smell of sweat, sex. Fennel. He burrows his nose into your crown, breathes in the scent of you until his lungs burn. He wants them to scar over with just the thick scent of you. To leave a mark so deep, so permanent, that each time he inhales, all he can taste in the back of his throat is the lingering residuum of you. 

There's this earthiness to you that feels like digging his feet into sand, and he wants to slink deeper into the embrace, into you, but there's a lingering forethought in his head that he ought to get up. That this moment of brief comfort will come at a cost, with its teeth bared and wrapped around his bones, and it's a price he can't afford to pay. 

There's an almost cognitive dissonance between what his body wants, and what he needs to do. 

It takes most of his willpower to divorce himself from your clutch, but he does. Slowly. Reluctantly. With his fingers leadened with torpor. 

Regret is the feeling of cold wood under his feet. His arms relieved from the weight of you. Fix it, something inside his chest screams, but he can't. Can't. 

He doesn't look back when he leaves the small bedroom that smells of you. Not that it matters. 

In the separation, he finds he cut a little too much off from himself, leaving more of himself with you than he intended. 

John doesn't expect much. Hasn't, really, since he set sail with his compass pointed away from home, and threw each sorrowful piece of himself into the reefs he encountered along the way. 

It's the same when he gathers everything together in the morning, running through a mental checklist of what needs to be done before he sets off into the mid-Atlantic, hopeful to reach Bermuda within four, maybe five days. From there, it would be nearly fifteen days before he reached the Azores, some nine thousand and twenty nautical miles between the destinations. 

He expects the winds this time of year to be between zero to twenty three knots. Waves, at most, around four to nine metres. He can keep up with it all, he's sure, but he's feeling less inclined to make the trip solo, and thinks, as he trawls back to shore with you sleeping in the cabin still, if he might pick up a small crew in Carolina before setting off. Or maybe he'll take solitude until he heads into the Azores. He isn't sure. The only thing he is certain of is that, for the first time in years, he doesn't want to be alone at sea. 

An oddity, of course. John always wants to be alone. 

(Until you—)

The notion is tucked away into the space inside his head where all the things he doesn't want to think about go to moulder. To rot. The idea that he's more gangrenous parts than man sits idly behind his teeth, a fleeting whim, but that, too, is shoved aside. Buried. 

—like the weight of you on him. His own personal grave, a tumulus—

Another limb severed at artery. Left to bleed. To rot. He considers leaving it out, making it hurt. Salt to the wound he has no intention of healing. 

He cauterises it instead, and uses the flame to spark up his last cigar for the occasion. 

(There's nothing worth celebrating, but he thinks he's due a belated birthday gift to himself.)

The brackish waters in the inlet are muddied with loess, and he considers taking the longer arc into the harbour to avoid the sudden swelling of waves lapping at the sides of his vessel. Pure pride, of course. He's not a captain of a dirty ship—an oxymoron at best and a idling thought that takes the shape of stalling for time—but he trudges forward in spite of the twitch in his knuckles, the urge to notch his wheel just everso slightly to the right. 

It passes, and Newfoundland curves out of the waters in a splotch of green against dour grey. Another overcast morning. The inlet, he'd heard on the radio, is dense with fog trickling down from the rolling hills in the background of this rugged landscape. 

Fog on the ocean isn't rare. With a simple flip of a switch, he changes his visualisation from naked sight to sonar, and leans back on the balls of his feet, blinking restlessly into the thick plumes of smokey-white. 

The cabin door rattles when you open it—the only indicator that you're awake—and the sound sits heavy across his shoulders. A noise he thinks he could get used to hearing. 

"Give'er a shake," he calls, voice ashen, thick from sleep. He hasn't spoken a word since he radioed in to let them know he was moving down the channel. That was nearly two hours ago. 

You appear in his periphery, wrapped up in a shawl he keeps at the end of the bed. One he thinks he picked up when he was working on a shipping vessel in Pacific, just after he'd split from the navy, and was docked for a week in Taiwan because of bad weather. 

It looks good on you. The colours accentuate your features in a way that makes it difficult to focus on the black screen of the sonar, but you make it easier for him when you pad closer to where he stands, yawning around a good morning as you fic yourself to his side, reaching for him. 

You curl against him as he steers into the estuary, one arm tucked around the small of his back, and the other above his groin in a sideways hug. A small shiver wracks through your frame when the chill from the frigid waters sneaks in through the open companionway of the helm, and you burrow deeper into his side, nose nuzzling against his bicep to keep warm. The weight of you is comforting. Steady. 

It's a clumsy dance to free his arm, but he does it somehow without dislodging you in the process, and lifts his arm, steering with one hand through the maw of the Labrador Strait, before he quickly loops it around your neck, keeping you tight to his side. You fall into him in a hurry—maybe from desperation to keep the bitter cold at bay or for some strained, final moments of closeness before he leaves the docks, and you. 

The silence is heavy. A potent cocktail of shaky uncertainty admixing with all the regret he feels for not acting on his impulsive feelings sooner. It sits low, thick, in his guts, and vacillates between mocking him for what could have been weeks of satiating himself on the fill of you, and taunting him for starting this in the first place. 

Especially when he knew exactly how it was always meant to end. 

And in a rather vicious moment of cruelty, that particular ending bobs up from the brackish waters with its stark brown oak pillars cutting through the dense fog. He doesn't need sonar to see the pier in the distance. Three clicks to the west. 

His throat pinches tight at the sight of it—rather irritatingly unassuming in its lacklustre beginnings, but a garish knife to chest all the same. It constricts. He tries to swallow but can't get the weight around his neck to receed. 

He takes his hand off the wheel, scratching at the raw skin along the column of his neck. 

His jostling seems to wake you from your sleepy stare out the window. You clear your throat. He tenses. Guts wringings themselves into a frenzied coil. Don't, he wants to say. Don't speak. Don't say anything—

"Listen, Price," you start clumsily, cautiously. And despite knowing where this is going—some apology for why you can't go with him, for why you're saying no—he makes a noise to dissuade you from continuing. He gets it. He does. It's a big ask to have someone give up several months of their life to traverse the open ocean with a stranger. 

"I know. S'alright, love. I'll—" the words are bitten through when he realises where they're headed. The offer to call. Or write. Things he knows he won't ever get around to doing, but the loose attempt to placate is better than hearing whatever you might say. A selfish need to keep the silence. 

"No, listen," you stress with a huff. He hears the eye roll in your tone, and fights back a scoff at the image. "You're stubborn, you know?"

It's nothing he's never heard before but it still makes him laugh—some broken, ugly thing in the base of his throat. Clawing up his oesophagus. 

After a moment of silence, you nuzzle your cheek against his peck, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his heart. 

"I'm not a sailor, and this is probably the craziest thing I've ever done in my whole life, but—" his heart leaps, banging against the cage of his ribs, still scarred with your name. 

"—love—"

"—I don't want to just write you. Or—or wait for a phone call. I don't want to—" 

He hears the click in your throat when you swallow. Feels the herringbone floor open up beneath his feet, plunging his aching heart into the empty maw of his stomach. Still. Through the blooming sense of hope tangling vines around his falling heart, he reaches for the water bottle on the console, wordlessly passing it to you to drink. 

You sniff, and it's an ugly, wet noise that sends a shudder through his being. A sound he could hear, happily, for the rest of his life. 

(Sappy, tragic fool—)

"How long do I have to pack?"

If he'd been a lesser man—or maybe a better one; a good one—he would have crumbled. But he's too grizzled to take his eyes off the shoreline, and maybe—just maybe—too fucking scared to. He doesn't want to look down and find this whole thing has been some horrific joke. Doesn't want to see the derision in your eyes as you ask him why you'd ever pick him, a stranger, over the sanctuary of land. Your home, even. 

But he doesn't doubt you. 

It's an odd juxtaposition, John finds, but he's always been the sort to work in strings of abstract hypocrisy, hadn't he? Implicit trust in the men around him, but not enough to ever let go of the urge so just do everything on his own. To shoulder the burdens a man like him was seemingly built to carry. 

(And made to crack under the weight of them; a thousand fissures that were small enough to go unnoticed—until Gaz grabbed him by the lapels, shoving him against an iron door just to keep him from throwing an innocent man to his death for no other reason than his notched sense of safety—but big enough to leak a caustic ugliness into the word that threatened make the men around him bonesick.)

But he isn't thinking about that right now. Or, rather, he shouldn't be—

Because he believes you. He just believes in himself less. 

So, he has to ask. Has to. "Are you sure? Hard to change your mind when you're in the middle of the bloody ocean, love." 

The exasperated huff let out into his bicep seems to be the only answer he'll get from you on that particular topic, but it's not enough. Despite the miffed squeeze you give when he pulls his arm back, resting his hand against your cheek to pull your face back far enough to peer into your eyes, you go along with his demands, soft as they are. Maybe the way his thumb brushes along the curve of your cheekbone quells the stubbornness that brims at having your choice picked apart until it was nothing but bones. All just to satisfy his own internal dilemma. 

Or a mockery of one, anyway. 

"You gotta be sure," he says, and winces when it comes out rougher than he intended. "This is a big leap. It isn't go to fuckin' Tesco's on a Sunday—"

"First of all," you mumble, eyes narrowing up at him. "We don't even have Tesco's in Canada so that comparison is useless to me. Second of all—" and suddenly, all of that bravado falters. Shakes. You glance away from him—in askance, maybe, at your stutter, at his inability to take something someone tells him at face value. 

"Love—"

There's a fire in your eyes when you turn back to him. A defiant tilt to your chin when it lifts. Sure, and firm, and a little bit proud—drenched in the same shade of stubbornness as himself—and the sight is an electrical shock to his system. A jolt to his chest. One that hangs, heavy, around the nape of his neck, the drape of his shoulders. 

"I'm sure," is all you say. 

And it's enough. Inexplicably, overwhelmingly—enough. 

"Now, how long until we set off? I just need to get some stuff in order before we leave, but I can hurry it as much as—"

It goes against every rule in the book to take his eyes off the horizon and his hands off the wheel, especially this close to shore, but he needs—he needs to touch you. To know. To feel the commitment under your skin like an electric hum. 

"However long you need, love, fuck—" his lips are on yours, stifling the rest of what he meant to say in the taste of you. "Whatever you want, whatever you need—" he makes promises he might not be able to keep, but he thinks if he could, he'd steal the stars and the moon, and let you wear them like pretty gems. 

It'll never come to fruition because all he can really give you is a boat and a broken man who is only good at sailing the seas to escape everything that might get too close. None of it seems to matter. Not to you. Never to you. Every wall he's thrown up has been meticulously chipped down, and this, he finds, is no different. 

You lean into him, heedless of the war in his mind, and breathe in deep. Inhaling the scent of stale tobacco, sex, and sour sweat. There's something facetious about the way you hum into the kiss, nails scratching along his crown, as if you're not committing nearly a year of your life to a man you watched crumble at the altar of your feet just for a sip of you. 

"I've always wanted to go to Spain."

He groans a little into the kiss. Can't help the noises that spill out when you start mapping whimsical plans into something concrete. Something tangible. 

(Permanent, if you'll let him.)

"We'll go. Spain, Portugal, Liverpool, Italy, Cuba, Jamaica, Fiji—" he names each place between a searing kiss and keeps one eye open, listed toward the horizon. He says it all in a hush, caught on the tendrils of desperation. Urgency. There's a quiver in his voice. Blood in his throat. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Just name it, love."

And you just smile like you know he will. That those words, caked in some amalgamation of earnestness and madness, are a promise. An oath. 

"Anywhere," he swears again, brassbound in certainty, tangled in seagrass. 

Your name scars the brackets of his breastbone. Notched into marrow. He feels it heavy in his ribs when he pulls you closer, wanting nothing more than to sink into you until your veins are filled with him. 

Anywhere, he thinks, hushed in its reverence as the levee keeping everything he let rot cracks in your hands. Always. 

YOU—

There's a certain dreariness that comes from living by the ocean, one that's often difficult to put into words or explain to someone who hasn't spent their entire youth being told, never turn your back on it. Never trust it. 

