#in the corsair’s bed

[majessticaf]

[moondirti]

privateer! johnny mactavish, whose only job is to raid and rob foreign vessels under arms, taking them for condemnation and their crews as prisoner for exchange. he isn’t a pirate per se – he really prefers the term corsair, if the letter of marque framed in his cap’s office has anything to say about that—

finds a stowaway on his very own ship. clever little thing must have wormed her way through from another vessel during one of their assaults, because gaz makes good work of checking for hitchers before they sail off. she’s malnourished, dangerously close to developing scurvy, arms bruised in a way no bird’s should be. hair matted, face caked in gunpowder and salt. she can hardly voice her pleas when he comes across her while looking for extra ammunition.

but there’s no need to worry. johnny’s a good man, from a good name. sure he might look a little crazed, sea legs and beard veiling the hero underneath – as though he were just another buccaneer who paves their life’s path taking from innocents – but he only does so to those who deserve it. promise.

and you don’t look like you do. virtuous thing. pretty thing, like a fresh-shelled pearl who has yet to be polished. he won’t tell the crew about your transgression. in fact, he won’t tell them anything about you at all; especially not simon, who treats him as though he were nothing more than an extension of himself. no. this is for him, and for him alone.

he’ll keep you in his room. give you a nice place to rest. feed you orange slices until the colour blooms behind your cheeks. give you baths with a washcloth when he can. checks what all the fuss is about when you cover your tits protectively – he’s only cutting the dirty garbs of ye – to discover that, so long as he assures you that what he’s doing is in your best interest, you’ll let him get away with anything.

like stuffing his nasty fingers in your cunt, tongue notched down your throat to muffle your cries. like feeding you his cock after successful raids, the cork off a bottle of rum plugging your tight ass shut. like folding you in half and jackhammering into your womb, months worth of pent-up sexual energy laying itself onto your poor body.

all the while – as you grow more wary, exhausted – his delusion grows worse.

because what kind of alternative fate would you find out there, with the brutes he calls friends? better off with him, lass. even if you are constantly dripping cum, growing dizzy in his bed while he’s away. at least he was taught how to treat a woman right.

(can’t say the same about simon, who hasn’t fallen short on noticing johnny’s shift in behaviour. the new gait in his step, the dazzle of his smile. his bunk’s only a few doors away, after all. some nights, he swears that the creaks of his bed frame are too loud for even the stormiest of seas to spur.)

[screebyy]

Part 6: The Summit Prev | Next (Soon™️) | Start

Two parts left! sorry to end on a lil cliffhanger of sorts. also sorry i'm going to continue to be very mean to jolyon. also also sorry i will not be finishing this before tfs launches lol 🥲

ID below cut like and subscribe etc

Panel 1: Wide shot of Crow and Jolyon sitting on a rock on the summit of a mountain, looking down at the dreaming city below. The sun is starting to rise over distant mountains, and the dreaming city is covered in taken essence, with black taken orbs hanging all around it. Jolyon is leaning forward with his arms crossed and his elbows resting on his knees, while Crow is leaning back on his hands. Jolyon: “Thanks for doing this with me.” Crow: “Of course. It’s been… really nice, catching up.” Jolyon: “Yeah…

Panel 2: Close up of Jolyon’s hand from the side. He is curling it into a tense fist where it’s resting on his bicep. Jolyon: “... Can I ask…”

Panel 3: Close up of Jolyon’s face in profile. He is staring straight ahead with a pained expression on his face as he speaks. Jolyon: “Why now?”

Panel 4: Side view of Crow as he turns to look at Jolyon. He has a curious expression on his face. Jolyon (offscreen): “A few years ago… I heard about what happened, with Savathun. That you had remembered your past life.”

Panel 5: Side view of Jolyon. He is turning away from the Crow, and his expression is not visible. Jolyon: “When you didn’t reach out… I guess I just assumed you hadn’t remembered me.”

Panel 6: Side view as Crow looks at Jolyon with a mournful expression. Crow: “I…”

Panel 7: Crow turns forward again, looking down at the ground with a sad expression. Crow: “I’m not sure I did, at first.” Panel 8: Flashback of the Radiant Accipiter, idling in empty space. Crow is visible through the windshield of the ship, he is hunched over in the pilot’s chair with his head in his hands while glint floats beside him. Crow (Present day): “He was so far gone at the end - whenever I tried to think about his life, it was like a bomb going off inside my brain.”

Panel 9: Close up of Crow looking down past the camera. He is clutching his face with both hands, one hand is tearing desperately at his hair while the other is covering his cheek, nose and mouth. He has a horrified, distant expression on his face, and a tear is running down his cheek. In the background, a cracked surface shows many scenes from Uldren’s rampage. One fragment shows a close up of Uldren’s eyes as he turns towards the viewer with a hateful expression. Black rivulets of corruption are flowing from his eyes like tears, and the sclera of his corrupted eyes are black and seeping into the iris. Another fragment shows several dead corsairs lying on a stone floor in pools of blood. Another fragment shows a close-up of Cayde-6’s face, staring up at the viewer defiantly. His face plates have been badly damaged. The final fragment shows a close up of Uldren’s hand holding the Ace of Spades hand cannon, with smoke coming out of the barrel. Crow (Present day): “Nothing made sense, all I could feel was… what he felt. The things he did…”

Panel 10: A wide shot of Crow lying in bed, bundled up in his blanket. The room is dark, and a window is open, with bright sunlight shining in through the curtains. Crow (Present day): “But eventually…”

Panel 11: A close up of Crow holding Glint with one hand. Glint’s eye is closed, and he is humming gently. Crow (Present day): “I was able to start picking up the pieces.” Panel 12: Closer shot of Crow lying in bed. He is clutching Glint against his chest with one hand, rubbing his shell gently. With his other hand, he is holding a golden ring on a chain. He is staring blankly at the ring with a sad, tired expression. Crow (Present day): “To put together who he had been before.” Panels 13, 14, 15, and 16: A sequence of fuzzy, incomplete memories. The first is a shot of Jolyon in his uniform, from his waist to his chin. Most of his face is not visible, but he seems to be scowling. He is partially obscured by a misty, dark blue background. The second memory is a shot of Uldren lying back in green grass on a sunny day, eating raspberries. He is looking to his right, at someone just offscreen. He is laughing lightly, and looks peaceful as he holds a raspberry up to his mouth. The third memory is a shot of Jolyon’s dark blue Supremacy rifle leaning against a wall, next to where his green cloak is hanging. The fourth memory is a partial shot of Uldren resting on his hands and knees above Jolyon, who is not visible. Uldren is shirtless, and a golden ring is hanging from a chain around his neck. Jolyon’s hand is reaching into frame, holding the ring in his palm where it hangs. Uldren is smiling down at him warmly. Crow (Present day): “You were… A puzzle that took me a long time to figure out. A face I couldn’t quite name, a feeling I couldn’t quite place.”

Panel 17, 18, and 19: Another sequence of memories, which are more clear than before. The first panel is a head-on shot of Uldren, staring up past the viewer with a confused, strained expression. The scleras of his eyes are black, and the corruption is starting to seep out of them. The second panel is a head-on view of Jolyon, staring down at Uldren with an intense, searching expression. The third panel is of Uldren, who is looking away to scratch at his right eye with the heel of his hand. His hands are cuffed together at the wrist, and he looks frustrated, and distracted. Crow (Present day): “When it finally came together, And I realized how terrible he had been to you… I was too ashamed.” Panel 20: In the present day, Crow is leaning forward, and staring distantly down at the ground, while Jolyon watches him talk. Crow: “To let himself fade away like that, to forget you, while you were standing right in front of him…”

Panel 21: Close up of Jolyon as he looks away, and stares sadly into the distance. His brow is furrowed and he looks conflicted and tired. Crow (offscreen): “I didn’t think I could face you, after that. I didn’t think you’d want me to.” Jolyon: “...”

Panel 22: front view of Crow and Jolyon sitting side by side. Crow is leaning forward heavily, looking down at the ground with a grim, slightly frustrated expression. Jolyon is turning slightly towards Crow, though he is not looking directly at him and is expression is sad and distant. Jolyon: “What changed your mind?”

Panel 23: Close up of Jolyon’s face. He looks slightly surprised and is looking directly at Crow, offscreen. Crow (offscreen): Petra.

Panel 24: Shot of Crow as he hunches away from Jolyon, rubbing his right arm self-consciously. He is glancing out of the corner of his eyes back at Jolyon with an uncertain, guilty expression. Crow: “Last week, hunting Riven’s eggs took us… Somewhere that reminded me of you.”

Panel 25:  Close up of Jolyon as he watches Crow out of the corner of his eyes. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he looks uncertain.

Crow (offscreen): “After we got back, I asked Petra how you had been, and…”

Panel 26: Close up of Crow. He is smiling lightly, staring down at the ground with a distant, soft expression and blushing faintly. Crow: “She talked some sense into me. Reminded me that I shouldn’t just assume you were better off never knowing me. That I at least owed you the chance to make that decision for yourself.”

Panel 27: front view of Crow and Jolyon sitting side by side. Crow is turning back towards Jolyon with a soft smile. Jolyon is also looking at Crow, smiling faintly. Crow: “I guess… some things haven’t really changed, right?” Jolyon: “Ha.”

Panel 28: Close up of Jolyon’s face from the side. He is staring straight ahead again, smiling faintly. Jolyon: “Right…”

Panel 29:  Jolyon looks slightly down, his smile has fallen and his brow has furrowed as his expression grows distant. Dark, scratchy marks are bleeding into the edge of the panel, fading out the edges. Jolyon: “...”

Panel 30: extreme close up of Jolyon’s eye, squeezed shut. Dark scratchy marks surround the panel, creating a chaotic background and bleeding into the panel. Voice offscreen: “Jolyon…”

Panel 31: A younger version of Jolyon turns towards the camera from the side, with a confused expression. His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he is wearing a light green sweatshirt. The background is faded purples and blues, and Jolyon is outlined in surreal surreal shades of pink and purple. The panel is outlined by dark scratch marks, spiky thorns, and black flowers outlined in vibrant shades of pink, purple, and green. The text bubbles appear to be glitching out, with scratchy fragments coming out of them. Voice offscreen: “Why’d you do it?” Jolyon: “What?”

Panel 32: Shot of Uldren sitting on a rock, from behind. He is leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees, and staring down at the ground. His hair is falling over his face, and his expression is not visible. The surreal lighting continues in this panel, and Uldren is outlined in pinks and purples with the panel being surrounded by dark scratch marks, spiky thorns, and black flowers outlined in bright colors. Uldren: “Why did you come with us, Jol?”

[kit-williams]

-hands payment type of your choosing-

I'll have one ticket to the 'Lamenters/Blood Angels being able to smell and/or consume menstrual blood, possibly even having a preference for it or maybe just liking that they can get blood without killing their favorite person' please. Feel free to toy with it at your leisure, I will enjoy anything you make even somewhat close to this topic >:D

and of course take your time, I'm just putting this in the box for whenever/if you want to write the idea

And you get the honor of seeing the latest OC... A Khornite Lamenter of the Red Corsairs... Berserker Varial Blood-drinker or also known as Varial the Insatiable.

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

@nekotaetae @sleepyfan-blog

tw: somnophilia, blood, idk do I put slavery and limb loss because that just feels par for the course for 40k

"Cherish?" Varial's rage rotted mind woke up to the smell of sweet blood and instantly called out for his reward.

The maimed slave known as 'Cherish' was asleep next to her master. Varial had to maim her or else she would end up like other Cherish's that did not obey and it would leave him inconsolable. How his jaws clamped down on one of her legs. He did not like it when his Cherished screamed... it brought up painful memories... all their screams did. Her leg was healing up nicely but his room smelt of blood.