(It, of course, because somewhere along the line, the sea stops being a place, a thing, an artefact, and becomes an entity all on its own. A living, breathing manifestation with its primordial history, its own mythology, all so distinct from anything someone on land could ever dream up.)

Because despite what you might wish, the sea will never be your friend. It's incapable of distinguishing the difference between affection and malice, and shows its love by dragging you to the darkest depths imaginable until your lungs fill with its briny breath and your drops to the floor, a human-sized whalefall. 

The ocean loves you in the worst way. 

It wants to make a tomb of you. A graveyard of algae covered bones. Bloated and unrecognisable. Picked apart until nothing remains but the ghost of you treading its pool. 

In spite of this, the ocean doesn't scare you as much as it should. It's a constant in your life. Permanent. Careless guard your iron shackles. 

(And maybe it's a little bit deeper than that because you never really understood the difference between obsession, devotion, and fear when they all make you feel the same.)

And being so far out from the rest of the people who live along the very same coast—well. That, too, is hard to simplify. 

Life by an unpopular harbour isn't as busy as someone might assume. With its deadened boardwalks, gimmicky shops, and lack of personality to draw a crowd or any would-be tourists, it stagnantes. The place begins to look like a tchotchke. A painting on a faded, sunbleached postcard rather than a cohesive ecosystem. The cogs are rusted and broken, and the delineation between them and the people begins to blur. 

And maybe that's because time feels slower in this liminal space perched between the sea and the swell of a bucolic dreamland, as if it's drenched in molasses. Bound with a ball and chain. Boring simplicity, perhaps. 

Sloughing along is the most apt descriptor you think of to describe how your tarry-thick time is spent. 

Work life balance loses its meaning when you feel the same at home as you do behind a counter. Listless. Lacklustre. It's hard to find inspiration when you've been to every nook and cranny in the valley. When all secrets have been exposed thrice over, and gossip is as stale as the bread Lucy always brings to the potluck each year.

It's fine, of course. 

Work. Home. Work. Sometimes, you'll drive down to Halifax. Maybe stop at Shoppers Drug Mart and squint at the overpriced brands on the too-white walls. But something brand name at Marshalls for more than you can afford to placate that gnawing sense of unease that comes with realising your life can be summed up in three paragraphs or less. 

Age does that, you find. Because when you're stuck in a place that never changes, when the ghost of your childhood runs along the same trails you take as an adult and feels more bitter than nostalgic, growing older starts to feel like a taunt. A jeer. 

Burdened by the encompassing emptiness of time. 

Somewhere along the line—or maybe from the very beginning—you start to stagnante, too. The overwhelming, unignorable feeling of growth weighing you down forms; barnacles clinging to your skin, softening your flesh as they burrow deep, deep, until striking bone. 

You're fine, you think.

Until him. 

Until a man shows up, hiding kindness behind a surly disposition, and offers you nothing but gruff company. Terrible jokes. Cloying sweetness drenched in nicotine and dusted in ash. 

John Price makes you consider your love of the ocean in a new, tangible way. 

There have been others, of course. People before John who have offered to pull you away from this anaemic corner of the world, making promises of taking you somewhere else. Or ones who offered to stay. To join you in this dreary town. An accumulation of hydrozoan floating aimlessly down this solitary stretch of ocean. 

They've all come and gone, and your answer has remained unchanged. Fixed. No. And if you're being kind—no, thank you. 

Because, really—

When you can't tell the difference between fear and devotion, how are you supposed to know if the ocean fills you with reverence or dread?

So, you stay.  

This place might be drenched in tar, forgotten by the masses in favour of the bigger, prettier cities that share the same oceanic view, but it's home. And your roots run deep (but your shackles are even deeper). 

It's odd, too, isn't it? That home feels less like a sanctuary and more like an obligation. A pact you have to keep. So, you do. And maybe you resent this place a little bit each year, but it's easy to forget all about that when John fits inside the spaces of your ribs that you didn't know were empty to begin with. 

It's good. Good—

—but this is better:

You wake up to the sound of the naked ocean, unencumbered by the shore. It's quieter than you expected it to be, but you suppose without land to get in its way, there's little reason to roar. 

The change in noise—and sometimes, the absolute absence of any at all—is the biggest shift you have to adjust to, but four days into your journey traversing the untamable Atlantic, the sea teaches you things you didn't know about yourself. That maybe there's a certain sort of madness that comes from being so far away from anything remotely resembling land. And a lethargy that's hard to tie down into something concrete. An abstract sense of disillusion, maybe. Bone-deep torpor. 

Something, too, that feels a bit like an atavistic fear of the yawning abyss that never seems to end. It's one thing to stand on land, solid ground, and admire it from afar, or to hug the coast on a cruise ship. Seeing it like this, in all its pelagic glory, is somehow sickening in its terrifying splendour and incredible enough to snake existential dread along the curve of your fragile insides. 

There's awe, as well, but in more muted shades of tyrrhenian. 

Still. You take to the barren sea like a once captive orca who forgot what freedom tastes like beneath its curled dorsal fin. It's exhilarating. And in equal measures, a true shove against your mettle. Your resolve. There's no help so far out to sea. No one to depend on but yourself and this enigmatic man who brushes his lips across your forehead when he thinks you're asleep, and then snarls at the ocean in the morning about not having any cigars as if he knows nothing at all about tenderness. 

It's a comfort you cling to. Embrace until your fingers ache. 

John mutters something under his breath about needing sleep. Whisky. A cigar. A good fuck in a better goddamn bed—and in no particular order, he gripes when you poke his back with your index finger. 

"Thank fuck," he rasps around a cigarette—a shitty fuckin' imitation—and pinches your side when he draws you close. Payback for the jab but it just makes you giggle. "Bermuda is only nine hours away."

"Nine hours," you breathe, surprised. Nine hours. It feels inconsequential. Brief. And maybe that's because time feels different out here. Inconsequential outside of where the sun sat. The only thing that matters about it is its position, and your internal clock begins to shift, turning into a sundial. To hear a length of time outside of morning, midday, noon, afternoon, evening, and night is strange. 

John's gaze flickers over to you hiding something that feels a bit like an appraisal as those burning sapphires run over the length of your expression, catching every twitch. 

His chest rumbles under your hand after a moment. "Excited for land, then?" 

Land. You consider it—his question, and, of course, the weight of it. The way it feels. Tastes. 

It's only been a sliver into your journey, barely anything at all in comparison to the kilometres left to go, but the sea feels as comforting as it does terrifying. The darker patches of blue signifying a depth so unfathomable that you feel breathless thinking about it. About the unquantifiable pressure, some metric tonnes of atmosphere pressing down on those pretty pools of navy. 

In comparison, Captain feels fragile. Delicate. Brittle bones of wood and plastic and foam contending with the vastitude of the sea that sprawls out in every direction. On a map right now, you'd be invisible. The tip of a pen would be too wide to accurately pinpoint your exact location. That massive gap, bigger than the whole of your country, sometimes gives you nightmares. And some nights, the boat lists as it bobs with the rolling waves that never end, dipping down much too low for your mind to ever feel comfortable with. 

The terror is almost equally as present as the awe. Both one-in-the same, almost. And it reminds you of your love for the sea. Where the lines between fear and devotion blur. It doesn't surprise you, then, that some mornings you wake up with something that curls around your head, and feels like divine euphoria, and others—

You can't stop thinking about every shipwreck movie you'd ever seen, especially when you know you'd passed over the same channel the Titanic sank in, that your bare feet stood right over top of a graveyard at a depth that hurts your head a little bit to even think about. 

But—

Land. 

John said you'd be missing it in due time the first hour into your trip, when you were still buzzing with the adrenaline of cacoëthes and watched the shoreline get swallowed whole by blue. 

In fact, he'd expected it. Seemed to keep himself at a measurable distance, as if waiting for you to turn to him and command that he bring you back home. 

A silly thought, in hindsight. 

You're shackled to the sea just as much as you are to him—maybe with a bit more willingness added in. The sea feels like home in spite of the endless dreams of capsizing in the frigid waters. 

And really. 

You can't imagine being anywhere else but here. With him. 

"I'm excited to see Bermuda," you confess, nuzzling your cheek into the warm Sherpa of his jacket. "But more so because I've never been anywhere outside of my own Country. But I like this better. I like being on Captain with you. It's—"

There's a weight in your chest. One that's almost equally composited into the ashen blue of his eyes when they flicker to you, clinging to each word. Each sentiment that spills from your sun chapped lips. 

"It's home, y'know?"

John goes quiet for a moment. Far quieter than you ever expected a man like him to be capable of—someone who got road rage out in the middle of an empty sea, and screamed himself hoarse whenever he had to talk to the absolute fuckin' muppets of the coast guard or passing ships your eyes weren't good enough to see through Fata Morgana—and it almost humbles you in a strange way. Makes you consider the stunning realisation that you've only chipped the surface of his rough, wonderful, insufferable man. In that, a keen sense of wonder brims, bringing with it an insatiable curiosity. You want to strip him down to nothing but bones, and crack them open like the claws of Snow Crab, sipping from the nectar that is his marrow. His essence. You want to map him out in greater depths than you ever dream of doing to the sea. 

His fingers spasm on your hip in a strange clench and release rhythm that makes you wonder if he's holding himself back for some reason you can't ascertain, but eventually, he breaks. His hand tightens, and pulls you closer to him. You feel his nose press against your hairline. Hear the sharp inhale as he breathes you in until his chest expands under your hand. Wide and broad, and filled with the scent of you. 

"Yeah," he rasps, humid breath fluttering across your skin. "It is. For however long you want it—"

"Forever." You catch smouldering blue just before it's eclipsed by endless black. "If you'll let me."

"Fuckin'—Christ—" 

With his words mangled in his throat, they sound more like an animalistic snarl than anything that resembles something human. The force of it seems to rattle through your flesh, dredging against bone like an anchor on the muddy sea floor until it catches. 

"Forever it is, then." It's a promise. An oath. And maybe a little bit of a threat, too, in the way only John can make something so romantic sound so gruff, and when he speaks again, you smell cinder and taste the ash in the back of his throat. Sealed in charcoal and salt. 

"I guess you're stuck with me, then," you tease, smiling when he huffs in a facsimile of exasperation, but you catch the softening in the corners of his eyes, and the low purr of happiness that rumbles out from his broad chest. 

"Can think of worse places to be."

"Like London?" You quip, echoing his words, and there's something heavy in his eyes, something that blankets around the unease that never really goes away even as you acclimate to the sensation of being landless. Adrift. It's something deeper than devotion. A black hole you could fall into.

"Yeah, exactly." He murmurs. You taste salt on his tongue when he kisses you, and wonder how you could ever dream of being anywhere else that wasn't with him.

Home, you find, is where his heart beats next to yours.

#im so ready for bed after this #john price x reader #sailor price #kinda #like um ig hes retired #ish #captain john price x reader #price x reader #i set out to make this as unapolgetically maritimes as possible and failed #we have one (1) Newfie u can't understand and NO ONE at any point offers to go on a Timmies run for ice caps and double doubles #blasphemous #also ur from Nova Scotia (NOT HRM) but that really doesn't matter much tbh i just wanted the “this is supposed to be Lunenburg Lite” vibes #aka Chéticamp #but much more depressing

[zvaigzdelasas]

Houthi leader threatens to attack US warships if Washington targets Yemen - Reuters

The leader of Yemen's Houthis warned on Wednesday they would strike U.S. warships if [they were] targeted by Washington, which this week set up a multinational force to counter Houthi attacks on commercial vessels in the Red Sea.[...]

The U.S.-led security initiative will see Washington and ten other, mostly NATO countries patrol the Red Sea to deter and respond to future Houthi attacks that have so far led to major global shipping lines rerouting around Africa instead.

"We will not stand idly by if the Americans are tempted to escalate further and commit foolishness by targeting our country or waging war against it," Abdel-Malek al-Houthi said.

"Any American targeting of our country will be targeted by us, and we will make American battleships, interests, and navigation a target for our missiles, drones, and military operations," he said in a televised speech.[...]

Dubbed "Operation Prosperity Guardian", Britain, Bahrain, Canada, Denmark, France, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, Seychelles and Spain, along with the U.S., will conduct joint patrols in the southern Red Sea and the adjacent Gulf of Aden.

"As long as the Americans want to enter into a direct war with us, they should know that we are not those who fear them, and that they are facing an entire people," al-Houthi said.

He warned the Americans against sending soldiers to Yemen, saying they would "face something harsher than what they faced in Afghanistan and what they suffered in Vietnam."

20 Dec 23

[gojoidyll]

The Gojo clan is wealthy and powerful in the Jujutsu world. All thanks to their golden child, Satoru, of course.

It relieved you to some degree. The day you were born in the Gojo clan you found yourself glad. Overjoyed at the fact that, as you grow up, no one will expect any greatness from you. All because of your now twenty-eight year old brother, who was now your teacher at Jujutsu Tech.

Besides, greatness expects greatness from others, but what if someone has already taken that burden from you?

"Gojo?! Are you and Gojo-sensei related?!"

You glanced up from your book at Itadori Yuji, a fellow first year and the vessel of Ryomen Sukuna, "hmm, yeah. I guess so."

Itadori frowned, "you guess?"

You shrugged, "we're brother and sister, but at the end of the day, we don't act like it. In fact, I'm sure he doesn't even recognize me as apart of his family which I don't particularly mind. Its not like I'm strong or anything."

Before Itadori could say anything else, there was a dark chuckle emanating from him, causing your eyes to narrow ever so slightly.

A mouth soon formed on his cheek, and Sukuna finally made his appearance, "oh, you're a sinister one. Acting all listless won't get you anywhere. I can sense your bloodlust from here, foolish girl."

Itadori slapped a hand against his cheek, "Sorry about that, he comes out sometimes when I don't want him to."

You hummed lightly, but your guard was up.

I should probably rip his throat out. Would it be faster with my hands or with my teeth?

Since you were not born great like your older brother, you were made great. Fighting techniques and a lust for battle and blood were hammered into you at a young age. You were a perfect fighting machine. Devoid of anything but a need to follow orders and kill those who you are told to kill.

And Sukuna really wanted to see just what that bloodlust of yours could do...

Small Note | so I ended up doing something with this drabble, lol which can be read here

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Home Intruder.

Continuation of Homebound.

Pairing: Yandere!Childe x Reader (+Diluc).

Word Count: 3.5k.

TW: Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, Violence, A Kid Continues To Be Involved And How Childe Acquired This Kid Continues To Be Dubious, and Descriptions of Abuse.

You first saw Childe three days after you arrived at the Dawn Winery.

Through the window, standing on the edge of the vinery, standing behind a pair of his subordinates as they spoke to a small group of farmhands. From your (temporary, you assured yourself, temporary) bedroom, you could only make out a swath of ginger hair, a collection of silver medals standing against the dull grey of his uniform, the familiar heap of dark fabric thrown over his arm, but you attempted to tell yourself that it wasn’t him, actually, that he’d still be in Mondstadt – wreaking havoc and tearing the city apart in search of you. A foolish thing to think, in hindsight. He knew that you would journey through all of Teyvat to escape him. Walking across a single nation was completely within the realm of possibility.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t him, and then, his head jerked upward, his soulless eyes immediately finding your bedroom window, and all of your misplaced hope was immediately dispelled.

He couldn’t see you. You were too far away, the glass was too thick, and you knew he couldn’t see you, and yet, you immediately dropped to the floor, falling onto your knees and slotting yourself against the wall just below your windowsill. Your second reflex hit only a moment later: to run to Lina, to the nursery just down the hall. It wasn’t safe here. You could take her somewhere else – to Fontaine, where even the Fatui were held to the word of the law, or Liyue— No, no, not Liyue, that was his territory, and Sumeru was too untamed, you’d never make it on foot. Inazuma might offer haven, if you could find a vessel willing to—

You heard the door to your bedroom creak open, and your scattered thoughts were silenced by a bolt of pure, unbridled adrenaline. Without giving yourself time to think, you lashed out wildly, spending a dagger of ice flying toward the invader. A dagger of ice that was, predictably, turned into little more than a harmless puddle of lukewarm water by a small shield of flame, dropped as soon as the incoming threat had been melted away.

Diluc stayed in the doorway, remaining stoic as he evaluated you, shrunken and huddled on the floor. “Good morning.”

He took a step towards you, extending a hand. You did not move to take it. “He’s in the vineyard.”

His gaze flickered towards the window. “So he is. But, you have nothing to worry about.” He’d left the door open. You were thankful for his forgetfulness – you didn’t want to be alone with anyone, let alone another powerful man with a powerful Vision. At the same time, you loathed him for it, for leaving you so vulnerable with so little thought. “I’ve asked Elzer to tell our guests that any wayward travelers are to be considered under my protection. That is, if he has the nerve to seek you out so directly.”

You curled into yourself further, burying your face in your knees. “You told him where we are?”

“I told him that you were beyond his reach, and that you would remain that way for as long as you were in my care.” Now, he crouched to your height. He did not offer you his hand again, but rather, clasped both at his midriff, leaving an arm’s length of empty space between him and you. “What are you afraid he’s going to do?”

Kill you. Take Lina. Throw her into the abyss and make her claw her way back up, until she was just as cold and just as hollow as he was. Fill your chest with water and break your legs and lock you away where you’d never see the sun again. Leave you helpless and hopeless and trapped at his side. Do anything but kill you.

“I—" Your voice cut out, your vision dimming black around the edges. It was getting hard to breathe. You could practically feel the rising tide seeping into your lungs. “He’s going to take me back to Snezhnaya.”

“And what is he going to do to you, in Snezhnaya?”

Kill you. Kill Lina. Kill you. Kill you. Kill you.

“He’ll force me to marry him. He’ll turn Lina into a soldier, or a weapon, or him.”

“And why do you think I’d allow that?”

You snapped towards him, baring your teeth. “He’s not going to ask for your permission,” And then, a moment later, when you came to your senses, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so harsh with you. Childe is a very twisted man, and the things he desires are…” You trailed off, burrowing your nails into your legs, but your heart was slowly falling out of your throat, your mind slowly beginning to clear. “They aren’t good. He wouldn’t be good, for Lina.”

“Then, we’ll have do our best to make it so that he never reaches her.” With a soft grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, rising to his full height. After a deep breath, you followed in-suit, brushing yourself off and smoothing over your nightclothes - worn more often than not, due to both your limited wardrobe and your hesitance to wander farther than the second floor of his manor. You weren’t sure why you bothered, he had already seen you bloody and exhausted and barely able to hold yourself up, but it seemed wise to make the effort. “Lina’s still asleep. I haven’t had much time to get to know her myself, but Adelinde tells me that she’s adjusting quite well, albeit with a bit much to say about the accommodations.”

“She’s always been picky,” you muttered, drawing the airiest chuckle from Diluc. Despite its softness, you squared your shoulders, attempting to retain as much of your pride as you could. “If she’s fussing, give her something fur-lined and keep her warm. She hates being cold more than anything.”

“I’ll let the maids know,” He turned to the door and, glancing over his shoulder, gave you a questioning look, as if asking if whether or not you cared to follow. “Unless you’d like to tell them yourself?”

You shut your eyes, but opened them quickly enough, straightening your back and walking through the open door with as much confidence as you could manage.

~

You saw Childe for the second time several weeks later, within the stifling confines of Diluc’s office.

While you couldn’t summon the strength to go beyond the mansion’s walls, not when the maids seem to so often return from their errands with complaints of a ‘red haired foreigner’ who stalked them through the marketplace, but you tried to make yourself useful when you could, to help with the housework and when your limited bureaucratic skills would allow it, aid Diluc with whatever mindless paperwork running a winery entailed. Currently, you were laid across the loveseat adjacent to the desk where Diluc sat, sorting through an impressive collection of different granted licenses and requested permits, keeping an eye on Lina as she stumbled clumsily around the limited space.

She was just starting to walk – albeit, for no more than a few steps at a time before she dropped back to her hands and knees and took to crawling like a crazed geovishap hatchling once more. Her newest goal seemed to be to crash into as many sharp edges as possible, and it was all you (and Diluc, when he took a break from his work to distract your willful daughter from her self-pummelation with cooed pleas and glowing birds made from softened flames) could do to limit the damage.

“She’s quite energetic,” he muttered, as he sent a palm-sized hawk soaring toward the low ceiling. Lina clapped excitedly, giggling and clutching at the wisps of smoke. “Should I assume she takes after her guardian?”

“If you fancied yourself a blind man, you might.” To say she took anything from you would have been a severe exaggeration, if not an outright lie. She was your daughter, but she hadn’t always been, and a day didn’t pass where you weren’t reminded of that in one way or another. “If anything, she’s left more of an impression on me. I used to enjoy sleeping past sunrise, but Lina managed to break that habit within weeks of her arrival.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Diluc’s lips. He started to straighten his back, to say something, but the door to his office opened before he had the chance – Adelinde, jaw set and eyes narrowed, standing in the doorway. “Master Diluc, we have a—”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I can make my own introductions.” Recognition was instant, the accompanying fear flooding in a moment later. You went rigid in your seat, your body preparing to run, but it was too late to escape. The only exit was already occupied by the very threat you needed to get away from. “Master Diluc and I share something better discussed in confidentiality,” Childe went on, stepping into the office, leaving a string of subordinates in the hall. “If you’d be so kind as to give us a few minutes alone?”

Adelinde pursed her lips. “Five minutes, exactly.” And then, by way of explanation, “The young Master’s time is a very precious thing.”

Childe only nodded, already claiming the armchair most directly across from Diluc’s desk. “Oh, I’m sure that he has many precious things, doesn’t he?”

Any trace of emotion wiped from his expression, Diluc turned to face the familiar intruder, dismissing Adelinde with a curt nod. Childe did not look toward you, did not pay so much as a wayward glance to Lina, but you called her to you regardless, pulling her into your lap and against your chest despite her hushed sounds of protest. He would have to wrench her from your arms, if he wanted to so much as touch her. You would not make the mistake of leaving her unattended, of leaving her vulnerable. Not again.

DIluc spoke first. “To what do I owe the honor, Lord Tartaglia?”

Mirth had always come easily to Childe, even if his joy was often hollow or sadistic. This may have been the most tense you’d ever seen his smile, the most strained. “I was just passing through the area and thought I might pay my pleasantries to the owner of the manor. The Fatui has always attempted to show appreciation to our dear friends in Mondstadt, after all.” Diluc’s lips quirked, but otherwise, he remained unfazed. Childe went on, leaning back in his seat. “And, of course, I figured it was time to collect the rest of my little family. I know my…” For the first time, he turned his attention to you, those empty eyes prying into the core of your being. A deep chill settled beneath your skin, but you attempted to ignore it, to block out all but the weight of Lina against you and the instinct to keep her wrapped in your arms as tightly as her squirming would allow. “I know my partner has a tendency to stray. It’s my only remorse that my poor daughter had to be dragged into such untimely adventures, and my only hope that they didn’t manage to outwear your hospitality.”

“You partner?” You noticed, not for the first time, how unlike Diluc’s eyes were to Childe’s – bright where his were faded, vivid where Childe’s had lost their luster. They were, however, not without their similarities. The spark that played across Diluc’s gaze as he met Childe’s stare, for example, was uncannily alike to the look that seemed to come over Childe whenever he saw an opportunity to draw blood. “Surely, you aren’t talking about my fiancé.”

For a moment, all was still.

And then, you swallowed back your nerves, letting out a shallow sigh as you shook your head. Despite your mimicked reluctance, you raised your voice, doing what you could to ensure those waiting in the hall would hear you clearly. “I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone yet, honey.”

“Pardon my eagerness,” He threw you a small smile; so practiced, it was practically gilded into place. “I figured letting one of our dear friends from the north wouldn’t hurt, and you know I’ve been dying to break the—”

“Cut the bullshit.” His smile had fallen, his expression returning to one of pure, concentrated aggression. Not so much outward hostility, but a clear readiness to fight; the unfaltering focus of a soldier looking for his battle. “I came for my family. I’m not leaving this nation without them.”