He moved over to the locked door sniffing the seams wondering if they were trying to lure him out... no the door was still locked. Panic rushed into his rage rotted mind as he went over to Cherish, her hair kept short to keep it out of the way of his mouth, did he bite her? She whined at his rough handling... then why did he smell Cherish's blood?

A memory floated through the miasma of rage that often occupied his mind. Back upon Badab a slave explaining why she smelt of blood and ways she could relieve it. The dirty threadbare outfit that Cherish wore was lifted up as Varial his nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of old blood... old tissue... mixed with her feminine discharge of that acidic crevice of her body. Moments where words wanted to come to him yet flee him upset the corrupted Lamenter as he could remember poetic songlike prose spilling from his mouth with ease now he struggles to string sentences together... but the price he must pay for the thirst to be quenched and his foul luck kept at bay.

A long slow lick up his beloved Cherish's thighs licking up the smeared blood there before he stuck his tongue deep between her folds. She mewled so sweetly... he always picked good Cherishs' who made such good noises for him... made Varial feel so good... His warped mouth opens up just a little too wide as his mutated black tongue pushes deep inside. Arousal burns in his nose as her fingers grip the bedding tightly as she moans still stuck in a haze of sleep. Globs of sheded lining cling to his tongue as he pulls it back into his maw and snapping his jaws in a pleased motion before repeating his intrusion into her woman hood.

"Cherish!" He trills pleased by her; He cherished her... he cherished her... that's all he could remember at times was his need to cherish a mortal... they only let him have one mortal at a time to cherish. Talons push into the flesh of her thighs as he feasts on the blood offering. "Cherish!" He trills again getting excited.

"Varial!" A voice hisses on the vox causing him to look to the door. It was his handler. "Stupid thing..." he hears the fellow traitor astartes mumble, "We're going to need you planet side to scare the mortals." Varial did not care... his Cherish was bleeding for him and his head dipped back between her thighs to listen to her breathy whimpers. "VARIAL stop acting like some pussy drunk Slaaneshi-"

The cord snapped hard as his body slammed into the door it holding but barely finally startling his Cherish awake as she scrambled to the corner, pleasing Varial as her blood smeared onto his pillow. He snarled and snapped his maw at the vox caster before turning around to grab the splotchy red helm where faded yellow paint could be seen between the chipping red paint.

"Cherish!" He says again reaching out to her and pulling her into a hug and nuzzling her head, "Be good. Stay. Come back soon." His rough unnaturally deepened voice clips out those basic sentences as anymore he turns into a snarling mess. She just nodded weakly as he puts her in his spot in the bed before heading over to the door. At least he had something to quench his thirst. Lest he try to take a bit of his handler... oh... he would eventually run out of luck but Varial was patient... he could wait to taste astartes blood on his tongue.

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt2 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

After a recurring nightmare, you and Sam decide to open the shop early...only to have an early arriving customer.

Part 1, part 3

Oh, the boy's a slag, the best you ever had

The best you ever had is just a memory and those dreams

Weren't as daft as they seem, not as daft as they seemed

My love, when you dream them up

You awoke with a jolt at your alarm, the cursed song striking once more before you could silence your phone. As you sit up the irony is not lost on you. Your dreams of late had been haunted by the caricature of your ex, some cartoon evil laugh chasing with the constant ringing of your phone. The dreams always ended the same, except for this last night:

He was upon you in a moment, clawed hand reaching up your leg. You kick and kick but the words never escape your sewn mouth. The words of your ex-coworker swarm you like angry flies, bold and ugly.

“Disgraceful”

“Stepped over for the CEO’s daughter”

“They were shoddy anyway…”

The voices all fade into your ex’s final words to you: “I never loved you anyway.”

That crushed your heart into ash and scattered it into the indifferent winds. But before he could drag you back, a shape formed in your conscience. Heavy boot steps silence the laughter and a large figure passes in your peripheral vision. In the haze of your dream, he passes the shelves, the bookstore emerging from the darkness to surround your ex and the harpies. 

Your panic slows in the familiar setting and with a kick you send your ex stumbling backward. Turning your face up from the hardwood floor you look towards the figure as the haze clears. It's a man, tall and in black, just browsing but something draws your eye. And as you feel yourself awaken his eyes, hardwood and honey, meet yours. 

You hear shuffling before there is a knock on your door. You call him in and Sam’s head pops in. Green eyes hidden behind black curls meet yours and he pauses upon seeing your slouched shoulders.

“Nightmare again?” He kicks a pair of jeans aside and enters your room.

You stand, make your bed swiftly, and turn to address him in the glory of your Rainbow Fish Pajamas. 

“Yeah, except there was a man this-”

“You got Soap on the brain again?” It comes out immediately and you flush before rushing forward to hit your older brother figure. He was and wasn't wrong. In the following weeks after Soap’s initial visit you found yourself developing a steady friendship with the Scot, who insisted on dropping in every other day. It started with recommendations but quickly turned into shared tea over book conversations. You learned a little about him in the meantime, finding out he worked as a bartender literally down the street from your little shop. The convenience of his closeness and his ease of personality found you a fast and steady friend. 

“-despite your obvious stupidity, no I do not like him!” You huffed, and it was true! Soap was handsome but in truth, you believed that one he was in a relationship and second he was better as a prospective friend. 

Sam grins, dodging your poor attempt to smack him as he spins out of your room,

“He is hot though, poor lad probably gets hit on every shift. Remember we promised to visit on Saturday night! Come on let's open up the store early. I have a good feeling about today!” And with a clap of his hands for you to hurry he closes your door, exiting down the hall towards the kitchen. In a moment you can hear him lighting the stove to make breakfast. 

In the resulting silence, you dress yourself, passing a reflection of yourself in the mirror and choosing to ignore it. Your laptop sits beside your current project: A Smith Corona Corsair, one of the few possessions you had brought with you. The typewriter was the start of your writing career and you kept it well-tuned for work. 

You run a soft hand over its polished ivory keys. The mint blue of the case had a few scratches but was mostly worn from love. You remember as a child hammering on the keys, which graduated into a curiosity for mechanical machines and writing. The stone kept tumbling after you finished your Master’s in English and first stepped into the editing business. In the topsy-turvy world you found yourself in a comfortable position as an editor for a company, a year in deciding to write your books and the rest was history. 

You close the typewriter and quickly change into a manageable but comfy outfit then head out into the hall. Closing your door, you head down the hallway of your small flat, passing photos from back home with Sam. Taking a right you pass into the open concept of the apartment (Sam’s room was straight across the hall from yours). You pad softly on the carpet, stepping onto the rug and into the kitchen where Sam is making breakfast. He flips a pancake as bacon sizzles on the griddle. Running a hand to his shoulder you lean over to see how it was coming, sufficiently satisfied at his improving cooking skills.

“You are learning well”

“I get it from the best” he replies pulling you in for a small hug and a kiss to the side of your head. He releases you at the ding of 8 am on the clock. 

“You want breakfast up here?” You hover over the cabinet of plates, proceeding to pull two out for the food with silverware following. 

“Nah, let's just open shop, I'll eat in the sitting area before cleaning the book return. Can you take the counter today?”

You nod and shift aside so he can plate the food. The Ghibli style meal looks filling and you sigh, you go to take a swipe at the fresh pancakes but Sam dances aside.

“Wait till we’re downstairs.” He follows it up by gathering the silverware and heading towards the stairs. You pout and go to open the door for him and proceed to follow him down the hardwood stairs.

---

You set up post at the counter by 8:11, a plate of food set aside the stack of holds. Some paperbacks gleam with a glossy finish, while other hardbacks are nice with matte coats. Before your eye moves away you catch the shine of antiqued gold. You gently move the top books aside to grab the fabric-bound hardback: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea by Jules Verne.  It looked to be a 50s-60s American release, bound with an inner marbled coat of paper and inlaid with gold foil lettering. The deep aqua of the fabric was barely worn, you wondered if the book had ever been read at all with the great condition it was in. You looked inside the cover for a name but on a a shibu inu shaped sticky note were the initials S.R.

Huh, that's interesting. You ran a hand over the scripting, it wasn't Sam nor your handwriting. You shrug. They must be regular then. You and Sam had a ‘write and set aside’ policy in the store. 

It was an unspoken rule amongst the two of you (and the regulars) that if a book turned up on the counter like this, with a name, it was put ‘on hold’. You set the beautiful book aside with a final glance, then turned your attention to breakfast. 

After finishing your meal you opened the doors to the bookstore at an early 8:34 am. Turning back to the counter you head over and hook your phone up to the music. You flip through Your Love first then frown, the implications of the song a bit much, next Jessie’s Girl. At Rick Springfield’s voice, you sigh, flashes of the girl your ex dumped, and you turn the song again. Then finally the sweet guitar riff and a beat that puts you on your toes kicks up. From the back of the shelves, Sam's head full of hair pokes out.

“It's been a while since we've had a Bowie day!”

You smile back at him as Modern Love kicks up. You sway from around the corner and flip the sign to open, you turn on the neon sign and turn to go stock the sitting area when there’s an immediate ding of the bell as someone enters. You turn around as Sam calls a Welcome in from the back of the store. The first sight that hits you is a literal wall of a man, then there is the smell of worn leather and pine. You step back with a small oh in surprise. 

He wears all black except for a pair of well-fitting jeans and leather boots. As your eyes trace up his tall figure you catch a snug shift with a leather jacket fitted over. Then a black surgical mask and…you freeze. Looking down at you with a slight sense of amusement are eyes the color of darkened honey. 

The man from your dream! But in the flesh and oh…

“I am so sorry!” You wave your hand in front of you a little shy to be caught staring.

The man offers no more than a slight nod with amusement dancing in his eyes. He regards you a moment before mentioning in a low voice, rough but soft:

“No worries dove.”

And with that he steps around you, brushing your arm with the slightest touch of leather, and disappears into the books.

You stand for a moment more before a blush runs up your face and a tingle runs down your spine.

Fuck.

END

I love writing this. I am no longer bored in the library thank you to these lovely people (Taglist!)

@ghostlythots

[tobylix-blog]

Vita sine libertate nihil* - Aragorn x Reader

Content & Warnings: violence, attempted suicide, use of y/n, enemies-to-lovers trope Word count: 5.8k Summary: *Life without freedom is nothing. When the Gondorian army came to the CIty of Corsairs, Umbar didn't have enough sources to withstand the siege. Faced with the choice between surrender to the king and keeping your honour, you picked your blade.

A/n: This is based on request for enemies-to-lovers imagine. Well, turned out a bit more than just imagine. I'm going to write more stories with the same trope for other characters (Legolas, Boromir and Gimli are in process)

The heartbeat pounded through your head like a bell, the blood seemed thick as it pulsed in your veins. The consciousness was slowly slipping away from the grasp. Gentle blackness covered the edges of your sight. Even though blurred with agony the view of the pale towers and walls calmed you. You were to accept death in the City of Corsairs, Umbar Baharbêl, along with your people, as strong hands pulled the silks tight around your throat.

When the darkness was finally there to take you, you felt a strong hit land on your back. The first, unintentional inhale was sharp, setting your air depraved lungs on fire, while you scrambled off the floor. Your obscured vision focused on the shining mithril helmets. Gondorians.

They came to take over the city, destroy what was left of the mighty Umbar fleet and kill all who resisted. You had no power to stop them, but you had enough to not let them take your life. At least so you had thought. But now the slave, who was supposed to strangle you, was lying at their feet beheaded with one impatient swing of a sword.

“One concubine is better than none at all. What a wild custom to kill them all as the enemy storms the castle,” one of the men shook his head.

You felt his grip on your hair. The tug wasn't as strong as it was disgusting. The very thought of following these people from the North raised a wave of rebellion in your pained heart. You'd rather died before your eyes ever set upon the beauty of the sea than became a slave of Gondor.