“You have no family here.” Easy, immediate, rehearsed and ready to be invoked. “Within the boundaries of this winery, the only items you have in your possession are my quickly thinning patience and a standing death sentence, should you try to lay a hand on any member of my household.”

“Households can be burnt down – or better yet, washed away.” He pushed himself to his feet, a translucent polearm manifesting in one hand while the other slammed into Diluc’s desk. You flinched, pushing yourself deeper into worn velvet cushions, but Diluc held steady, unrelenting in the face of a man gone mad with obsession. “I only wonder how many of your servants will have to drown in their own blood before you return what doesn’t belong to you.”

Diluc raised his hand, and an iron claymore appeared in his right hand, black as night and sharp as starlight. It hit nearly matched his height, the angular blade cutting deep into the floorboards with ease, but Childe’s eyes never left Diluc’s, nor did Diluc allow his attention to slip from Childe. “Try it, Harbinger. You will not be the first of your kind that I’ve slain.”

Childe seemed to consider it for a long, agonizing moment. Spurs of ice began to prickle at your fingertips, heat rolling off of Diluc’s claymore in waves, but mercifully, miraculously, Childe drew back, letting his polearm dissipate into a cloud of mist and sparks. “You should count yourself fortunate that I know how delicate my beloved is,” he spat, already turning his back to Diluc. “Next time I cross your path, I won’t be this reserved.”

“Let us hope for a swift reunion, then.”

Childe scoffed, but did not offer another rebuttal. With a single half-hearted kick, the door was torn off of its hinges and sent crashing to the floor. He exited the manor with no further contest, his subordinates scurrying behind him. When you could no longer hear his footsteps, his muffled cursing, Diluc turned back to you, the work on his desk clearly forgotten. “I believe you were telling me about how Lina took to Mondstadt?”

You took a deep breath, attempting to steady yourself. “Right.” You paused, just barely letting yourself relax. “Now that you mention it, I suppose she’s always had a bit of a preference.”

~

The third and final time you saw Childe, he was crouching in your windowsill, his form silhouetted by the dim moonlight. You’d bolted awake at the sound of breaking glass, the hollow thud of an arrow planting itself in the opposing wall, but you only had a moment to take him in before he was on you.

For all your tenacity, he’d caught you off-guard, and your strength was nothing compared to his. He was on top of you in a second, had you pinned in another, his pam slotted over your mouth and his body crouched over yours. He was erratic in his desperation, his breathing heavy and his eyes filled with a certain mania you’d only ever seen when he returned from his missions, from his slaughters. A familiar terror rattled through your body, the faint taste of your own blood rising into the back of your throat, but if he wanted to kill you, you’d already have a hunting knife planted in your neck. What he had in store for you was something you feared far more than death.

You tried to scream from behind his hand, but he bared his teeth. “Quiet,” he hissed, close enough for his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear. “We wouldn’t want your little savior to come running, now, would we?”

Another shriek, just as stifled as the first. That earned a slight smile, a kiss to your temple, then another to your forehead, both lingering too long for comfort. He went for your lips, as well, but pulled back before he could truly attempt to make contact, already laughing at himself. “We’ll have time for that later on.” He bowed his head, leaning down far enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck, to inhale your scent. “As soon as I get you home, and I’m gonna get you home.” His teeth scraped over your skin. “I’m gonna get you home, and then, you’ll never have to leave me again.”

Your eyes went wide. You made another sound – softer, closer to a whimper than anything else, and immediately, Childe understood. You’d always hated that about him, just how easily he could read your panic. “We can have another. No distractions, this time.”

It was strange, the suddenness of it, the feeling of ice-cold adrenaline spreading through your veins like frost. You didn’t know what you were doing, what you were trying to do, not before a pillar of solid ice erupted from the minimal space between your body and his, throwing him upward and into the ceiling. You managed to scramble to your feet by the time his body came crashing back down, his shoulder colliding hard with the floor, and yet, he rose without issue, the only evidence of his pain residing in the tight, fanged sneer stretched across his lips. He summoned no weapon, took no stance, but you stiffened as he turned to face you, as he began to stalk forward.

“Stay where you are.” It was a struggle just to keep your voice steady, just to stop your knees from buckling underneath you. You pressed your back into the wall, fists curled and shaking at your sides. “If you take a step closer, I swear to—”

“What are you going to do, sweetheart? Kill me?” A step forward, then another. You could see the awkward slant of his dislocated shoulder, the trickle of dark blood slowly dripping from the corner of his mouth, and then, the moonlight glinting off a wall of ice, curved and jagged, vaulting from the floor at your feet. The spiked edges caught on Childe’s coat, tearing through fabric and skin in one unfaltering motion, leaving blood smeared across the points of your makeshift barrier. He let out a growl, low and feral, and reached for the bow fastened to his back. The bow he had never before thought you formidably enough to draw.

The bow you still were, thankfully, infuriatingly, undeserving of. His fingertips barely brushed against the grip before his hand away, finding a place to rest on the bicep of his injured arm, instead. “I love you,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do – love you, and when you’re finished playing house, I’ll be here to prove it. Don’t forget that when your little knight shows his true colors.”

He moved slowly, hauling himself towards the window he’d slipped into. You could’ve shot a bolt of ice into his back, could’ve found something to shatter over his head and end this all for good, but you didn’t, couldn’t seem to move as he slipped out of the shattered window and back into the night. Already planning to haunt you for another night, no doubt.

You weren’t sure how long you remained there, your feet frozen to the ground and your body too stiff to comprehend the idea of movement. It felt like hours, days, and yet, the sun never rose, the maids never came running, and nothing in the world seemed to change save for you and the glass shards that cut into your heels as you made your way to the bedroom door, then down the hall – finding Lina’s nursery and gathering your daughter in your arms. You didn’t remain there, but rather, ventured through the manor until you found Diluc’s chambers, the grand oak doors left unlocked. Before you could bring yourself to feel much of anything, you slipped inside and, with Lina still asleep and pressed into your chest, into the vacant side of his bed. Sheets rustled, the down-stuffed mattress dipped, and you felt a strong arm wrap around your midriff, a broad chest press into your back. His warmth, although now a little smothering, was enough to soften the ice that’d formed in your blood.

You closed your eyes and slept peacefully for first time in a very, very long while.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere oneshot #genshin impact #genshin imagines #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #genshin x you #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #yandere childe x reader #diluc x reader #yanderecore #yancore

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Shitten Shenanigans AU – The Fall of Death

Lamb heaved deep shuddering breaths as they glared at the now diminished form of Nar- The One Who Waits. Their body throbbed with pain and their heart was pounding so hard they thought it might burst from their chest, but all of that paled in comparison to the sheer rage that thundered through their veins.

How DARE HE?!

HOW DARE HE AFTER ALL HE AND HIS SIBLINGS HAD PUT THEM THROUGH?!

WAS IT NOT ENOUGH THAT THEIR WHOLE SPECIES AND FAMILY HAD BEEN STOLEN FROM THEM THAT HE WOULD TAKE THEIR CHILD TOO?!

Lamb stalked towards The One Who Waits, their sword scraping against the floor, as he tried to sit up only for Lamb to stomp a harsh hoof in the middle of his chest, crushing him against the ground. He struggled against it weakly, glaring up at Lamb with bared teeth.

“You’ve supplanted me. A vessel no more, now a crowned deity, you damned lamb!” He hissed furiously. “Will you be a merciful coward or a vengeful false idol, you traitor?!”

Hefting the sword above their head, Lamb sneered down at their former divine patron. “For Asha, I would slay as many gods as I need too! Especially ones that betray me first.”

The anger suddenly drained from The One Who Waits’ face, leaving confused furrowed eyes, and he ceased struggling. “…What nonsense do you speak of?”

The sudden change of emotion stayed Lamb’s hand for a moment and for some reason, they answered. “You betrayed our deal first. You demanded the sacrifice of your most devoted follower, YOUR OWN CHILD! MY CHILD!”

Rage swiftly returned to The One Who Waits’ face and he snarled back, a sudden burst of energy as he shoved the hoof off his chest and reached for Lamb. “I’D NO SOONER SACRIFICE AYM AND BAAL THAN I WOULD ASHA, YOU FOOLISH LAMB! THEY ARE NOT MY FOLLOWERS, BUT MY STUDENTS! MY CHOSEN SONS AND CHILD! MINE!”

Lamb dropped the sword and dipped out of the way of the fallen deity’s grasp, flipping him over. “YOU CALL THEM YOUR MOST DEVOTED FOLLOWER! CONSTANTLY! ALL OF US DID!”

He managed to roll to his feet and dodged their own lunge. “I WAS SPEAKING OF YOU!”

The air seemed to still as the rage within Lamb’s snuffed itself out just as quickly as it had arisen when Narinder had first spoken of a sacrifice. “…What?”

Narinder snarled as he drew himself up, lacking the monstrous height he once had but still a good foot over Lamb. “You were my most devoted follower. It was your sacrifice I spoke of!” He paused for a moment as something akin to hurt intermingled with the rage. “You truly believed I would command such a thing upon my own? Even after I had given my word no harm should ever come to them under my protection.”

Lamb tilted their jaw up stubbornly, their anger growing anew yet at a much dimmer level. “You ordered the death of your own siblings. Why would it seem such a stretch?” They knew the answer as soon as they said it.

The hurt faded as rage covered it up again, the force of such causing Narinder to shake. “My siblings betrayed me and bound me! They committed genocide for fear of me! They deserved their fates as you well know!”

Lamb flexed their fingers. “…They were still your family once. Besides, why not simply say? Why call for your most devoted’s death when you knew that is what we called Asha?”

“I had thought you would have a modicum of intelligence to recognise it was not the child that I spoke of!”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t insist on dressing up your orders, we wouldn’t be in this situation!”

“Why would you think I commanded you to leave the child with the rat if I wished for their death!?”

“You command a lot of contradictory things! Sacrifice a follower, resurrect them! Oh here’s a ritual to brainwash your followers but if you tell them to not consume strange substances, they’ll work harder at the cost of falling sick when you brainwash them!” Lamb stalked towards Narinder and jabbed a finger into his chest. “’Take Asha to Ratau’s then bring them here to die!’ is not out of character for you!”

He grabbed their hand and moved it to the side, gripping it harshly. “I sent Asha to that useless rat so that they would not have to watch! To see you sacrificed in my name would have caused them harm for how much they love you! For however much they adored your visits, they cried at every death!”

Lamb snapped their teeth in his face. “And what would you have told them?! When I never appeared again? Would you have told them the honest truth, that you had me killed? Or would you have lied to them as well?!”

Narinder grabbed them by the shoulders and shook them roughly as if to somehow rattle sense into them. “THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN NO NEED FOR YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN BY MY SIDE!”

“THE HELLS DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!”

“RESURRECTION, YOU FOOLISH LAMB! LIFE GIVEN ANEW WITH THE PROMISE OF ETERNITY AS MY WITNESS! A VOW THAT YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN FREE TO RAISE ASHA OPENLY AND IN SAFETY UNDER MY WATCH!”

Silence reigned across the blazing field of the afterlife as the two stared at each other, their breaths intermingling as they panted. The Red Crown still discarded aside.

The pain started to creep in along the edges of Lamb’s vision. “…Swear to me it was me and not them.”

Narinder started to sway as the last vestiges of his own energy began to drain away, but even then pure honesty shone in his eyes. “It was always you, Lamb.” He seemed to be staying on his feet out of pure stubbornness and by the grip he still had on Lamb’s arms. “So what is to become of me now? Will you slay me like my siblings or are you a merciful coward?”

The crown finally returned to Lamb's head.

They reached out and grabbed him as he lost the fight against his injuries. Pulling him gently into their embrace, they slowly lowered to the ground and pressed a hand to his chest, summoning the indoctrination circle below him. They couldn’t help the way they tucked him closer to their body.

“If it makes me a coward to prevent my child’s sorrow at the loss of their father, then a coward I must be.”

Narinder sputtered a bitter chuckle as his eyes went hazy with pain and betrayal. “I will not forgive you.”

“Can you blame me for doing what I thought was to protect Asha?”

Silence again before something passed over Narinder's face and he closed his eyes.

"...No, vessel. I suppose I cannot."

With that, Narinder fell into the blackness of the teleportation, leaving Lamb alone in a field of damnation and the feeling of bitterness.

______

This.... was a lot less cracky than I thought it would be when I started. I was going do like a fade to black in the middle of the argument to the POV of one of the cultists who are watching what is essentially a marital spat between their leader and their god, but it didn't fit the vibe.

This Narinder never lies. He doesn't always tell the truth but he doesn't lie. Which is why Lamb took him at face value when he said he wanted to kill his most devoted and when he said everything here.

They're both too proud to have an actual conversation about this until they get locked in the confessional by the kids.

Narinder also feels a bit tame but, 1) he's currently in shock at the loss of godhood, 2) he just spent the past couple of years co-parenting with Lamb which bonded them closer than in canon and 3) its my au and I do what I want.

Asha is my shitten's name which fun fact means hope/wish/desire in Sanskrit (same origin as Narinder's name) and life/longevity in Arabic/ Swahili which I thought was cute.

#cotl #cult of the lamb #Shitten Shenanigans Au #Cotl Lamb #Colt Narinder #narilamb #or rather pre-narilamb #I still dont go here #that time Narinder asked for the death of his most devoted follower and Lamb heard Kill Bill Sirens #the au's. they plague me #might do Nari's intro to Asha #since im headcanoning that Nari named Asha #this is why communication is important people #especially with your co-parent

[ya-zz]

Hii! I've been waiting for quite a while to share this thought with you. A while ago, I shared with you my thoughts and it led to "Hacked" being written with Ramattra x Reader. I'd like to... maybe request a second part of that? I've been daydreaming about the possibilities of what's next for it. So, I'd like you to choose what happens:

A. Ramattra encountering Reader again in the battlefield and this time she has no time to hack through his system, and he finds her first. Keen into making her feel exactly how he felt back then.

B. Reader once again hacks into Ramattra's system, but this time she's braver, getting him while he's recharging (simply sneaking in his base to prove a point) and making him feel exactly what humans feel when they orgasm.

-Nia

We don't talk about how I did this within hours of the request coming through...

HI AGAIN!! IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU!! ♥ Thank you so much for requesting again, I love the ideas as always ^^

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1348 !! NSFW !!

The vessel rattles in the sky, currently moving over Toronto. The attacks below were never ending as Ramattra continued to repeat the broadcast. The gunfire and screams were louder than before as he watched on; one by one, humans fell and omnic civilians were secured. It was going exactly as he planned. 

Steering away from the capitol, he heads for his new location to oversee the destruction happening there. In the meantime, however, he was due a recharge. 

Taking a seat on the floor, back resting against the wall, he plugs himself in, wires connecting to his sides and back of the neck. He goes through his systems, setting up the necessary precautions just in case his vessel gets attacked and then the lights on his forehead dim, changing orange as he goes into standby. 

Everything fell silent, though Ramattra could still pick out the workings of his ship; the humming of the engine vibrating against the floor, the soft flickers of light that passed by the window on occasion. It was as if time had slowed down.

His optics shifted to where a noise could be heard, but due to being in standby, his vision was blurred to make his charging time quicker. Something had fallen so he left it be, the turbulence must've knocked it over.

Ramattra went back to his charging meditation, his body unmoving as it lay against the wall until a familiar feeling kicked in. 

It took his systems a moment to register what was going on but it was too late. The module he had locked away was open once again, his wires heating up slowly as he attempts to wake up. 

“It’s too late.” A familiar voice rang out. “Your systems can’t beat me this time.” 

Despite his vision being overrun with omnicode and errors, he tilts his head up to view you. His voice was a low rumble as he attempts to speak. 

“You- How-” 

“It’s simple, really.” You approach him, straddling his knees as you lower yourself onto him and dropping the holopad beside your leg. “Your guard is down, a foolish idea, really.” Your fingers stroke the wires that were placed into his sides. The Null Sector leader beneath you once again, unable to do anything, unable to fight back, what a pretty sight it was.

“Get out.” 

You tut, shaking your head with a smirk. “That is no way to treat a guest, Ramattra. Besides, I want to finish what we started the other week.” 

The omnic felt his wires flare up in heat, the module lighting up within his vision. His vocaliser cuts out as he speaks. “You-... serious.” He was weak, you truly had caught him when he least expected it.

A sly laugh escapes you as you trail your fingers on that same tubing over his hips. A gentle squeeze that sent a wave of euphoria over his body. He shudders at the contact. 

“How far can we take this?” Leaning over, you tap the holopad, pulling up the module that Ramattra had kept locked deep inside of his systems. From there, you had full access to his sex drive. “Oh, Ramattra. How long have you been like this?” 

His system fights back, or attempts to, but your software was stronger this time, he can barely move his hands or arms. 

With one tap, you send a wave of ecstasy throughout the omnic and his back arches involuntarily, a garbled, static moan escaping from his vocaliser. 

“Hm?” You smirk at him, letting the holopad go as you return your hands to his body, tracing the pads of your fingers against his metal bracing. You could feel him shake with each careful, calculated stroke. 

Ramattra can only glare at you, optics looking at your blurry features as he tries to adjust the settings. 

“Ah, ah. I don’t think so.” You override his attempts before moving closer to him, hands dipping between the braces as they move towards his back. The exposed cables there were begging to be touched and with one tap, a spark of electricity surges through Ramattra’s core. 

“S-Stop that-!” He demands, though his tone suggests that he does not mind the feeling. 

He doesn’t know what to do. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot get rid of you from inside of his systems. He tries an alternative route but there was no success there either. Deep inside, however, he did like the feeling of being vulnerable, having someone touch him like the way you are doing. It felt pleasurable. 

Ramattra tries one more time, searching through any and all coding to find a weak spot and when he finally stumbles upon it does he take immediate action. His systems work hard to destroy your virus but the want to keep the touching going slows down the process. 

He needs you. 

He wants you.

He gives in.

The omnic sits there, allowing himself to be lost in the moment. The feeling of your hands exploring his body heightened his senses. His servos twitch before slowly making their way to your hips, holding you in place.

“Someone is enjoying this.” You smirk, dragging your fingers over the pistons on his neck. 

“Shut up.” His vocaliser betrays him once more, another static moan escaping him as his head tilts back against the wall. 

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” 

It took Ramattra a while to respond, but when he did, it confirmed everything you ever wondered. 

“Yes…” His grip on your hips tighten slightly, indicating that he didn’t want you to stop for any reason. 

He feels you grinding against his pelvic plate, possibly chasing your own high but the way you squeezed and teased him said otherwise. Then it clicks in his head. This was about him reaching his orgasm after several long years of nothingness. You knew how long it had been for him and how much he craved it.

Your one hand was tangled in his cabled hair as the other trails back down towards his hips. You feel him jerk, he wants the contact to last as you pull back, a familiar heat pooling in your stomach. 

“Ramattra…” 

“Seems like you cannot hold on for much long either.” He states with a hint of amusement in his voice. 

A flush appears on your cheeks as you squeeze his tubing once more, a little harder than last time. 

The omnic jerks his hips, pressing further into you as he moans out, vocaliser stuttering as he tries to keep it together.

“Such sweet noises… To think the Null Sector leader could sound like this…” Another tug at his cables causes him to moan loudly. 

You glance at the holopad whilst the omnics head was tilted backwards; his systems were lit up, errors appearing as you manhandle his wires, pinching and twisting them. It brought you joy, a satisfaction coursing through your veins as you realise how much power you truly hold over him in this moment. 

Another squeeze had the holopad flash black which causes you to look back at him. His vocaliser cuts mid moan, the lights on his forehead were off, fans were slowing down, yet his hold on your hips stayed. You had caused him to crash. 

Part of you panicked, but the moment the lights flickered on again, a soft orange before red, the panic was overridden with a sense of accomplishment.

His vocaliser clicks before he speaks. “No human should mess around with machinery too advanced than their mind and body can handle.” 

Your eyes widen as you realise that him rebooting meant that your virus was no longer in affect. His grip on your things gets tight, bruises already beginning to form under the skin. He pulls himself free from the wires connected to him, grabbing both of your wrists with one hand before pinning you down on the floor, one metal thigh pressed up against your sex. His other hand toys with the waistband of your pants as he speaks out in an intimidating tone.

“Perhaps it is time for me to teach you a lesson.”

#overwatch #ramattra #ramattra x reader #overwatch 2 #overwatch fanfiction #reader insert #gender neutral reader #yazzfics #yazznsfw

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hello! I wanna request ror characters with sweet and kind reader who secretly holds then power of a powerful demon that could give any god a run fir their money.

Reader was meant to be the host of this demon and their personality and memories were meant to be forgotten as the demon took a hold of their body. But something went wrong and instead the demon became trapped while reader got its powers. Basically reader was tricked by their friend and was scarified to a cults deity but lived

Reader is basically an average person and just wants to live life gently but when the gods started to make a fuss and threatened humanity the gloves was off. Reader ends up takeing zeus odin and all the strong ones whose names I cant remember into a terror dimension and reminds them that there were many who would do anything to protect their love ones and reader is fully willing to become a demon and erase them from exsitance if the foolish gods push them enough.

-It was a secret you kept close, not wanting to lose anyone else to it, mainly because those closest to you betrayed you for the secret you held.

-You were the vessel for a very powerful demon, one whose name was long forgotten, something you had been ‘blessed’ with when you were back on earth after the gods fought this demon, sealing him away.

-They didn’t realize however, where they were sealing him, and you were blessed with the same powers and strength, and for a while, people worshipped you as a hero, as you would use those abilities to help others, which is all that you wanted to do.

-However, their adoration soon turned to fear, realizing that you were so different from them, and with fear came hatred and they drove you out.

-You traveled the world, your life prolonged due to what you housed, helping where you could, never staying in one place for too long.

-You had thought you found a safe place, people who respected your powers and abilities, and you gained friends, people you grew close to.

-Only for them to betray you just like the others, sacrificing you to the demon you held in your body. As that place that you thought was safe was a cult.

-You died and ascended to Valhalla, with the demon still a part of you, causing that cult to fall to ruin as they essentially killed the very being they were trying to worship.

-You were so happy in Valhalla, being able to live in peace, helping others, and nobody cared what you could do.

-Only a fair few knew what you could do, and you mostly kept to yourself, to not draw attention to yourself.

-When Ragnarok was announced, you were in tears, hearing how cruel the gods were, the same ones who put this demon inside of you, how they were willing to just wipe out humanity on a whim.

-This angered you, and the demon you housed, feeling your anger, offered his powers to you, willing to help you again.

-You and your demon had an agreement- you would willingly let him have control a few times a month to run around and have fun, and he wouldn’t hurt others while in control.

-He whispered in your ear, like he was there, “We can fix this- put those gods in their place. We won’t hurt them, just scare them a- just a little~” you knew his tone, he wasn’t planning on just ‘a little’ but you agreed, not willing to risk so many lives.

-When Ragnarok was about to begin, the gods who were going to be fighting had a meeting, going to discuss who was going to go first.

-A wave of power and dread seemed to flow over them and Zeus and Odin, who had been responsible for seal your partner away inside you, instantly stood, feeling that power.

-You entered, looking unassuming, looking just like a normal human and Poseidon stood, “Who dares enter this place?” your smile was soft, gentle, but your eyes were hard, “I have someone who would like to speak with you.”

-In a blink of an eye, they found themselves in a dark place, screams and terrifying visions everywhere as you approached, looking more demonic, a blend of both you and D/N.

-Your voice was no longer just your own, it was a blend of both, it sounded not only unsettling, but angry, “I have the power to destroy all of you now- thanks to your failure of making sure I was truly sealed. You have a choice- to end Ragnarok now or face your own destruction.”

-Being shown such terrifying images and feeling your power around them, nearly suffocating them, proving that what you said was true, was enough to make them quickly bend to your will.

-As soon as Zeus and Odin agreed, in another blink of an eye, they were back in the room, completely fine, and you looking normal, like a harmless little human.