With every bit of resolve there was you drew a narrow, curved dagger from your hip and stabbed the soldier's leg, just behind the knee between the plates of his greaves and the edge of his chainmail. The painful hit made him let go of your hair and the unexpectedness of the attack was enough for you to get away to the window.

Your back pressed to the cold corner of the wall, the fallen city just behind your shoulder, you stood against the soldiers. You couldn't fend them off, you wouldn't even buy time, even more so now that there was not a soul to buy that time for. But you still had a chance to win for the last time.

You raised the blood covered dagger and, under the multiple tense gazes, plunged it between your ribs aiming to get it right through the heart.

Darkness enfolded you before the Gondorians comprehended what happened and even before any sign of pain reached your mind. Blissful was that darkness. You seized the last straw and pulled yourself out of the living hell.

______________________________________________________________

Diffused light filled the space. You could almost feel its soft palms stroking your face. The view was in the same haze as the thoughts. For a whole century you were only looking up into the white nothingness above you. Or perhaps only for a few minutes.

Senses were coming back slowly yet surely. First was the vision. After the light was hidden away by a few flashes of blackness – you realised that it was simply blinking – the room became a clear image before your eyes. The ceiling that you mistook to be white was a pale grey surface. The light was streaming through the tall and narrow window in the wall on the opposite side. There wasn't much in the chamber. A couple of chests with candles on top of them, a chair by the window and a bed. The sense of touch came back next. Soft bedding beneath your fingers, tight embrace of bandages around your chest beneath a plain chemise.

You raised on your elbows slightly, pushing the pillows further against the headboard. As you were sitting up you felt the stinging in the flesh under the bandages and heard the subtle rustle of the fabrics. Hearing was coming back too. In the silence of the room you could pick out some retreating footsteps in the hallway behind the wall.

Smells returned the last. And with them came the difficult realisation – you were still alive and most definitely not in Umbar or even Harad. You couldn't find any of the familiar smells in the air – there was no thick oily scent, no aroma of spices tickling the nose and no salty fragrance of the sea. There were little to no smells at all. At least none that stroke any familiarity within.

The door creaked unpleasantly. You winced. The sound echoed around the room and retreated through the window cowardly, leaving you behind with a man who entered. You had never seen him before, but the silver glow of a diadem in his dark locks and the sight of guards standing outside the door were enough to understand his position.

The king had come to mock the defeated enemy, hadn't he? To laugh in your face and rise further on your defeat. Your teeth gritted at the thought.

“I was informed that you have finally woken up. Your wound was so severe that I feared you would never come back to the world of living,” he said. His intonation seemed rather plain as he looked down on you.

“It is not wise to dread death. Particularly the death of an enemy,” you remarked.

After closing the door the king took a chair from the wall and approached your bed. His eyes never left your face, his gaze calm and measured.

“I would have not chosen such a painful way to end your life,” he said quietly and sat in the chair he took, “But you would rather perish through suffering than become my captive, wouldn't you?” There was a trace of a sad amusement in his voice.

“There is no honour in one, who surrenders at their own will.”

“Honour? Yes, it is a word that can do the most beautiful and the most terrible things to people.” His gaze roamed across the chamber until his grey orbs caught the light from the window. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly before turning back to you. “Tell me, were you the one who gave the order to execute all the concubines in the harem? My men mistook you for one of them, but the attire and the dagger spoke otherwise.”

You smiled bitterly. “Your people are quite ignorant of our customs. One of them presumed his hand was worthy of touching my hair. Now, with every step, he is reminded of that mistake.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You may be the scion of some noble house in the south, but you possess no more justification for your cruelty than my own soldiers do. Do not forget yourself.”

“All that remains of me is my dignity. Yet you seek to deprive me even of this. You are a cruel king, Elessar,” you spat out lifting your head.

“Your words sting like wasps in the late summer. That usually proves as a sign of weakness. Though perhaps you still possess enough strength to pursue the path of diplomacy and share your name.”

“Diplomacy?” you shook your head in disbelief. “The time for diplomacy was over, when your ships dropped anchor in our harbour.”

He stood up without a single word of response. The silence was eloquently deafening – the encounter, or rather, the audience was over. The king pushed the door open, sending a draft through the chamber. “But perhaps, there is little honour in being called 'prisoner',” you said before he took the last step to the hallway. “[Y/N] would be more pleasant.”

You sensed him nodding rather than saw the movement. The door slammed shut behind the monarch, and you were at last left alone.

______________________________________________________________

The worst thing about being a royal prisoner was that it wasn't particularly unpleasant. You weren't tortured or even interrogated after the first visit of the king. You stayed in a regular room of what seemed to be the house of some nobleman situated high above the White City. You had all the necessities provided. Many of the commoners would be grateful to lead such life until the end of their days. But you utterly hated it. You hated the way your physical well-being mismatched your mind's suffering. How your heart pained from the thought of living in captivity, while your back sank into the soft pillows. How your thoughts raced around the man who took away your honour as your body healed by his efforts.

You pushed away the half finished plate. You couldn't swallow another bite. Honestly, the food was probably the worst part of the king's hospitality so far. Too plain to your taste and hardly seasoned. As your gaze drifted from the dull knife to the mountain peaks that were not hidden by the clouds anymore, a knock came to the door. A maid came in to take away the plates. It would all be too much like you were but a guest of the house if not for a guard who stood in the door frame observing closely.

You sat back calmly in the chair watching the beautiful scenery and paying the servant and the man less attention than a fly would get. They remained silent as well. Probably had an order restricting them from talking to a prisoner. Or prisoners. You weren't entirely sure that you were the only one, whom Elessar kept captive.

When your thoughts turned back to the king, you noticed that the maid and the guard became quite nervous, looking out into the corridor every now and then, and left shortly. Puzzled by their behaviour, you took a few steps away from the window and closer to the door. Muffled noises of speech and footsteps gave away the commotion in the hallway. You shook your head and took a step back.

Just in time to not be hit by a door swinging open. The king took such a long stride inside the room that he ended up right in front of you, a mere feet between the faces. Your expression seemed rather calm save for the raised eyebrows while he looked disturbed in a way.

“Is there trouble in your kingdom, your majesty?” you said as the door closed behind his back, certainly not without a helping hand.

Elessar noticed the mocking tone right away, but let it slide for now. “There is a matter for discussion.”

“Well then, I am all attention,” you responded, and sauntered towards the window.

He took a good pause before beginning his speech. “My first and foremost interest as a king is to bring peace to the realm of people. Therefore the peace treaty with Harad has been signed on terms of lands North from river Harnen returning under my rule and Umbar becoming a neutral land. While-”

“While the City of Corsairs is to be deprived of the military fleet, and its walls must be razed to the ground,” you cut him off, quotation from the official letter dropping off your lips like venom. “I am well aware of your interests in the South. Have you come to vaunt the great achievements of your army in my homeland?”

He winced. “I am not the monster you paint me, [Y/N]. My intentions are to bestow peace not cause deeper wounds. Umbar rejected the suggested terms, and that is why I had to resort to violence. Had your lords agreed to those suggested conditions, there would be no war and no pain.”

“And no walls, and no ships, and no freedom. What a great life!” You exclaimed, and turned away to the wall hiding the overwhelming resentment. “The sea is our life and purpose. Our ships are our honour. Without them there is only so much we could do. And having no defences against the threats from the land... We would be no better than slaves to Harad until we all become them.” Your voice sounded muted in the chamber, that seemed to be shrinking around you as your heartbeat quickened.

“There would not be any slavery! And there will not be now,” Elessar replied firmly. “Neutrality of Umbar means its freedom from foreign influences. If any danger hovers over it, the army of Gondor will set out on a march for the cause at the first call.”

His promise rang with genuineness as he took a step closer to you.

“You say so, and yet I watched the ships burn in the harbour, and I stay here. What is there left for us? The plain taste of scraps from your tables? Memories of the past slowly fading into fairytales?”

“Your people will be alive and free, I swear. Once the rebellion comes to an end there will not be a single soldier from Gondor in Umbar Baharbêl,” he spoke. “And you can aid the cause.” He moved to the window, standing side by side with you. “I see your wish to help your people, to alleviate their hardships. Right now is the time when your wish may become reality. The war is ongoing, but there is a possibility it will end soon. With your assistance it might be a matter of weeks if not days before Umbar settles in peace.”

You shot a glance to his side. His face held the same expression as when he had entered. Somewhat troubled, but at the same time assured. There was no hint of guile in his steely eyes and the straight line of lips pressed together, which allowed you to take another step in the diplomatic exchange.

“So what would be my course of action were I to agree with your proposal?”

“There has been a significant growth in number of outlaws – thieves and rogues – since I overturned the advance of the Black fleet. Whoever managed to run away turned against my rule by harming the small folk. Recently many of those have joined soldiers, fleeing from the City of Corsairs. They formed the rebellious groups, squads even,” he explained. “They are the issue. While there is no significant force in their possession, they know the land and remain hidden from my soldiers. But their presence and untimely attacks obstruct the path to peace in the region. They stir up the locals, calling fishermen and villagers to their banners, at times against the men's will... But no matter the price their resistance holds no meaning. In a year they will have no power to pursue the same goals and will turn back into thieves.” His hand pressed heavily against the windowsill.

“But that means another year of occupation and food shortage for common people. And you can help to stop this now. It would take you so little to relieve Umbar of suffering... Only a few of your words. A letter. A message to those, who still hold the weapons against Gondor. Order them to surrender, and your homeland will once again be free.”

You took his words into consideration. On one hand, he hadn't revealed all of the reasons. That the raids, while not being particularly dangerous for the Gondorian army, were still a threat to separated squads. That getting those rebels to capitulate would cut the losses and set up a secure basement to establish further diplomatic relationships. On the other hand, he was right in the assumption that resistance wasn't entirely supported by the commoners and mostly led to prolonged famine and downfall of trade. That reason alone would be enough to agree if you were the sole ruler. However Umbar hadn't been like many other kingdoms in terms of governance. All the major decisions including those of declaring war and signing peace were to be made by a council of lords.

In times of need the only remaining lord (or the one assumed to be the last living) would be able to take responsibility in full and declare his will as the rightful decision. But you were not a member of the council. You were a child of one. Moreover, your father happened to be the Master of Temples. His power was grand over the civil life of the City. If any edifice was to be built, his consent would be required. If any celebration was planned, it would be under his control. If the markets were set up, they would be watched closely by him. Even the way slaves lived in the City was his concern. That was the very reason behind your arrival to harem in the palace of Lords. As his successor you executed his orders.

But being a successor wasn't enough. In given circumstances you could only take the power in your hands if the council in entirety was dead along with their immediate heirs. Then and only then would your decision be considered legitimate.

“I cannot accept your proposal, Elessar,” you spoke, your voice quiet and firm as you explained the situation carefully. Every new piece of information was falling on the shoulders of the king with such loud noises that they echoed through the chamber. “I do not have the power you seek. You saved the wrong person,” you finished at last.

The afternoon sunlight enveloped the room in the thick blanket of silence. You stood straight with visible tension in every muscle and refrained from looking anywhere but outside the window. There were the mountains. Their tall peaks tearing up the few clouds. There was the city unfolding down at some ungodly sharp angle. Its streets hidden from view by more and more stone walls. There were the vast plains. Pale green of the late summer stretching beyond the horizon. But even though your eyes remained fixed within the window frame, you couldn't help but notice Elessar watching you. His gaze felt heavy as the stream of a waterfall, making you tense ever more to push against it.

You both remained motionless for a while. Until suddenly the atmosphere changed with a dry chuckle. You turned sharply to see the king smirking.

“It is truly the rarest of occasions to find a person, who could speak of their worthlessness with such dignity,” he explained, and you surprisingly realised he didn't mean to insult you in the slightest. It was but a statement of his genuine amusement.

You raised your eyebrows in return. “It is rather delightful to see you so unaffected by the failure.”

“My own council advised against the attempt of negotiations on the matter,” he replied. “So finding compassion in you is more than I should have expected from this venture. Our inability to put an end to the situation sooner is dispiriting, but the price of it will not be unbearable for my people, therefore I must accept it.”

Despite the careful acting you saw right through his words and understood that he did in fact hope for your assistance. Moreover the unfortunate result weighed on him noticeably, but he chose not to show it.

“Now that this matter has been settled…” he paused, pondering how to phrase it better. “I cannot let you leave, but I hope for your stay to deem bearable.”

You watched him walk out of the chamber, and each step restored his composure and regal facade. There was a similarity with the ancient Numenorean kings, as the light cast sharp shadows on his face. The image brought uneasiness at how truly different your current positions were. If you had been less honourable, you could've lied your way out — exchanged the potential influence of your name for personal freedom. But you held dignity in high regard and spoke truthfully. You were losing your value as a prisoner. And you were well aware of that. It wouldn't come as a surprise if your next bed would be a pile of dry grass in some forgotten cell beneath the castle. The only source of hope was the king's promise.

______________________________________________________________

The next day began with an unexpectedly early visit. You were still in bed as you tended to sleep longer hours to keep your mind off worries and let the days pass faster. There was a knock, more like a full-blown hit on the door, and then a guard entered. Same armour as all of them wore, but his face was unfamiliar to you and his arrogance was completely unmasked, which led you to an assumption that he held some higher position, a highborn officer most likely. Surprisingly enough he brought in a pile of books, their leather covers too delicate in comparison to the metal of his breastplate.

“A gift from His Majesty*, the King,” the man announced putting the whole pile down on the chest with a loud thud. He eyed your form covered in a thin chemise and a blanket with contempt before spitting out, “prisoner.”

Seeing the way he was on edge from simply being in your presence and fulfilling the royal order in your favour, you couldn't miss the chance. You practically jumped out of the bed, and in a moment you stood a mere foot away from him.

“I understand my image must seem divine to you, however I happen to be a human. And as such I have a name, [Y/N]. Do me a favour and memorise it. Perhaps, that is not beyond your feeble abilities.” You spoke confidently and clearly, looking down at him despite being physically shorter. “It is rather simple to put mind to use, once you first succeed. Do not fear... Though fears come from knowledge, alas-”

“Keep your dirty mouth shut, prisoner! Don't test my patience.” The agitated response came just as you had expected.

“Is that the extent of Gondorian wit? To reply with insults to fair advice? Should have expected as much from the northern barbarians. All swords and no quill. I hope you have at least learnt how to read, poor thing.”

His fists clenched as he mustered another sentence. “Don't you dare. My family has served the High Kings before Umbar became a thing. My mother comes from the line of Rohan kings-”

“Oh, Rohirrim? Those that sleep with their horses?”

The chamber blurred before your eyes. You winced from the explosive pain in your nape. It took but a moment for the man to grab you by the shoulders and push against the wall with brutal force. Strength truly was an undeniable trait of his.

“You bastard! Take your words back!” he practically shouted.

“The truth cannot be contained,” you hissed back with a growing smirk.

One of his hands slid up to your throat. “I'll make you regret.”

“You are too weak for that,” you managed with the little air remaining in your lungs as his grip tightened. It felt like the blood filled your head slowly to the brim, pressure growing with every beat of heart, low hum in your ears cutting off sounds like cotton. You could still see the man's face red with anger, his mouth falling open with more threats and curses. Your lips stretched into a wicked pained grin.

But then it was all over. His hand retracted from your neck as hastily as it came. He stepped back and turned around. Through fading humming you heard his voice. “-it! See, I already let the scum go. And mind your tongue! No subordination in this damned place.”

As the man walked away you noticed a young face painted with worry peeking through the door frame. Another guard, probably the one, who was on duty for the night. He was torn between the desire to ask you something and the order restricting conversations with prisoners.

You peeled your back from the wall and croaked. “Close the door.”

The boy — you could hardly call him an adult — fulfilled your wish with eager haste. You both had the same thought — “Out of sight, out of mind”. You collapsed on the bed, rubbing the crimson marks on your neck with a dissatisfied sigh.

______________________________________________________________

Candlelight was hardly enough to keep reading but you still continued. Sentence after sentence of history written down by someone's precise hand brought peace to your mind. Old names, some familiar and some new, greeted you from the yellowed pages. Great deeds and political decisions carefully recorded in ink invited you to the ancient halls of Annuminas. You stopped mid-sentence as the door creaked open. The little flames danced in a draft. You looked up from the page and over the shoulder.

Who would have thought? The king came to visit you. Now that was quite intriguing. You assumed he wouldn't have much interest in talking to you after the previous meeting resulted in nothing. However, he had caught you by surprise twice since then. First time with the books, and now he was in your chamber himself.

You leaned back in your seat. The flickering of lights slowed down and then stopped altogether, illuminating your neck strewn with bruises. Violet and blue in the centre, they faded into a pale green towards the edges, looking like some bizarre necklace. 

“What is that?” Elessar appeared genuinely puzzled as he approached you, his hand, unbeknownst to him, raised to trace the outlines of the brightly coloured spots.

You fought back the urge to pull away from his touch. “Results of an unsuccessful provocation. Either I have lost the sharpness of tongue or that of my perception.”

Seeing the amount and noticeable size of the bruises, the king assumed your inflammatory was rather successful. He received contradictory reports regarding the incident and bore hope that it was nothing of importance, until his gaze fell upon evidence of the contrary. The view rose a wave of resentment much higher than he anticipated. His first thought was to find that officer and punish him with a good old exile under the name of “thorough inspection of our borderline fortifications”. But soon came a much darker understanding.

“You intended to have your life taken,” he said. His intonation half-questioning as his fingers retracted from you neck. “I could understand your motives when you spilled your blood for the glory of your city. But now... Is it truly so unbearable to stay here?”

You frowned and closed the book abruptly. “Bearable is not the proper word for the given circumstances. Many would leave behind their lives to exchange places with me. However the capture in itself is a blow to one's honour,” you took a breath, before looking straight into the grey eyes of the king. “I do not resent you for the war, even less so for the victory. It pains me to know that my folk has to suffer more hardships, but that is the way of the world – if you had not defeated them, someone else would. And yet you took more than the land. The custom commands me to seize my life from your hands, Elessar. To get revenge for that last trophy at any price.”

He shook his head with a sorrowful expression. “This custom is a torment for both. The sole existence of it is tragic.”

You shrugged at his remark. It seemed completely ordinary to you. The sky is above, the water is wet, the honour goes before life. It had been a law for generations before you and would become one for many more. All the more strange appeared the sheer confusion of your royal companion.

“If that would be of any relief, you may consider yourself my guest. Being a guest does not defile honour, correct?” Elessar spoke up again. Undeniable hope of his suggestion lingered in the air.

“With all due respect, it is rather difficult to deceive oneself in such a matter when one spends their whole days inside the same chamber,” you retorted with a bitter smile.

“I had the intention of allowing you more freedom of movement within this house once you heal. Though it happened sooner than I expected.”

This confession took you by surprise. Not the words. On their own they had little value. But the meaning they held and his sincere tone. You couldn't place his true intention as your gut insisted that the king was honest.

“You may roam the halls of this house at your wish, [Y/N]. Leave these chambers at any hour and return whenever. Spend days in places that please your heart,” he put a hand on top of a book pile beside you, “get accustomed with the library. There are many more than just these few tomes.”

He spoke as if directly from his heart, earnest to ensure your convenience in this place. His intonation, the subtle glimmer of his eyes, his open stance didn't match the impression you had of him. But the facts all fell into place like a mosaic. Elessar saved your life and – if his words were trustworthy – did so in order to help. He attempted to reach out to your people and propose peace repeatedly. He saw to it that conditions of your imprisonment were satisfactory, even when you proved to not have much political value to him. And it didn't get past you how his face contorted in displeasure at the sight of the bruises. He took your injuries very personally. Not in the way any jailor would.

______________________________________________________________

Season changes in Minas Tirith affected lighting the most. You learnt that in a span of a year. When summer gave way to autumn, stronger winds began to rise. With the first days of Ringarë** fireplaces were constantly kept lit to ensure that coldness and moisture remained outside. As spring finally came and then so did summer you felt more familiar with the weather becoming warmer and calmer. But even so nothing changed as much as the sun did. At least in your eyes. Plain white light of the ending summer was replaced with contrasts of golden dawns and gloomy days, which in their time gave way to blood-red winter sunrises and bluish light filling the streets after noon. At last when nature began to stir from slumber you noticed how the rays turned warmer in colour.

For a solid year you had been a guest of this foreign land. A guest, that's right. Ever since you had first set foot outside of the house, it was getting increasingly harder to deem yourself a prisoner. By the king's order you could go wherever your heart desired, as long as you had some escort. Growing up as a noble had you accustomed to such measures, so a guard following you through the city streets was but a tiniest distraction. In the eyes of the strangers you looked no different than any courtier – well-dressed, eloquently-spoken and accompanied by a guard.

The more time passed the less differences you felt yourself. Beside permitting you more freedom and sending various gifts: rare books, elegant garbs and some undoubtedly exquisite trinkets, Aragorn – it wasn't long before he asked you to address him by his old name – visited you frequently and counselled on important matters. As well as some matters of little importance. You soon discovered that his interest in conversing with you rarely depended on the issue at hand. In fact he was rather eager to spend time in your company even when he only had so little of that time.

And slowly but surely you discovered the same eagerness in yourself.

At first you attributed your growing softness for Aragorn to the fact that he brought you news from your homeland. How the revolt died down by the time winter came. How a new council of lords was established. How the Gondorian army was slowly leaving Umbar. And how their provisions remaining on the land were distributed among the locals by the appointed Master of Temples. How the merchant ships began to fill the harbour instead of the military fleet.

But the time passed and you knew better than to believe your own lies. The way you couldn't tear your gaze away from the king as he walked you through the court. The way you imitated his manner of speech to please him. The way you accepted his gifts without as much as a second thought. All these undeniable facts burnt your self-deception attempts to ashes. You were seeking Aragorn's attention just as much as he was seeking yours.

______________________________________________________________

Despite the great weather of the early morning in the still, half-asleep city Aragorn insisted on remaining inside. His request came unexpectedly, but you complied with it. At this 'ungodly hour' – as servants often called the time you chose to begin your days – you were practically the only people awake in the whole house. 

“The South has settled mostly. Whatever work remains here can be entrusted to the Prince of Ithilien,” he began uneasily as his hands squeezed the bundle he held close to his chest. “Therefore I must be taking the road to Annuminas.”

“You mean to restore the old capital?”

He nodded in response. “Both Gondor and Arnor need their king. Now is the turn of the Northern Kingdom. It had remained in ruin for far too long…”

It was reasonable. If Aragorn wished to reunite and restore the Two Kingdoms, he would need to grant attention to lands of Eriador. You sighed silently. People called him 'the Renewer' and now he did exactly what the prophecy foretold. But you couldn't shake off the longing to keep him close. He became a habit that you didn't want to leave behind. Even more so since you were the one to stay, while he was going to distant lands.

“...before I leave,” his voice cut through your thoughts, “I intend to return this to you.”

Soft glimmer of metal in his hands drew your attention. As he unfolded the fabric, you realised what it was exactly. The king held your own dagger. You would recognize that shape and ornamented handle anywhere. You reached out and wrapped your fingers softly around the decorated sheath.

“However I have a condition. You must promise that you will only use it to protect your life from now on,” he said both softly and firmly.

You looked into his eyes filled with expectation. “I can't make such a promise.”

As his expression melted into one of chagrin, you lifted your other hand to cup his face. The warmth of his skin against yours sent shivers down your spine, causing you to lean closer. “I might need it to protect your life, too,” you whispered practically against his parted lips.