-Eyes quickly went to you as you spoke, “Just because you fail to manage others doesn’t make it right for you to just get rid of them. Make it right.” With your last sentence you made the room tremble, just to make your point.

-You walked out, “Think they got the message?” the demon chuckled in your ear again, “Of course they did. Now let’s sit back and watch.”

-By lunchtime the tournament had been called off, much tot the shock of Brunnhilde and the warriors of humanity, but they seemed pleased to see that the gods were going to be gods now, proper ones- who were now going to manage humanity better.

-Many were none the wiser that you were the cause of this newfound peace. And the gods you had threatened kept eyes on you but were stunned to see what a gentle person you were, nothing unlike the demon they had fought years ago.

-You seemed to be one with the demon in your body- like you were two beings in one body, sharing it, but even if you looked like a harmless human- you were anything but, and they knew that they wouldn’t be able to fight back, even if they all joined forces and fought together- there was no chance of ever challenging you.

-However, keeping you happy seemed to be the simplest route, and they kept you happy by not threatening humanity and managing things better.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror zeus #ror odin

[galebrainrot2024]

Gale x Tav Enemies to Lovers Part 19

Read on Ao3

Full transparency, I did pull some loose lines from a NSFW of mine. No reason for me to totally reinvent the wheel! Enjoy :) Gale's POV

After the rest of their companions retired, Karlach tentatively walked over to Gale and stuck her head in his room, “Pst,” she waved a hand. “Up for a little late night walk about?” 

Despite his exhaustion and because the orb didn’t loom over him, he obliged and stood, groaning as he rose to his feet. “Gladly.” 

They walked the outskirts of the inn, trailing along the black water’s edge in silence before Karlach broke the silence. “So…” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, “How are you feeling? I mean, now that you’re not the only one facing the possibility of death.” 

Gale released a quick, short puff of air. “Oh, you know, ever the optimist.” He paused, sitting on the flat rocks overlooking the murky abyss. “I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, least of all you. It would be selfish to talk about myself when you’ve only learned of your fate.” 

Karlach laughed and shoved his shoulder, “Come off it, mate. I’ve been living on borrowed time and we both knew it, the difference is now it’s been confirmed. It’s not speculation anymore. This engine is going to blow and I’ll be damned if I step foot back in the hells. Besides,” she said, tossing a stick into the lake, “what have I got to offer this world? You were a chosen, an archmage… you have so much to live for and your death is not inevitable.” She looked at him seriously, “You have to reconsider.” 

“I’m just a man,” Gale frowned, running a hand over his weary face, “An imperfect one, with needs, wants, and flaws by the bushel. A fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power.” 

Karlach groaned and stood to pace. “I hate it when you talk about yourself like that. Mystra must have done quite the number on you, for you to think so little of yourself.” 

Gale fiddled with his collar and sleeves, uncomfortable and unaccustomed to such blatant vulnerability. “Well, it’s hard to think highly of yourself once you’ve been reduced to a pitiful excuse to the person you once were. And even more so now that my ex-lover, and goddness of magic, has more or less signed my fate. My end.” 

“You have so much to live for,” Karlach expressed, waving her arms. “What about your friends? Tara? Your mother? Tav?” Gale ignored her when she emphasized Tav’s name and he swallowed hard. “Fine, ignore whatever is going on between Tav and you. What about the rest? If I were in your shoes, there’s no way I’d be willing to kill myself for a God like her.” 

Gale felt his temperature rise and clenched his fists, “It’s not that simple.” 

“Isn’t it?” She walked back and forth, emphasizing her point with broad strokes, “First, she casts you out with no explanation - I mean, yeah, you meddled in a Goddesses affairs, and she could have at least told you what you’d done. Has she ever told you, the source of the orb’s power I mean?” Gale shook his head and bit the insides of his cheek. “Exactly. So, we don’t even know what this thing is and she, an omnipotent being, couldn’t be bothered to offer you the grace of an explanation? You’re not the first human to make such an error, I’d reckon.” 

Gale laughed and shrugged, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I ought to be angrier… ah… ultimately, it was my fault, my choice - my folly. I thought I knew better than a Goddess… I sought to return one, infinitesimal diamond to her crown. The equivalent of pouring a canteen of water into the Chionthar.” He scoffed, shaking his head, “Sacrificing myself for the rest of the realm feels like adequate punishment.” 

Karlach groaned again, “I won’t sit here and listen to you kick yourself while you’re down, mate. It’s too damn depressing. You made a mistake - a foolish one - and a mistake all the same. If Mystra can’t think of another way to extend her forgiveness other than for you to take your own life, she’s not Goddess worth worshipping. We will find another way.” 

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Gale volleyed back to her. She smirked and threw a fistful of grass at him. 

“Hey!” He brushed the leaves from his person, the tension leaving him. She certainly knew how to change his mood. “I don’t appreciate being decorated in this shadowed muck, thank you. Shouldn’t I be the one asking you how you’re feeling anyway? How did this become about me?” 

She bellowed, raising her hands to the sky like a penitent. “This is the best day. The best day.” 

Gale balked, his eyes widening. “Karlach. You were just given a death sentence. The best day?” He rose a brow at her, skeptical. 

“You should know better than most how lonely it’s been to not be able to relish in anyone’s company. For years I’ve been starved of the simple pleasures of being alive. I’m so happy for me - in fact, I might be the happiest woman on the sword cost since I may have someone to cuddle up to tomorrow night…” Gale grinned to match her curled smirk. “I didn’t expect to see him here. He was giving me the old eye, right? I’m not making that up?” 

Gale stood and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “He was most definitely giving you the old eye. I’m happy for you, Karlach. Really I am. I.. I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how worried I am, though. Dammon’s right - the world is better with you in it.” 

“Listen,” she clasped his shoulders, looking at him seriously, “I’m never going back. If you said I could die right now or live a thousand years in the Hells, I’d choose to go out now with my freedom intact. I don’t expect anyone to understand that - but I’ve been dealt a hand most people don’t have to contemplate playing. You have, too - you should know better than anyone.” 

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” he insisted, “it could give some time to find a proper solution. I have a hard time believing it can’t be managed.” 

“You heard Dammon. There is no solution. It’s hell, or bust. I choose bust.” She shook her head and sighed, stepping away from him to look out at the endless blanketed sky. Her voice quavered, “I don’t want to talk about this now. I’ve been given a huge gift. I can touch people I love for the first time in a decade. And for the first time in a decade there are people I care about all around me. Let me enjoy that, please. I just want to celebrate this. At least for a little.” Gale understood the sentiment deeply and allowed the quiet night to consume them. 

*** 

“Answer me true,” Jaheira said, placing her hands on the table. “Do not lie. The parasite is changing you, isn’t it?” 

Gale stood behind Tav, observing carefully as she navigated the conversation. He was intrigued by her couth and furtiveness, how she leveraged her tone, her word choice, all while holding her cards tightly to her chest. As the days passed, Gale began to recognize how much he admired this in Tav. How they’d been faced with countless dangers, incredible odds, and she rarely faltered in her conviction. It was inspiring and arousing. He was enamored with how diplomatic she was, how tactful, just how cunning… and her talent with magic… it was enough to make him feel unhinged. 

“Well,” Tav said, tracing her finger over the rim of the glass she refused. “I’ve experienced so much since the crash. Who’s to say it’s the tadpole that changed me?” 

Jaheira sneered and Shadowheart giggled, earning her an elbow jab from Karlach who was listening intently. “You speak frivolously. Do you not grasp the cost of what we’re dealing with? Look around you… good people, stranded here two feet in the grave. If we’re to survive I have no choice but to trust you. Can I?” 

“Trust doesn’t matter -“ Tav said cooly and Gale felt his stomach knot, her confidence was electric. “I’ll get the job done. What happened to being the godsend you’d been praying for?” He felt his lips curl into a crooked grin, and ran his fingers through his hair as he watched her, two snakes in an elaborate dance. 

“That was a public display of hope, despite private reservations. I have every reason to be cautious. I’ve traced people like you - people with parasites in their brains. The cult is spreading through the city. Quietly. Quickly. With unsettling deliberation. We tracked them to this ancient village, only to be faced with a man we killed and buried over a century ago. General Kethric Thorm. Remember that name.” 

After speaking with Jaheira, the group made a b-line towards the stair to seek out Isobel’s protection - if they were to venture to Moonrise, they’d need much more than crude torches. Gale was seized with the gravity of it all - how much larger than them this was. Larger than just the tadpoles. It was bleak, and he felt a sinking dread that detonating the orb would be the way. 

He felt a lithe hand on his shoulder and turned his head as they lingered outside of Isobel’s room. “There will be another way,” Tav murmured and gave his upper arm a reassuring squeeze. He felt sick, overwhelmed by her touch, overwhelmed by the possibilities before him. Gale sought to ignore the creeping thoughts, the unholy things he wanted to do to her each time she touched him.

There was no ale, no potion, no feeling on earth that quite compared to when he looked into her eyes or when she touched him.

Her gaze lingered and Gale felt exposed, naked almost as she peered into his soul, as if she was probing the deepest recesses of his mind. As if she could hear his thoughts. 

“How can you be so sure…” he whispered, averting her eyes. He was shocked when he felt her fingers brush his jaw, her gentle grip turning his face to meet hers. 

“Because I know you, and I know myself. Neither of us do particularly well when we are told what we cannot do.” They held one another’s gaze for what felt like a millennia before Shadowheart cleared her throat. 

“As much as I hate to interrupt this precious moment, we have a cult to ambush, remember?” 

They blushed and separated like oil and water. “Right,” Tav said in a strained whisper and they swung open the doors. 

“I didn’t realize I had an audience -“ Isobel said, her white hair iridescent in the shadow's light. “The true soul who’s going to save us all. Pleased to meet you.” 

“Word travels fast.” Tav said, crossing her arms. 

“Hm… it’s a small inn. It’s almost too good to believe. Free from the Absolute’s influence, yet able to walk among cultists... yet, a blessing all the same. Let me guess, Jaheira sent you to beg a protection spell of her favorite cleric.” 

As Isobel manipulated the blue light that projected from her palm, Gale cocked a brow at Shadowheart’s scoff. Bold, to openly denounce someone who was offering their guidance and help. Selunite cleric or not, he’d thought her more clever than that. Old wounds die hard, he supposed. 

“This should help get you closer to the towers… but there are places it won’t help, where the curse is too strong, darker. The cultists are able to traverse the deepest shadows - the harpers are trying to figure it out.” 

“Selunite magic.” Shadowheart scoffed and shook her head, as if to rid herself of the spell. “Dark Lady forgive me.” 

“Good nose - like a nasty little terrier.” Isobel quipped, a clip that would have earned a nasty retort from Shadowheart had there not been a strange, threatening noise that engulfed them.

Gale felt a rumbling, as if the ground itself threatened to split open. He reached out, grabbing hold of Tav’s arm. “Something is wrong.”

** 

As Karlach wiped Marcus’s blood from her axe, Gale wiped his face with a cloth. Shadowheart brushed off her armor and rolled her shoulder’s back. “Well. There’s always something, isn’t there.” 

“The plot thickens,” Karlach said, taking a gulp of water. “What I’d give for some precedented, run of the mill ass-whopping. This all feels… I don’t know. Too heavy.” Gale’s brow furrowed - it wasn’t often she admitted to feeling overwhelmed.  

“This is the same Karlach that fought in the Blood War?” Gale taunted, to which she stuck out her tongue in mock defiance and tossed the bloodied, balled-up cloth at him. 

Gale dodged the throw, holding out his arms as if to say 'See that? This Wizard still has some tricks up his sleeve.' Then, he looked steadily at Tav and his face contorted for a moment - was that a flash of jealousy? He licked his lips, trying to add moisture to his desperately parched mouth. Tav’s knuckles were white as they gripped her canteen.

Gale extended a hand to her, “Care to share?” 

He admired how her skin flushed, the beads of sweat pooling on her forehead and snaked in miniature rivulets down her cheeks. When she handed him the canteen, her fingers brushed against his knowingly and he felt electrified. Before he could reconcile with himself, the words spilled out of him like a bad batch of Hundur sauce. 