For a brief moment Aragorn remained still, before he closed the remaining inches. You could sense his profound relief in the way he kissed – breathlessly and earnestly. The action finally put you both on the same page and pushed away idle apprehensions. There was an oath and a prayer in the movement of your lips.

When you pulled back, his hand on your shoulder and the cold of metal beneath your fingers served as the only anchors to physical reality. Your eyes glued to his keen grey ones and blind to everything else, you spoke.

“Allow me to follow you North, my King.” ______________________________________________________________

* – I couldn't find or remember what titles of respect are used to address kings in Middle-Earth. If you have some better idea, please share

** – Closest equivalent to December in New Reckoning

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Let the endless sea call out to you (let the changing tides bring you home)

Day 3 of Thank You, Haikyuu - event masterlist here

pairing: miya osamu x reader (gn) x suna rintarou

length: 9.2k

genre: pirate au !! fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: osamu is kidnapped but uuuh kindly yk, they all fall in love so it's fine, there's some brotherly tension between the miya twins but it's resolved

a/n: guys I wrote this entire thing in one sitting today I feel like I need to go put my brain in an ice bath now but this is only day three ?

tags: @love-and-lore

Osamu thinks, not for the first time, that he'd give anything to be out there on one of those trading ships, sailing out to the wide open sea and disappearing into the glimmer of the setting sun. He dreams of it, much to his father's dismay, his nights being filled with images of a rocking, wooden hull and the flying flags of a ship that he can call his own - of a life that he can call his own.

But Osamu is not his brother. He was not given the chance to run off to sea. He sits, instead, in his bed of silken sheets and embroidered pillows as maids brush his hair and smooth down his blankets.

He's wondering, in a bored and weary sort of way, what would happen if he just ran off in the night, when a commotion breaks out down the hall. The noises have him sitting up, the sounds of screaming and swords clashing and then suddenly cannon fire reverberating off the walls and into him as he scrambles out of bed and pulls a plush robe on over his night clothes as the maids panic around him. He knows what this is - he's heard the stories, heeded the warnings… these are pirates.

And Osamu is a prize worth his weight in gold.

The maids right themselves remarkably quickly, rushing around him to shove him out of his room and down the hall, babbling about how he needs to run, needs to get out of here and away from all of this and never come back and… Osamu should be scared. He is, probably. But he has an open door for the first time in his life and all he can see is a way out, a way up, a way beyond.

Unfortunately, however, he's still the pampered, spoiled son of a governor, and he finds himself ill-equipped for running out into the streets in his slippers. He's reminded, rather sharply, of his uselessness when he's swiftly outpaced and outmatched by one of his assailants, strong arms wrapping around him and hauling up easily away from his home. 

He should do something, he thinks - he should kick harder or scream louder or bite or shove or… but the image of the house he grew up in fades as he's dragged further away, through the streets and towards the towering, shadowed ship sitting in the bay. Osamu thinks, in his first real moment of panic, that the stories aren't nearly as frightening as reality is. As he twists to glance over the shoulder of his captor, past his tousled, dark hair and towards his life, he realizes that he can't see his house anymore, that the wooden planks of a pirate ship that slip beneath his slippered feet are the furthest he's ever been from home. 

When he finds himself surrounded by shoving, shouting corsairs crowding around him with loaded guns and sharpened swords and all manner of malice, Osamu thinks that maybe home wasn't so bad, that sitting in the safety of his plush bed and pretending that he was somewhere else was kinder than whatever fate he now holds. 

"Gentlemen" a booming voice sounds over the commotion and the crew freezes, like a ripple has gone through them at the new presence. They part slightly to let the speaker through, shuffling to create a gap like the sands of a beach crumbling easily beneath the power of the tide. And when Osamu sees you - well,  he knows enough of the world, at least, to know a captain when he sees one.

"We have a guest in our midst," you continue, standing tall in front of Osamu's shivering, meek form. "Let's all behave ourselves."

"Are we off, then?" The man holding onto Osamu's arms tightly asks you, and you turn shining, hungry eyes to him. 

"We have what we came for," you say simply. "Take us away."

"Weigh anchor!" The man holding onto Osamu shouts loudly enough to have him jumping, jostling the two of them while you look on, rather bemused. "Aran, mind the crew."

Osamu watches as the ship around him begins swimming with life, the crew nothing more than blurs of movement against the endless, blackened backdrop of the night sky. As he's pulled after you towards the ornate doors below the upper deck, Osamu cranes his neck to catch one last glimpse of the home that he's left behind. Something painful happens to his heart as he's met with the sight of his father's house when the ship begins to rock and tip and pull out of the bay - as the structure stands, smoking and burning and disappearing into the darkness beyond his reach.

But then you swing open the double doors and he's pushed gently into the warmth of the cabin, his captor closing the latch firmly behind the three of you. Osamu thinks, once more, of the books he's read - of the ones he's hidden in a chest at home and pulled out in the evenings with no witness other than the faint flickers of candlelight in his room. He thinks of the pirates in those stories, of the captain's quarters with their ornate tables and feasts laid out.

The one sitting on the grand table in front of him, he finds as he's led gently further into the room, is strikingly similar. 

"Bring him to his room, Rin," you say easily, settling yourself into a large, plush chair, the red of the crushed velvet striking against the endless oil lamps scattered around the room. "Let him get ready."

Osamu's opening his mouth to ask you what in god's name he's getting ready for when he's pulled more by Rintarou past the table and through one of the elaborately carved doors and further into the belly of the ship. When your first mate leads him into a bedroom of sorts, he's… admittedly shocked. When the man pulls open the top of a chest and gestures to the clothes inside, showing endless stacks of richly coloured, embroidered fabrics, Osamu finds himself largely confused.

"Change if you'd like," Rintarou says as he leaves, pulling the door closed behind him. "You'll be dining with the captain tonight." 

And so, a muffled sort of stillness follows, nothing but the vague shouts of the crew outside and the gentle rocking of the sea against the hull can be heard as Osamu stares at the door - at the unlocked door and the shadow of Rintarou disappearing from the other side. As he spins to look into the chest that had been open, something lurches in his heart as he recognizes silks and colours from across the world, pieces of clothing that only his father could afford. 

They're stolen, he reminds himself in a panicky sort of way. Just like him.

He's sort of… surprised by himself - sort of impressed by the way he slams the chest closed and rips open the door, stomping out to where the two of you are lounging at the table, plucking fresh grapes off of stems and sipping on dark wine. You look up at him when he enters, a mild sort of bemusement painting your face as he scowls and crosses his arms and glares down through his dampened robe and wet slippers. 

"I don't know who you think you are," he spits angrily. "But I'm not some ransom for you to keep locked away and used for bait. My father won't pay a price for me - you're wasting your stupid time." You hum thoughtfully at his words, not much bothered by the outburst. When in the company of pirates, Osamu thinks weakly, this probably isn't much. 

"Do you drink, Osamu?" You ask lightly, pouring wine into a gilded, golden cup and standing with it.

"No," he sniffs indignantly as you approach him, holding it out to him expectantly. He gawks at it, just a bit, at the dark red wine shining off of the gold.

"Perhaps you should start," you say dryly, but when Osamu just looks up at you and glares, you sigh, turning to set the cup at an empty place at the table before gesturing for him to sit and moving back to your own chair.

Rintarou sits silently in his place next to you, watching through sharp, quick eyes as Osamu hesitantly steps forward to slowly sink into his seat, wrapping his robe tighter around his waist.

"I have no interest in your father," you say simply, gesturing to Rintarou and watching as he stands to take Osamu's empty plate, filling it with whatever he pleases from the table. Osamu, all the while, can't help but gawk just a bit at the spectacle of it all, at the delicacies that he knows can only be found in far-off corners of the world.

He wonders with a hint of longing tugging at his heart what it must be like to live the way that you do, to sail on and on and away.

"As I was saying," you say dryly, apparently aware of Osamu's wondering thoughts. He feels heat rise to his cheeks as he stares down at the full plate now set in front of him and then up to Rintarou as he slides back into his seat. "A governer's ransom means little to me… I'm not concerned with petty little money trades."

"Little?" Osamu splutters, a touch of indignation colouring his voice. Rintarou just laughs, though, and you pointedly gesture around.

"Well, it's not as if I need it, is it?" You ask coyly. Osamu has no choice but to shut his mouth at that, staring at the gold leaf across the table and the rubies on your ringed fingers. "No," you continue. "I'm after something much bigger than that these days… and you're going to help me get it."

Osamu's about to open his mouth to tell you how wrong you are, that he has nothing to offer and nothing to take and you're better off dumping him back home, when the door swings open and one of the crew steps through.

"Captain," he says in greeting.

"Speak, Aran."

"The course has been chartered… we're well on our way out to deep sea. Are we still going…" Aran trails off as his eyes flicker over to Osamu. He clears his throat and straightens. "Same course as before?"

"Yes," you say simply, and that's all that's needed for Aran to duck out of the cabin and close the door swiftly behind him, leaving the three of you in silence once more. 

"What is it that you want from me?" Osamu's voice is smaller, weaker than he'd like it to be, but you merely fix your eyes on him and look him up and down for a moment before leaning back in your chair and sipping your wine.

"Tonight? Nothing," you offer. "Eat, rest, let your legs get used to the sea… there's nothing more to be done for the night." Osamu, at the finality in your words, finds himself feeling… small, all of a sudden, like it's all just starting to sink in. He's alone and in danger, on a ship full of pirates, sailing toward a coast unknown to him. The worst part of it all, he thinks rather sullenly, is that he knows that no one will come for him.

It's three days later that you try again, seated with Osamu and Rintarou at that grand table in what Osamu's learned is the captains' quarters, a series of halls and rooms deep within the body of the ship that serves as your private space. It's made him begin to realize, after days of wandering and snooping, just how huge the vessel is. 

He'd thought, through his limited knowledge of these seas, that only the pirate lords of old had ships this size and gold in these quantities. He supposes, as he grips onto the side of his chair as waves crash and the ship sways, that the fiction of the life that he'd left behind had to be incorrect somehow. 

"How's your brother, Osamu?" You ask him as he sits, watching him wince as he tries, still, to acclimatize himself to the constant movement of the floor beneath him and the never-ending sound of wine being poured into his cup.

"I beg your fucking pardon?" He scowls. You just smile, a menacing and knowing sort of thing. 

"I do hope he enjoyed his wedding anniversary. What's it been now - three years?" You continue, watching Osamu carefully as he pales even more at your words. 

"What do you want with my brother?" He curses himself for the waver in his voice, for the fear creeping up to him. But he hadn't really thought, in the days that he'd spent here, that this could have anything to do with Atsumu. 

"Oh, not much," you say flippantly, waving your hand in a dismissive manner. "But his husband? What a catch, marrying the man who controls ocean-bound trade routes across the world."

"If you have a point, can you fucking get to it?" Osamu snaps. The walls, as they sway, seem to close in on him and he feels nausea roll through his stomach as he starts to piece it all together. He hasn't heard from his brother in over a year, the seas between them keeping them apart since Atsumu's marriage. But Atsumu's spoken about it briefly before, about the ships getting pillaged and shot down by pirates looking to loot and eager to steal from them.

Osamu has this horrible image, now, of his brother dying alone at sea because of information that he gives up and he feels seasick, the rocking motion of the ship making him queasy.

"Why do you think I know anything about that?" He offers weakly, his voice thin and quiet.

"Sakusa Kiyoomi," Rintarou chimes in. "Is the most powerful and influential merchant in our current world… and he is your brother-in-law. You're clever, aren't you, pet? You can put together what we want."

"No," Osamu all but shouts, standing from the table abruptly. "I can't - I won't tell you anything about him or Atsumu or anything else. You might as well give up now because you're getting nothing from me." That, he feels, is pretty final as he stomps away, but he supposes that slamming his door and locking himself away has less of an effect when his room is attached to yours. 

He's seen it, of course, where you go at the end of every night - he's caught a glimpse of the large, elaborate bed and the red, silk sheets. And he's seen, much to his initial shock, the way that Rinatarou trails after you loyally, content to spend the night with you always.

Well, Osamu supposes when he thinks about it, perhaps that explains why the two of you seem so in tune.

"He's stubborn," you snap, using one hand to try to slam your door closed behind you, only for it to be caught by Rinatarou as he follows after you.

"We have time to wear him down," he says easily as he closes the door gently behind him, sealing the two of you in the privacy of your room and watching as you sprawl across the bed, burying your head under one of the pillows there.  

Rintarou just laughs at the sight, moving to sit next to you and dislodge the pillow from your grip so that he can pull your head into his lap, instead, smoothing a hand through your hair. 

"I need those trade routes, Rin," you say quietly, your eyes flittering closed as the furrow between your eyes deepens.

"And you'll get them, treasure," Rintarou offers soothingly, smoothing a thumb between your brows to coax you to relax. "We have a long voyage yet ahead of us. We'll get what we need from him." You hum noncommittally at Rintarou's assurances, letting yourself relax further against him as the ship rocks you soothingly back and forth. 

"If I can control the trade routes, I can control the seas," you murmur quietly. Rintarou looks down at you in a long-suffering way, but you keep your eyes closed.

"I know, treasure," he says pointedly while you dutifully ignore him.

"It's the only thing left… it's the only thing I still need to get this," you continue. Rintarou rolls his eyes lovingly and leans down to kiss your forehead gently.

"And you'll get it," he whispers against you. When you shoot back an, "I'd better," he laughs, leaning to lay back on the plush bed and stare up at the arched, wooden ceiling. 

The days after that begin to stretch on endlessly for Osamu, with his dinners shared with you and Rintarou every night in your quarters, the two of you asking him endlessly for information on his brother and Kiyoomi's trading company. He never tells you anything, of course - including the fact that he and Atsumu haven't really spoken in years, the distance and the seas getting in between them. He doesn't tell you that he has no real idea what goes on in his brother-in-law's company or what Atsumu really does for it. Osamu gets a bit of a thrill from the whole thing, though, making the two of you think that he's smart - clever enough to play this mental game of chess that's stretched on and on. He feels a bit big, powerful as he sits opposite you and battles back and forth.

For the first time in his life, Osamu feels like he's someone, and he begins to find it addicting, the back and forth between the three of you, the swaying of the ship and the salt on his skin.

You've given him free rein to wander as he pleases, much to his shock, having just shrugged and pointed out that there's nowhere for him to really run off to when he'd asked about it. As he steps out onto the lower deck, the sun blazing down onto him and making him squint, he feels he really understands what you'd meant by that.

Osamu spins around rather helplessly, eyes widening as he stares out past the ropes and wooden rails of the ship and out towards the endless sea that stretches in every direction. There is no land in sight, he realizes weakly. There is just him and a crew of pirates and a horizon that stretches on and on and beyond. 

In his dazed, spiralling state, it's Rintarou that he ends up bumping into, slamming into the man's chest and leading him to shoot his arms out and grab Osamu by the waist to stop him from teetering over. Rintarou opens his mouth, most likely to chastise him, but then he sees the wild look in Osamu's eyes and softens a bit in understanding. 

"Come up here with me," he jerks his head towards the upper deck behind him, but as he makes his way towards it, Osamu stays rooted to the spot. "Come on, pet," Rintarou calls. "This will make you feel better… hopefully." That doesn't instill much confidence in Osamu, but it's still enough to have him running after Rintarou, up the steep, ladder-like steps toward the back of the ship.

It's Aran who's lazily leaned against the helm when they get up there, one hand loosely holding onto the wheel while he blows a sigh out through his lips. He straightens at the sight of them and Rintarou just waves him away, taking his place at the helm, instead. 

"Come here, pet," Rintarou calls to Osamu, who scowls and stomps towards him.

"Don't call me that," he snaps. Rintarou just grins in that lazy way of his.

"But you did come, didn't you?" Osamu opens his mouth to retort, but Rintarou's grabbing the front of his shirt to pull him to stand in front of the helm and grip the wheel before he can speak, the man's rough, calloused palms covering Osamu's smooth, delicate hands.

Osamu clears his throat, feeling the heat of Rintarou's front against his back as he grips the wheel tightly.

"What are we doing?" He asks quietly, and he knows that if he could see Rinataoru, he'd catch the sly smirk he's sure the man is sporting.

"You're steering the ship," he says simply. "It's nicer up here, isn't it? Feels a bit less like being lost." Osamu stares out at the line of infinity where water meets sky and realizes, quite abruptly, that he really has relaxed a bit. 

"Won't the captain mind?" He asks in lieu of answering. Rintarou just laughs.

"The captain doesn't mind anything that I do." Osamu splutters at the coyness in Rintarou's voice, moving to whirl on him and chastise him, but Rintarou keeps his hands firmly over Osamu's, forcing him to stay steady on the helm.

"You don't all have to be so crude all the time," Osamu mumbles. Rintarou grins.

"You're on a pirate ship, pet. You'd best get used to it." He offers. Osamu just huffs and stomps his feet, but now that it's been brought up, he can't help the nagging feeling tugging at his gut.

"For how long?" He asks quietly.

"Hm?"

"How long will I be here?" Rintarou's quiet for a moment at Osamu's question, his palms gently pushing to correct the ship's course against Osamu's hands.

"It's difficult to pinpoint the distance of a moving target," Rintarou offers. "Three months, I'd say. Then, this will all be over for you."

"What?" Osamu scoffs, "Are you gonna take me home." 

"No," Rintarou says flatly, making Osamu scowl. "But we'll leave you with your brother. We have no intent to keep you here forever, pet." Osamu, however, has a hard time listening after his brother's mention. Of course, he thinks, you're after Atsumu and Kiyoomi's ship. 

This time, when he spins on his heel to face Rintarou, the pirate lets him, letting go of the helm just long enough to release Osamu's hands before he reaches for it again, effectively caging Osamu in while they stand chest-to-chest.

"What are you planning on doing once you get to him?" Osamu asks desperately, a panicky sort of tilt to his voice. Perhaps Rintarou's smile was supposed to be a comforting one - more indicative of reassurance and less of a shark catching the bloody scent of its prey.

"Negotiating," he says wickedly. Osamu feels his stomach roll as he crosses his arms, close enough now that Rintarou's chest presses against his forearms as he glares.

"How will you even find him?" Osamu challenges, but Rintarou just looks at him strangely.

"We've been keeping tabs on him and his standard routes for months. It's simple, really," he says flatly. Osamu spins around again to face the helm and smacks Rintarou's hands away, guiltily delighted when he obediently lifts his palms long enough to let Osamu settle back in and then dutifully covers his hands with his own once again.

"Three more months at sea like this?" Osamu asks quietly as Rintarou looks on, the sparkle of something proud and suspicious flitting through the pirate's eyes.

"Something like that," he murmurs in confirmation. Osamu looks out into the vastness of it all, the cold of the sea and the heat of the sun and the endlessness of the point where they meet. The air is salty and fresh on his tongue and he finds, in a longing sort of way, that this isn't really so bad. 

"Show me how to steer the ship," he says finally, a firm clarity ringing through his voice.

"You are steering the ship," Rintarou quips, his palms pressing gently against the backs of Osamu's hands to guide him.

"No," Osamu corrects unwaveringly. "Teach me properly." Rintarou's quiet for a moment, a thoughtfulness seeming to strike through him before he laughs and steps closer, his chest bumping into Osamu's back again.

"Oh, the captain's going to love this."

"You're not going to start a mutiny, are you?" Your voice, clear and amused, rings through the blanketing darkness of dusk, Osamu jerking up from where he was leaning against the helm while Rintarou lounges on a stack of crates nearby. Osamu huffs and hopes that the pink hue of the sunset surrounding the three of you hides the pink dusting of his cheeks as he shuffles where he stands. One month of Rintarou's firm, guiding hand has made him more confident than he thought he could be about something like this - about anything, really, but there's something about your hawk-like gaze that makes him shy.

"I'm not that sheltered," he quips instead. "Mutinies like that don't really happen, I know." His words make you laugh as you move to stand next to him, crossing your arms and leaning against the helm. 

"Is that what you think?" You say, your voice low and smooth in a way that Osamu now recognizes to mean that you're about to tease him for his pampered upbringing. 

"Is - I mean, they don't really happen, do they?" He asks haltingly, his eyes widening a fraction. You grin wolfishly and lean forward to put your face close to him.

"How else do you think I got the ship?" Rintarou laughs from his vantage point as he eyes the way Osamu's mouth drops open in shock.

"You - you stole this ship? You killed the captain?" He splutters. You rock back on your heels, giving him space as you put one hand gently onto his to correct his course. He tells himself, as he blushes and looks away, that he would've steered fine if not for your distractions. 

"Don't worry," Rintarou quips, as if he can hear Osamu's thoughts. "It still happens to me sometimes, too." You throw a mean grin over Osamu's shoulder towards Rintarou, but say nothing on the topic.

"I didn't kill the captain," you say instead. "He was alive when I left him - anything that happened after is up to the seas, not me." Osamu hums at your words, shifting his hold on the wheel as he considers your words. 

"Why are you telling me all this?" He asks quietly. You shrug, your face bathes in the dark violets and blues of the water as you stare out towards the horizon, the sun dipping below the endless line of the sea.

"Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" You ask serenely. Osamu just frowns, following your gaze out toward the water and feeling the burn of something deep within his soul at the sight. He should be offended, he thinks, at the lack of concern you and Rintarou show for him. But really, he knows, his pampered life and stifling upbringing make him no more a threat than a child. Of course, you wouldn't be concerned. Of course, you wouldn't see him as a threat.

He should be upset about it, he thinks, as clouds roll over the open sky and throw shadows down onto the endless, rocking waters and the sun falls completely below the surface. But there is a hunger in him, instead, when he looks out at the vastness of it all -  a thirst that stirs deeply within him and demands to be fed. 

When he turns to look at you, he finds your eyes already trained on his face and a knowing sort of understanding settling in your small smile. 

"Well," you say, stepping away from him and making your way towards the stairs leading down from the upper deck. "Don't crash my ship while I sleep." Rintarou makes a mocking sort of sound, something that Osamu thinks must be his imitation of a ship hitting rocks and splintering, and the withering look you send over your shoulder just has him laughing.

Osamu, however, doesn't quip back. The salty sea breeze brushes through his hair and his hands are steady on the helm and he feels, for the first time, a sort of freedom - a desire stirring within him and a need for more. As Osamu settles into bed finally, hours later when Rintarou shoos him away and tasks Aran with the overnight duties, he feels that maybe he can make something of himself - maybe he can make something of this life.

But when the morning comes and he's greeted by a commotion on the lower deck, shouts and running heard, he thinks that perhaps he'd been lulled into a false sense of security. By the time he gets to the upper deck, you're at the helm shouting orders and he gathers, from all the scuffling, what's going on.

Another ship has been spotted, an easy target for your larger, swifter ship to overtake. Osamu's heart stutters in his chest as he reaches you, grabbing onto your arm with both of his hands as you look down at him, bewildered.

"Now's not really the time, pet -"

"Don't do this - you can't do this -" he begins, but your face morphs into confusion for a moment before a hard edge sets into your features.

"We're pirates, pet. This is what we do." He lets go of you at that, your words slamming into him enough that he stumbles on his own feet, leading you to shoot an arm out to grab him by the waist and haul him back against you so that he doesn't tip over while you steer with one hand. "If it makes you feel any better," you add distractedly. "They're also a pirate ship - just not one of ours. Any loot we grab from them was likely already plundered elsewhere."

"One of ours?" Osamu asks, bewildered. 

"One of mine," you correct. "They're not flying my fleet's flag."