“You know… it’s quite thrilling, to fight off such grim creatures as this region throws at us. Especially being at your side,” he paused for a moment, embarrassed yet unable to stop, “I once… read a book that explained in some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one’s desire for… other forms of stimulation.” He swallowed some water, though it did little to alleviate the desert inside, “Have you ever read anything on that subject?” 

He was acutely conscious of the gleeful shock on Shadowheart and Karlach’s faces. He bit down on the inside of his lip and swayed a bit on his feet before relief consumed him as Tav spoke: “Read it?” she said softly, but with a knowing glint in her eyes that made Gale’s heart flutter, “I could have written the damn thing...” he saw her swallow hard, the hallow of her neck calling out to him like a siren song. What he would give to flick his tongue along the vulnerable skin.  

Gale cleared his throat, shifting to conceal his growing arousal. Thank the gods he was wearing a loose robe.”Oh…” he took a deep breath, a lopsided grin betraying his wanton need, “Then might I suggest we pool our knowledge. No sense in letting valuable, first hand experience go to waste.” He tried to steady himself as his mind whirled with salacious details, the lustful heat seeping through his body and soul. He wanted more than her physical body. He wanted all of her - her mind, her soul. To bond with her in a tantric, unworldly experience. “Perhaps it’s just the thrill of our near-undead experience talking, but standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair...my Gods..” Gale’s face softened, his voice cool. He couldn’t quite manage the rest once he realized he saw the same hunger, the ache in her soul.

The words lodged in his throat, unable to be uttered and so they lingered invisibly in the air: it only makes me want you more. 

He wasn't able to spare himself further embarrassment. “Gale - did you just,” Shadowheart broke the silence, “I’m sorry, did you just tell Tav you wanted to have sex with her by citing a book?” Shadowheart giggled, though not out of malice. "After we just murdered a teeming host of winged horrors and a mangled, freaky-cultist? I didn't think you had it in you, to be honest."

The way Karlach began to crack up made his ears burn. The air seemed to crackle, alive and whipping with the impending storm of two bodies desperate to intertwine. Gale and Tav were side by side, he staring down into her enrapturing eyes and allowed himself to indulge in every inch of her face, her body…

Karlach started: “So, Tav, are you going to let the wizard ba-“ 

But before she could finish her sentiment, Jaheira bounded up the stairs, accosting them and Isobel. The conversation would have to wait. 

#gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 brainrot #gale x tav #god gale #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 gale fic #bg3 gale x tav fanfiction #bg3 angst fic #bg3 enemies to lovers #bg3 gale x tav #bg3 fanart #gale fanfiction #gale smut #baldurs gate gale #shadowheart

[officialunitedstates]

And there I stood on the precipice right outside the great verdant castle, its walls and gates themselves towering over the South Atlantic on the border between Português y Español. 500 years of colonization had led to the great structure behind me, and billions of years had led to the ocean before me, yet we call one a marvel and the other a geographic fact. How many had looked upon this same ocean, with their back at the same fortress, with their mind on the same thoughts I now drew? I picked up the soil from below me, letting it sift and slide through my hands. Gravity cleaned them completely. Even the specks of the earth did not dare stay with me. Then, out in the distance, a dot of gray. A ship? It had to be, simply deduced. What else would dwell far out amongst the blue; what else would dare? And on that ship, was there anyone with a spyglass, a telescope, who would venture their eyes upon the upper coast and spot me, peering without aid onto their vessel? Many paths, one self, and one mind to use to compensate the course, to steer and navigate the soul. I had been here before, I thought, throughout my life, yet never had I reached the same climax of suspense, the same clifftop. I had distractions back then, I had mortal others, but most terrifyingly I had a freely-provided shovel and endless soil to bury it all away in a nice and clean pile. And still more, I never dared climb the cliff to begin with; I never dared to stand with the castle at my back. My civilization, my decade, wasted? Yes, wasted. 10 years of lies, of angst, of waiting for nothing to happen. Who was I to do this to myself? Who was I to meander through the maze of society's corruption and seemingly attractive pits? Where was I hoping to arrive if not back at the original start after trekking through mire and empty mirth? What was I if not pitifully self-righteous, ignorant, foolish. He laid my path before me 29 years ago, when all the doctors thought I may have not even started it, or reached it only to succumb to some of the worst afflictions humans face. But then I was born, free of it all. I thought myself as burdened these past years, but no, I was in fact weightless. I had only to take the easiest steps with the lamp at my feet and the light on my path. To follow the one who had laid that path before me. I had only to progress, to trust, to believe, to pour out. What could I do now but smile? Rejoice in knowing that I have turned the corner, that I had climbed the cliff, that I had the great, green castle at my back, and that I had the great, blue ocean of possibilities in front of me, endlessly spewing forth water and life. I did not need to climb up this mountain to see it, but now that I had, my vision was clear, and I could see in all the good and great glory what awaits before me, and what awaits everyone else as well.

#art

[junuve]

how to lose a year of progress in one easy step

funny nier-fic-series related things i will lump into one post:

there is a fic in my nier series about the child soldier who would become grimoire noir having his memories selectively deleted and altered to create the "grimoire noir" as we know him. it is... absolutely as mindmelting to read as it sounds, and i cant imagine finishing up reading it at 5am, which someone did, to very "i feel like im having a stroke" effect

i commented on someone's choice of og nier music in a video as opposed to the 1.22 version, thinking it was a great pick considering the context the specific track was used in (and my preference for that song's original version vs the remaster) to which the op responded "wait are you THE junuve? the one who wrote the gestalt fic series?" to which im like "yes???" and then they proceeded to act like posting an unhealthy amount of fanfiction online is something admirable. sarcasm aside i enjoyed the exchange a lot :D

it has been a year since the last update on an unfinished fic in the series and not too long ago i thought i had deleted my ENTIRE wip, which was sorta fine since i had a backup of almost everything, but less fine since i had not yet backed up the next few chapters of the unfinished fic (BACK UP YOUR SHIT OBSESSIVELY FOLKS)

#junuve says things #we foolish vessels #writing

[sky-kiss]

Hello my friend!! My stinky cheese!

Do you think Raphael would bond at all with a Tav who also hates their father (cough cough kinda like Durge cough cough)?

If so, could I request a prompt where Raph reacts to Tav (female) just getting really angry/upset about that familial void that he can so relate to.

I know this isn't gonna be easy, but I wish you luck wrangling the beast 🫡

A/N: I opted for mother vs. father. Since you vetoed me from using Durge, it’s a Tav. A Lolth-Sworn Drow. This….is not quite the prompt. I’m sorry, love.

______________

In nearly two thousand years of living, Raphael has welcomed all sorts of souls to his door. Spurned lovers, vengeful rulers, petulant children; he is all things to all people, as any devil worth their salt could attest. And for all those souls and all those years, he can say he has felt true camaraderie only a handful of times.

He counts the drow among them. 

Tav regards him with interest from the start. No fear, only a culturally conditioned lust. He is power and ambition made flesh; he is a steppingstone and tool, or so she imagines. Bless her little heart. She will use him and expects to be used in turn; it is a charmingly simplistic exchange. 

Tit for tat, love. Information for the Orthon. A hammer for a crown. He comes to her in the aftermath of the invasion, surprised to find her languishing in the Elfsong. She has talked of naught but her return to the Underdark. 

“You linger, little mouse. Have we grown fond of the surface-dwellers?”

She smiles, teeth too white in the elegant darkness of her face. A curtain of platinum hair falls over her shoulder. Tav is a stunning representation of the breed. She steps aside to grant him entry to her suite. “Don’t be foolish. My delay is purely practical.” Tav settles in one of the rich wingbacks, looking for all the world a queen. “I wanted to make certain you’d find me.” 

“Oh, always, sweetling. Wherever you go, rest assured I will find you.” He plucks her hand from the armrest, kissing the back of her knuckles. “That lovely little soul of yours bears my mark.”

“Lolth will not be pleased.” 

“The Spider Bitch was long since defanged. Her dissatisfaction means nothing to me. ” Tav’s expression softens. Her eyes remain the rest of those sworn to the mistress of the Demonweb pits, but her loyalties have shifted. “But your satisfaction, my little treat, means everything. Tell us what you need.” 

“I’ve been absent from Menzoberranzan too long. Before the,” she hesitates a moment, “incident. I had intended to wrest my House from the Matron Mother’s control.” 

“Matricide, is it? How delightful.” 

“You know how parents can be.” 

“Don’t I just.” Raphael chuckles. He seats himself beside her. The proximity of the chairs and his size leaves his knee fetching up against hers. Tav shifts, hooking her foot behind his ankle. Brave girl. “And you are lucky, pet. I have a soft spot for rebellious princes and princesses.” 

She rests her chin in the palm of her hand. Lovely and so willing to treat with him. He’s struck again by how odd it is to see yourself reflected in a mortal vessel. There are scars across the pretty things back, left by lash and more inventive forms of torture typical to the species. And he sees the same hate in her eyes. A burning desire for more, to take what she's owed. “Let us discuss terms, love of mine.” The endearment makes him laugh; there is no love, not even an echo of it, in her voice. Only hunger. “Passage to Menzoberranzan.” 

“Only passage? I might offer you power. And more.”

“And more?” She arches a brow, stroking his calf with her foot. “And the cost?” 

“Negotiable, pet. We might even defer it…a Matron Mother will not lack resources. Power today for payment tomorrow. A generous offer, no?” 

Tav chews at her lower lip. “And if I proposed an alliance? To swear myself to you for this power, to pledge my House to your service…what would you offer?” And it is odd, so odd, to feel a pang of lust after so many centuries. “I would see my mother consumed by her damned spiders. After that…” she shrugs. “I’ll admit to having a fondness for rebel princes, myself.” 

“How convenient.” 

And she enjoys his words from so many months prior. “Isn’t it just?” 

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #asks #my writing #he was originally gonna give her a smooch and change her eye color #but i still have a case study to write lol #please know that he shows up at her house in the Underdark after she's conquered #and they throw down

[orcinus-veterinarius]

Wait, what’s the deal with seashepard? I grew up w a family that supported them and literally bought their merch and stuff

I was the same way! I thought they were so cool after watching Whale Wars. But unfortuantely, despite agreeing with their mission to end commercial whaling, I think their dangerous methods (not to mention their extreme anti-zoo and anti-Indigenous rhetoric) ultimately cause a lot more harm than good. Assaulting and harrassing whalers and sealers, many of whom rely on hunting to feed their families, isn't going to inspire any change. I've been told by folks that have had interactions with Sea Shepherd members that they have a reputation for alienating the communities they enter and being rude and aggressive to both locals and other anti-whaling organizations.

Captain Paul Watson founded Sea Shepherd in 1977 after leaving Greenpeace for disapproving of his "direct action" approaches. In 1986, Watson lead an attack on unoccupied whaling vessels in Iceland that got his group branded as terrorists. The act ultimately had a counterintuative effect, "turn[ing] Icelandic public opinion against the cause of saving whales" (x). In 2013, they were even labeled as "pirates" by a U.S. court for their aggressive actions toward occupied Japanese whaling ships: "When you ram ships; hurl containers of acid; drag metal-reinforced ropes in the water to damage propellers and rudders; launch smoke bombs and flares with hooks; and point high-powered lasers at other ships, you are, without a doubt, a pirate, no matter how high-minded you believe your purpose to be" (x). Sea Shepherd actually removed Watson in 2022 in an attempt to separate itself from his more radical tactics (and outstanding arrest warrants) and go legitmate. PETA denounced this as a betrayal to the animal rights movement.

Watson started his own organization (yet again), and Sea Shepherd is now lead by real estate mogul Pritam Singh. But I still hesitate to support them. In their bid to gain custody of Wikie and Keijo, they make several alarming statements, claiming that Nova Scotia is too cold for them since all they know is warm Mediterranean water (neglecting the fact that their habitat is chilled, something that can't be done in a pen) and that relocating to a sea pen in France will somehow be less stressful than moving to another pool. Wikie and Keijo were both born in the Marineland tanks. Even if we believe that a pen will be more beneficial to their welfare in the long run, it's downright foolish to claim that a pen is the "least stressful option." No one on their team has remotely any experience in captive cetacean husbandry, so they plan to continue employing Marineland trainers. Maybe don't accuse a group of animal abuse and then ask them to come work for you?