"You have a fleet?" Osamu splutters. You glance at him, bemused, keeping your arm firmly around his waist as the hull of the ship tips and rocks at the mounting speed of the vessel.

"Yes, what did you think I had?"

"Just a ship."

"Well, I've got that, too," you point out just as Rintarou appears on the deck next to you, the knives strapped to his chest glinting under the blinding sun. Osamu sees them, sees the sword on your hip and the guns that you both carry and finds himself sick at the image of the two of you, dripping with blood and violence and something wild. 

"Take Osamu inside," you tell Rintarou, who nods and begins to pry Osamu off of you. "Send Aran down with him and make sure he stays." Osamu makes a wounded, panicked sort of noise as Rintarou begins to haul him away.

"You're locking me up again?" He yells desperately. You shoot him a long-suffering look, but the imminent contact with the other ship has you distracted as Rintarou leads him away.

"We're keeping you safe, Osamu," he says gently as he swings open the doors to the part of the ship that Osamu's begun to think of as home. "It doesn't do any of us any good if you end up dead."

"What about you?" If Osamu wasn't so frayed by the whole ordeal, he'd kick himself or the hysterical edge to his voice. But Rintarou just shrugs, unconcerned as he makes his way out, back up to the lower deck.

"You can watch from the window if you'd like," he says easily. "This shouldn't take long, really."

Yet again, Osamu learns that Rintarou's often right. The whole ordeal isn't nearly as drawn out as he'd thought it would be and as he watches from the safety of behind his small window, he realizes that it isn't as fatal as he'd anticipated, either. 

It's loud and brash and violent, yes, with cannons fired and swords drawn. But you don't… kill anyone, really. Once you have the crew of the boarded ship on their knees and stripped of their weapons, you stand in front of them with your hard gaze pinning them down as your crew hauls loot from their ship onto yours.

It's at this point that Osamu's decided that he's had enough of hiding and rips the door open, running out to join you on the deck - much to Aran's protests. You send him a scathing look that has him slinking away and Osamu's sure Aran will have a lovely conversation with you later about how he can't even keep a governor's son safely in his quarters.

Osamu isn't so concerned, though, as he listens to you speak to the captain of the ship you'd overtaken. 

"The nearest port is eight days to the south-east. We've left you enough water and rations for that much."

"You shattered our mast," the other captain spits. "We'll get nowhere like this."

"I splintered your mast," you correct, leaning down to look him in the eye where he kneels. "It still stands and the winds still blow. You'll be fine… if you make haste." With that, you jerk your head to Rintarou, who takes the signal to have the crew start hauling the prisoners to their feet and sending them back to their ship while you make your way up toward the helm.

Osamu scrambles after you, following as you make your way up and see Aran at the wheel.

"Captain, I -"

"Go take stock of the new rations," you say bluntly, expecting Aran to step out of the way and give you the helm. He does, rather swiftly, disappearing to the lower deck as Osamu stands and stares at you.

"Why didn't you kill them?" Osamu blurts, causing you to turn to him, your brows raised. "I wonder - you didn't even sink their ship."

"And I wonder when you became so bloodthirsty, pet," You say, an amused sort of air to your voice. Osamu rocks back on his heels, a shock of shame making him flinch as Rintarou steps up behind him, joining you at the helm as the crew raises the anchor, preparing to head back to your original course. 

"There's no point in being the only ship at sea," you explain to Osamu, seemingly unbothered by his assumptions. "Why control the waters if there's no one left to command, hm? It's an ecosystem, pet… I'm just aiming to be at the top of the food chain."

Things change a bit, Osamu finds, after that. He looks at you differently, sees the sword on your hip with a little less malice, gets a little less queasy when you and Rintarou pull out your guns at the dinner table to polish them. The meals you share become less… pointed - and Osamu can't really place when it went from an interrogation to a ritual, a habit built among the three of you to share these evenings together. He asks you to teach him, eventually, as the days continue to stretch on and on endlessly - he asks you to help him learn, to help him become something more than what he's always been.

You could never deny him anything, of course - something that Rintarou teases you for endlessly in the safe privacy of your bed. Osamu begins to learn the weight of a sword in his palm, how to block and how to counter. You're a difficult teacher, of course, and he often finds that by the time the sun sets, his arms ache and his hands are numb from the clanging pressure of your sword against his. But there are moments, throughout it all, when you correct his posture, when you let him get a good hit in - moments when your hands brush against his skin and you come close enough that he can feel your breath on his lips. 

Rintarou, meanwhile, teaches him how to shoot, lines up empty bottles on the railing and has Osamu try to hit the glass. He worries aloud, after countless failed attempts, that he's wasting bullets and gunpowder that should go to the crew. But you just shrug and stretch on your way past them and up to the helm.

"Take what you want," you say easily. "My crew always has what they need… I make sure of it." That last part does feel a bit pointed, and as Osamu stares at the pistol in his hands, he wonders what it must be like to really be part of this crew, to… to have a home out here.

But then Rintarou's beside him again, hands on Osamu's hips to adjust his stance as he murmurs quiet directions in his ear. When Osamu successfully shoots one of the bottles finally, the glass shattering into the sea below, he turns and throws his arms around Rintarou's neck in delight before he catches himself and tries to pull away. Rintarou just laughs, though, and says that it'll take more than one good shot for Osamu to become a real pirate.

As Rintarou steps closer again, though, helping him prep for the next shot, Osamu can feel his mind reeling at his words, can feel his soul spiralling with the weight of becoming.

Osamu wonders, as a ship is spotted over the horizon and a cheer breaks out somewhere, how Rintarou had pinpointed it so accurately. Three months into the voyage, the flag of Kiyoomi's trading empire is seen on the ship ahead of them, and it all begins to come crashing down on him. 

You and Rintarou are pirates, still. You may be kind to him, a fondness growing that's had you treat him as something far more important than a bargaining chip, but Osamu knows, now, that he must face the truth. 

You are pirates. You are here to overtake his brother's ship and take control of his brother-in-law's trading empire… and if there's one thing that Osamu's learned, it's that you don't take no for an answer when it comes to anyone other than him and Rintarou. 

Fortunately, Osamu's used to the scuffle of you overtaking another ship - he's grown accustomed to the shouts and chaos and stumble-inducing rocking of the ship. This time, of course, is different, but he stands by your side at the helm regardless, his hand firmly on your arm as a sort of anchor. 

Kiyoomi's vessel, while beautiful and capable, is nothing compared to yours, large and looming and commanding. His ship is overtaken, of course, an inevitable course of action that the sea splits to ensure. And when the gangplank is lowered and you and Rintarou step onto it, Osamu is quick to follow, trailing after the two of you and onto his brother-in-law's ship.

When he locks eyes with his twin, a few things happen. Atsumu looks healthy, bronzed and strong and dressed in fine silks as he stands regally by his husband's side. Envy and loneliness slam into Osamu's gut at the sight as he steps off the gangplank, Rintarou's hand reaching out to him as if by instinct, ensuring that he doesn't slip or fall.

But then, of course, Atsumu looks scared, terrified of the fact that his brother's been kidnapped by pirates and is about to be used as leverage against his husband - he's no idiot, he knows what this is about. But there's something… off about the whole thing. Osamu looks healthy, his hair bleached from the sun and shining from the salty air, his skin healthy and golden, his frame sturdy and built. When Osamu reaches out to his brother in a moment of longing, Atsumu catches sight of the thick callouses forming on his palms and his other hand held tightly by Rintarou - by a pirate.

Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, to shout and swear and cause some kind of commotion because his brother's been kidnapped when his husband puts a hand on his shoulder firmly and squeezes, a silent request to be still for just a moment longer.

"Sakusa Kiyoomi," you say as you step forward, your hand on the hilt of your sword where it rests on your hip. "You're certainly a difficult person to catch up to."

"I doubt there's a ship in these seas you couldn't catch eventually," Kiyoomi responds easily, holding an outstretched hand towards you. Atsumu and Osamu look on with matching, gawking expressions, and neither of them knows which part to be shocked more by - Kiyoomi's hospitality or your reciprocation. 

"I'd much rather discuss this in private," Kiyoomi continues, gesturing a hand to the ornate doors leading below the upper deck.

"By all means," you answer easily, your voice sharp and steady, and Kiyoomi leads you inside while Rintarou follows, leaving Osamu and Atsumu to stand and stare, the sun beating down on the two of them and shimmering on the endless seas surrounding them.

"You look well," Osamu says carefully, shifting on his feet.

"I…am," Atsumu answers haltingly. "Are you?" Osamu opens his mouth to respond, but Rintarou calls his name from the open doorway and Osamu's moving past his brother and towards the call of his name before either of them really realizes it. 

Atsumu's slow, after that, to join his husband and the others in their meeting, wine being poured into gilded cups and passed around as you speak with him.

"We've heard the rumours, of course," Kiyoomi is saying. "That the pirate lord is back… that the seas are shifting and the tides are changing."

"There is no pirate lord yet," you respond carefully, a measured sort of hunger in your voice. Kiyoomi hums thoughtfully.

"No, but it's clear that there soon will be… I am no fool," he says as he sits opposite you, Atsumu perching on the arm of his chair and staring at the way Osamu sits so naturally between you and Rintarou. "I know what stands between you and the title. Anyone who can control the trade routes… controls the seas. Fortunately, you also have something that I want."

"Oh?" You say questioningly, a coy note heard in your voice that suggests that you already know what Kiyoomi's suggesting. Osamu lets out a huff of laughter at your charade and Atsumu looks at him with a mortified sort of expression.

"Yes," Kiyoomi continues, then frowns in disapproval. "Kidnapping dear Osamu, I'd like to point out, was really very unnecessary. I'm not sure why you felt the need to do such a thing."

"I don't like to leave things to chance -" you've started to say, but Osamu's angry voice interrupts yours, much to your amusement.

"I'm fine, alright," he scoffs. "Nothing bad's happened to me, so you don't need to look at them like that. And why shouldn't they do something if it means making sure they get what they want?" Kiyoomi, with his everlasting stoicism, merely blinks at the outburst while you and Rintarou sport matching grins. Atsumu, on the other hand, feels like he might be sick, staggering from the sight of his brother, walking and talking and acting like a pirate.

"Well…" Kiyoomi continues. "We've been having problems with pirates - none from your fleet, I've noticed. Every ship plundered and sunk is profit that I'd rather not lose… and every trading ship from a company other than mine that you do sink is business that I'd like to take. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this."

"I do," you nod in affirmation. "Seems a pity that we both have these problems that could so easily be fixed. We ought to do something about that, I'd say."

"You know," Kiyoomi says thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and sliding a hand comfortingly up Atsumu's thigh where he remains perched on the arm of his husband's seat. "I've never really been interested in selling shares, but if the right offer were to come along…" Atsumu gapes at his husband, grabbing his hand.

"To pirates?" He hisses. Kiyoomi lets his eyes fall onto Osamu, staring at the man as he straightens.

"No," he says easily. "I'd much rather keep it in the family."

"Me?" Osamu blurts out, and Kiyoomi hums and nods in confirmation.

"Well," you drawl, leaning back in your own chair so that you can throw an arm over Osamu's shoulders. "I'm sure we can work something out." Atsumu stands abruptly, stomping out towards the deck and slamming the door behind him. Kiyoomi stares for a moment, a tired sort of look on his face while Osamu twists around to stare at the door.

"So," you continue. "Control over the trading routes."

"And protection for my ships," Kiyoomi finishes.

"Not to mention more firepower than you'd ever need to knock out any competition," Rintarou chimes in. Kiyoomi grins like a shark smelling blood at the comment and you laugh.

"Well, Kiyoomi," you say light-heartedly as the man stands. "I've always thought you made a good businessman." 

As you and Kiyoomi spread various contracts between the two of you, preparing to hash out all of the details, Rintarou nudges Osamu with his elbow.

"Go to Atsumu," he says quietly, making Osamu frown, his heart clenching nervously.