#don't let anyone use this as proof I support whaling #I hate whaling #especially on an industrial scale #but ecoterrorism isn't the answer #sea shepherd #answered asks #saltair-and-palemoonlight

[bewwy]

I can't stop thinking about Philza and Forever's arc right now. Each going to the oposite side.

Philza finding a safe heaven, of someone of great power, but that lacks an actual influence in the world right now, maybe it's the lack of a vessel, or maybe being to far to actually intervine.

Forever being currepted, by something of great in fluence, but lacks actual power. It's strength comes from it's ability to intervene, but doesn't have any real mysticism to it, after all, those that have been touched by it still need to use swords and guns.

I wonder if this is will turn to an actual confrontation. The Black versus the Rose, we know in a meta sensse, that the admins can give players certain power ups, such as Foolish's speed on water, it would ve interesting to see it developed further.

Philza making plants grow with a touch, or unlimited acces to healing potions. Forever maybe being able to give blindness when he fights someone.

I really like the theme of oposoties in the QSMP, the federation vs the evil cucurucho, chaos against order, rebelion versus government. And now nature against curruption.

#bewwy talk's #qsmp #q!forever #q!philza

[alwaysonf1]

will you?

Pairing: Charles LeClerc x Hamilton!OC

Genre: Slice of Life; Fluff

Word Count: 1.4k

Warning: N/A

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: N/A

The wind kicks up and Charles feels yet another spray of salt water on his face. It’s happened enough times in the last few minutes that his lips were in a firm line before any could get into his mouth. He would prefer to avoid it all together, but unlike a few of the others he refused to retreat into the enclosed spaces of the yacht.

Not until everyone was out of the water.

Though there was a storm rolling through it was so mild that everyone continued on with what they were doing. But the wind became a little worse with each passing minute, which led to more people scrambling to get inside and away from the slightly more intense waves and the unending water sprayed in their face.

Almost everyone was out of the water. Except Lewis and Iman. They’d been asked or prompted to get back on the boat, but both were in life vests and no more than a foot from the ladder that would bring them up. They appeared calm despite the nature of the water around them and even when water slams into their faces, they wipe it away and continue talking.

If Charles didn’t think they were a little foolish for this he would be in awe of their relationship. Honestly, even thinking that they both needed to be questioned about such a decision he was still in awe. He always was. They work in the same ways that he does with his brothers, but there is some level of respect that he is amazed by. He respects and loves his brothers, but he’s seen how others are when there are several years between siblings. Even more so when they’re at different places in their life. But with those two, none of that matters. They treat each other as equals, as adults, and maintain the sibling dynamic.

  As Charles comes to the end of his thoughts on their relationship, he wonders if that is part of why he’s so enamored with Iman. Or if seeing them is what has made him like this. She’s just… he can’t put it into words.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Charles’ head turns to see the captain of the vessel. A man who is the one constant for the yacht crew. And someone who refuses to call him Charles no matter how many times he reminds him it’s something he would be okay with.

“Yes?” he asks.

“The storm is almost done with this area, but we think the eye is fast approaching and think that everyone should get out of the water and venture inside.”

“I’ll make sure they do.”

The captain nods and leaves.

Not wanting to waste time Charles makes his way to the ladder. He throws down one of the life rings and both of them look up. Without a word they nod and Lewis motions for Iman to go up first. She does and Charles helps her to get onto the deck and then helps Lewis.

On cue the rain gets heavier, so they carefully run inside. The crew pass them massive towels and warm drinks the moment they’re inside. When the door behind them closes they all release a sigh of relief. And for Charles the cold sets into his bones. He finds himself drinking some of his tea quickly, not caring that it burns his tongue.

“That was close. You were tempting fate,” Pierre says from his seated position next to a shaking Kika.

Charles inclines his head. “It was these two.”

Everyone looks to Iman and Lewis, but neither says anything, they just shrug. 

Silence prevails for a few minutes as everyone drinks and holds their towels tight. There’s heat pumping through the space, but it’s not working fast enough.

Logan walks into the dining area where they are. He’s freshly showered and dressed in other clothing. Charles raises a brow.

“Done for the day?” he asks.

Logan nods enthusiastically. “Not risking getting sick by going back out there after the storm passes.”

It’s understandable and as Charles looks around the room, he notices the others seem to be coming to the same conclusion. Carlos is almost already on his feet, but his girlfriend keeps him in place.

“Should we call it a day?” Charles asks.

They’re all nodding before he can finish the sentence. He almost laughs at that.

“Okay, I’ll tell the captain.”

With that everyone dispersed to their rooms and presumably their bathrooms. Charles told the captain the change of plans and was told they’d head back to shore once the storm passed. After he heads to his own space and makes quick work of getting out of his soaked swim shorts and into the shower.

Once he’s done, he gets dressed and messes with his hair a little, then he heads out to the small observation room that’s on the boat. He thought it was a little silly to not just go sit out in the open to get a view at first, but after one day needing a moment alone, he found he likes to sit inside away from it all, but still privy to what’s going on. 

Even though the storm is still happening, it’s calming. Which makes him understand the Hamilton siblings not wanting to leave the water until they had to.

Footsteps behind him make him turn his head and his eyes land on Iman. Her braids are free of the ponytail she’d put them in before getting in the water and she’s wearing a yellow dress that suits her. She looks hesitant, but Charles taps the space next to him on the little couch and she takes the seat without saying a word.

At one point in their relationship, they would have sat apart from each other, but she sits with barely an inch between them and he wraps his arm around the back of her side of the couch. 

For several minutes they sit like that. Taking in the way the rain lets up and light starts to creep back into the sky. In the distance the worst of the storm is making the waves massive, but it barely affects the water in front of them. 

Something that Charles is thankful for because the mild rocking he could feel was bound to make him seasick.

“We should’ve expected a storm would come out,” Iman says.

He turns his head to look at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Its arrival has been pushed back for days. There was no way we would have the luck of it not raining at all.”

After a second of thought Charles agrees with her. He’s no stranger to unpredictable weather and knows that it comes when it wants to. Not caring about anything that humans have planned.

“Hm,” is all he says.

They return to their silence and he feels Iman’s body relax and her head droops to the side. He closes their small gap so that her head meets his shoulder and she can be comfortable. She softly whispers thanks, and he can’t help but look at her.

The sun is almost fully overtaking the sky, birds are flying, and the sounds of life are back, but he can’t bring himself to watch anything but her.

Since the kiss they’ve been more affectionate than usual, but nothing has really happened or been said. There were many times he wanted to say something, but just like the kiss it didn’t feel like the most fitting time. He didn’t need it to be perfect, but while out to dinner with friends and through call, text, or facetime weren’t either.

Now did though.

“I have… a question.”

“Hm…” she murmurs.

“Or it’s more of a request. I’d like to take you on a date.”

Iman sits up and her back is ramrod straight. The sudden shift was expected, but it still does nothing to help Charles’ pointless nerves.

“Yes,” she says. 

It’s clear and leaves no room for uncertainty or fear. Hearing it makes Charles relax even though he thought he already was. 

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

They smile at each other and Charles leans toward her, not stopping until his lips are against hers. When he pulls away, he knows he has a silly smile on his face, but he can’t help it. Iman resumes her position and he finally wraps his around her like he wanted to from the start.

#charles leclerc x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x black!reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 fanfic #charles leclerc x black!reader #charles leclerc x oc #charles leclerc fan fiction #charles leclerc fanfic #formula one x oc #formula 1 x oc

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So it seems like your requests are open? Cool! I have an idea for COTL! Lamb! Reader is Narinder's chosen vessel rather than the Lamb, and they're EXHAUSTED after everything that's happened. So when Narinder summons them, they say "what if I say "no?"" Narinder just goes, "what?" And they respond "listen, I just died, watched my entire race die, and have been running for my entire life. Can I at least have a break before I get thrown into this?" I just thought it would be funny XD

"Come closer. Fear not, for though you are already dead....I still have need of you."

Standing silently in the white void, you gazed up at the giant feline bishop--a god chained as you, a sacrificial lamb, were now. His arms were stripped to the bone, iron clasps keeping him shackled to the ground and preventing him from freely moving them around too much.

Yet despite him being imprisoned like some caged beast...he seemed no-less revering, and you couldn't help but admire him..

Even if he is the reason you were sent to your death.

Lambs all over the Old Faith were murdered in cold blood, their children snatched and butchered and their villages sieged by the fanatics of the five ruling Bishops. You had been on the run for weeks, without knowing why exactly they targeted your kind specifically.

What did such peaceful wool-covered creatures ever do to deserve this sort of horrible fate?

Only after they have captured you did you realize you were the last living lamb...and that the Bishops put all the others to the blade for one reason:

A prophecy.

A prophecy that spoke of their banished brother--the "One Who Waits"--being freed from his chains by a lamb who'd serve as his vessel and destroy the ways of the Old Faith from the inside out.

For that, the Bishops left none alive in hopes of stopping the prophecy from ever taking place, wanting to ensure the "heretic" stayed in captivity forever.

However after your execution, their plan seemed to have gone awry...considering you, a lamb, stood before the very person they desperately didn't want you to see.

"Those foolish Bishops thought they could keep you from me in death, but instead they sent you straight to me!" Narinder boasted. "I will give you life again, but at a price."

You nervously gulped. "And..what would that be?"

"All I ask is for you to start a cult in my name. Do we have a deal?"

".....what if..I said no?"

"....what?" He narrowed his eyes in confusion, surprised that you didn't readily agree to his offer like other vessels before you. They all jumped at the chance to come back to life..but not you. He began to feel a little insulted.

"Do you take me for a liar, little lamb?" He sneered. "Have you no desire for vengeance against the ones who senselessly destroyed everything you knew and loved? Believe it or not, I can give you that power-"

"I-I absolutely believe you, my lord." You quickly backtracked, kneeling down in respect. "I want that more than anything. It's just...so much has happened all at once. My village burning down, my capture, my death...I haven't known peace until I was sent here. I think..t-taking a small breather first would help me feel better prepared to start a cult in your great name..."

You felt like you rambled a bit too long for his liking, seeing as his stoic expression didn't once waver. Even the smaller cat guardians flanking him hadn't moved an inch, although the one in a white cloak did open his eyes, flashes of concern in them.

Yet Narinder's silence was most discomforting, as you feared that you've angered him and he was going to revoke the offer.

Bowing your head even lower, you squeezed your eyes shut, trembling. "Forgive me, I-I spoke out of turn. I..don't think I'm the right fit to be your vessel-"

However you stopped all movements as you no longer felt the weight of the chains holding you down. And you realized they had disappeared, allowing you to move your arms freely.

Although your neck still ached tremendously...at least the clasp wasn't crushing it anymore.

"No. You are the one I need...for it cannot be anybody else." His voice purred, causing you to look back up at him. This time his gaze seemed softer. "I seldom know what has transpired in the realm of the living..seeing only mere glimpses of certain events. But you've given me better understanding of your tragic circumstances. So I will allow you a brief moment of tranquility to prepare you for your task ahead."

You lightly gasped, smiling as you jumped up into a standing position, hands clasped together in relief. "Oh, thank you so much-!"

"Do not assume I shall always be this charitable." His voice went right back to being condescending. "Take gratitude that I permitted this...and do not ask me for anymore favors henceforth. When you lead a cult, you may not always get "breathers"."

"..I-I understand." You rubbed your neck bashfully. "I appreciate this a lot."

"So I reckon we have a deal? When you're ready, I will guide you on what must be done, and you shall take the Red Crown atop my head to fulfill your mission."

"Very well. I shall gladly serve you and repay the debt I owe."

Narinder blinked, silent for a few long moments, before he grinned wickedly, sharp teeth spreading from ear-to-ear. All three of his eyes seemed to glow brighter.

"Excellent. You understand what must be done and already show such strong devotion to me...you'll be my finest vessel yet."

#clanask #anonymous #cotl x reader #cult of the lamb x reader #lamb reader #cotl narinder #platonic