"You don't want me here for this? It'll be my name on the contract," he says, clenching his fists at the whining, desperate note to his own voice.

"Of course, we want you here, pet," Rintarou assures, smoothing a hand over Osamu's hair while you squeeze his knee gently under the table. "But if your brother throws a fit and flings himself overboard I doubt we'll still have a contract to sign. Go, make amends with him. Nothing will be signed until you're ready."

With that, Osamu leaves the three of you to settle things, slipping outside to find his brother. Sure enough, Atsumu is standing by the railing, arms crossed and mouth downturned as he scowls up at the flag flying from your ship. Osamu moves to stand beside him carefully, walking slowly as he looks to his brother. 

"What happened to you?" Atsumu asks harshly. Osamu shrugs a bit.

"I became a pirate?" He offers. Atsumu whirls on him, glaring. 

"I'm not joking, Osamu," he spits. Osamu scoffs and crosses his arms to mirror his brother.

"Well, neither am I, really. I was… I was kidnapped, but it's fine."

"No," says Astumu firmly. "We can fix this, we can take you away, we can -"

"No," Osamu interrupts. "You can't. There's no one, anymore, who can take me away from this. There's no one who gets to choose my life other than me." Atsumu snaps his mouth shut at Osamu's determined words and he steps back from his brother with heartbreak flashing across his face.

"And this… this is what you choose?" he says slowly. "A pirate's life?"

"It's not so different from yours, I'd say," Osamu offers gently. "If you let yourself see that." Atsumu just groans and buries his head in his hands.

"Why couldn't you just stay at home?" His voice is muffled by his palms as Osamu bristles.

"I am home," he says clearly. "I am home now more than I ever was back there. You should know that, Atsumu. That's… that's why you left, isn't it? That's why you went with Kiyoomi? To find a home for yourself?"

"Yes," Atsumu straightens. "But…"

"Do I not deserve to find that for myself?" Osamu asks weakly. His brother sighs wearily, stepping forward to wrap his arms around him and pull him into a hug - the first one shared between the two of them in years.

"Of course you do, 'Samu… I'm sorry," he says softly, an apology carried by the wind between them out to the sea. 

"It's ok," Osamu mumbles against his brother's shoulders, his arms tightening around him. "I'm just glad to see you again." Beyond the two of them, the sun begins to fall lower along the horizon, a shining, orange glow bathing the endless sea in light as it stretches endlessly onward. 

It's agreed, after that, that Kiyoomi's vessel will need protection for the remaining three weeks of its course before it lands in port - and who would be better to provide that protection than you? Osamu's quick to point out that this is the perfect opportunity to solidify the new agreement and Rintarou nearly falls over himself laughing at how quickly you cave. 

"One day," you snap at Rintarou, "he's going to look at you with those eyes and you're going to be the one falling to your knees." But Osamu just giggles gleefully while Atsumu looks on with a hint of satisfied amusement. He's not sure he's ever seen his brother like this, healthy and alive and glowing in the fading sun, standing in front of the endless backdrop of the darkened sea. 

Your grumbling lasts as you stomp back over the gangplank onto your own ship, Rintarou and Osamu trailing after you.

"What are they so impatient for, anyway?" Osamu asks bemusedly.

"It's just that we've been waiting a long time for this," Rintarou explains as he leads the two of them into the cabin, through to the captain's quarters. "We were nothing more than street rats when they first set their eyes on this, working scrubbing decks for nothing other than lodging on ships. It's… it's taken us a long time to get here." 

"I… I had no idea," Osamu says quietly, shifting on his feet as they enter your quarters.

"Well," you drawl as you turn the corner, clearly having heard the conversation. "We can't all grow up in manor houses like you." There's no hint of malice in your voice, though, just the soft cadence of kindness being heard, making Osamu relax.

"It's better this way, anyway," Rintarou soothes, reaching forward to press a kiss to your lips as Osamu looks away awkwardly. "This gives me time to send word to Kita. He'll assemble the fleet and the other captains who still keep to the code. He'll ready the vote." Rintarou's staying close to you as he speaks, pressing little, fluttering kisses across your face while you frown impatiently. Osamu thinks maybe he should just leave, and he spins on his heel several times until he's dizzy and can't trust himself to find the door anymore.

"What if they don't vote for me?" You ask quietly. Rintarou rolls his eyes.

"They'll vote for you, treasure. They'll have to," he assures. You look past him, then, and see Osamu determinedly staring at a blank spot of wall while a blush rages up to his ears. You laugh, of course, reaching part Rintarou to grab onto his wrist and tug him towards you.

He stumbles, making an embarrassing sort of sound as he ends up slamming against you, but the sturdiness of Rintarou on your other side means that there's nowhere for you to fall between the two of them. 

"And you?" you prompt him gently. Osamu just blinks at you.

"Me?"

"What will you do?" You clarify, and Osamu sort of… freezes at that. You'd never really said, he supposes, that he's a part of the crew - that he's welcome to stay on your ship after all this. His heart, sinking rapidly, clenches as he clears his throat and straightens.

"I'll… I guess I'll…" You roll your eyes and grab him by his collar, pulling him against you so that you can kiss him firmly. He makes another one of those embarrassing, needy sounds as he puts his hands on your waist and tightens his grip on you, making you smile against his lips.

When you part, finally, Rintarou is watching eagerly from his place behind you, his arms around your waist and his chin hooked over your shoulder as he eyes Osamu's reddened, kiss-bitten lips and heaving chest. 

"I'm asking you," you say slowly - pointedly. "If you'd like to stay… if you'd like to make a home here."

"I…" Osamu says slowly, eyes flitting between the two of you before he looks out the window, towards the dark, shimmering waters and the endless line of the horizon beyond. "I think I already have." You smile at that, an honest, open sort of thing that Osamu knows is rarely seen from you. The realization has something fluttering in his chest as you take his hand in yours and begin to pull him towards the door that he knows leads to your private room.

When you swing open the door and lead him in, however, you shove a hand out to stop Rintarou from following, pushing his chest away from the doorway.

"You have to send word to Kita," you remind him eagerly, earning a pained look from Rintarou.

"Come on, treasure, please, I will after -" Rintarou's voice is earnest, bordering on desperate as he stares first at you and then over your shoulder at Osamu and the way he's sprawled out on your bed. 

"Just do it quickly," you say as you begin to close the door, one hand still firmly on Rintarou's chest to keep him out. "It's very important to me, you know." And with that, the door is closed, and Rintarou is left to sigh and thump his head against it a couple of times before straightening and spinning on his heel to leave.

In the end, Rintarou has been right once more. Osamu thinks, as he climbs his way up to the crow's nest and eyes the dizzying distance beneath him, that he's not sure the man has ever been wrong. He settles on the wooden platform, his back to the top of the mast as he lets his legs hang off of the edge and looks out towards the rising sun.

The vote, if Osamu could ever call it that, had been unanimous. You'd spent years building this fleet of yours, years earning the fear and respect of the other ships and even the other captains not under your command. When Kita had called for the vote, declaring as the keeper of the code that the title of Pirate Lord had been vacant for too long and that the tides were finally changing, it didn't seem to be any sort of surprise to anyone that it was you who called for the throne.

And so, when you'd walked in, brandishing Kiyoomi's signature and declaring that the one element of the seas that could never be touched, the trading routes, were now under your command, there wasn't much anyone could do but agree. Osamu thought, in that moment, watching you be crowned and the greatest captains pledge their fleets to you, that he'd never seen anyone shine with becoming as much as you did on that day. 

But on the way back onto the ship, he'd caught his slanted reflection in the water below, and thought surely the sun must have been staring back at him with the way he glowed. 

Below him, he hears you shout distantly for him to be careful, but he merely laughs and tips his head back up towards the endless sky that stretches onward. He's climbed this mast a thousand times by now, familiar with it in a way that feels like home. There is no danger that could befall him here, he's sure, no ill will that could catch up to him on the vast, open sea.  Ahead of him, the sun begins to lift, rising towards the sky and stretching out across the endless line of the horizon. He reaches a hand forward, as if he could find the vastness beyond and go further, further, further until all corners of the world have been touched by him. As the sun hits his face and bathes him in a golden glow, he thinks he just might. He thinks that he can't find a better life to call his own.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝

It was a punishable act to not follow the Captain’s orders, just as much as it was to cross him when his fuse was already so short. Luckily for you, you had the one thing that would calm the brusque fury into a simmering wave. 

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✗ Pirate!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✗ 1.7k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✗ Fluff ჻჻჻ SMUT: Unprotected, angry piv, Dom!Bucky, no prep ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, degradation, dirty talk, sir

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✗ So... I think it would be a bit foolish for me to say that I am innocent at this stage — but, I will say it anyway.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✗ @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer ჻჻჻ Week 6 — "How do you want me?" — Masterlist

𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The tension on The Soldat’s deck was thicker than the fog in the early hours of a cold morning. 

All day, your Captain had been snappish in his orders – quick to berate and growl out a reprimand if a crew member dawdled too long or made a mistake. 

It was unnerving. 

Bucky had always remained composed – very little could rattle the seasoned sailor, but the first sighting of an encroaching armada seemed to have set his last nerve ablaze. A couple days’ worth of sailing had taken your ship out of their sights and back into corsair territory, and as a result, Bucky had given the command to port at the closest settlement – a pirate port, one infamous for shady men and even worse devils. 

“First mate,” Bucky snapped from the helm as night began to fall. You strode over from your station, brow raised in question, watching as the black leather coat Bucky wore flapped in the cold evening air. He flicked his head in a gesture for you to step closer, and you did so with no hesitation, right up to his side so his lips could brush against your ear. “Cabin, now. Get on my bed and wait for me. Ass up.”

The shock made you freeze for a split second, and Bucky’s lips curled into an arrogant smirk. “Move it, lass; follow your Captain’s orders, now.”

“Aye, sir,” you said, staring at him through doe eyes. 

If you put a little sway in your hips as you made your way down the stairs for his benefit, it was no one’s business. 

The Captain's cabin remained as warm and inviting as ever, with dark timbers and even deeper accents. A very recent haul had allowed some art to decorate the wooden walls, and they added a flair of colour to the otherwise brooding room. Your shared bed took up a fair amount of space on the far wall, and the sheets and covers tousled from the previous night’s coupling and fitful hours of sleep. 

“Such a slob,” you muttered, moving over to the mess and tidying it up. 

Once tidied, you fiddled with your buckles and belts, pulling off your cutlass and pistol to place them on the armoury table. The garments you donned were easy to remove, cotton and leather peeling away and allowing your flesh to breathe, yet you left your billowing shirt on, unsure how long Bucky would take to make his way and retire to his cabin. 

Waves made the ship pitch and roll as you waited, and the setting sun casted an orange glow through the glass windows. 

As darkness bloomed, you struck a few matches and lit a few candles that were dotted around the cabin – the light flickered and glowed, a beautiful dance of flame that you admired for just a moment.

Muffled voices could be heard through the door, and then heavy bootfalls above your head, trailing down the stairs and coming to a complete stop at the cabin door. The figure behind the glass was tall, broad, and angry. “Oh, fuck,” you muttered, and you scarpered to the mattress, quickly laying down on the soft cottons, and canting your ass up into the air – just as he had ordered.

“If any fool knocks on this damned door,” Bucky yelled at large, his voice muffled by the doors, but no less fierce. “I will give them a third eye.”

The very same door swung open with a crash, and you startled with a muffled squeak. Your head came to rest in the crook of your elbow, and as if on instinct, you held your breath – awaiting Bucky’s next move.

“Well, well, well,” Bucky said, the sound of his leather coat and thick armour hitting the floor louder than cannon fire in the nervous energy of the cabin. “Just how I wanted my Minx–presenting that sweet cunt for me, aren’t you a good girl…”

“What’s wrong, sir?” You asked, voice muffled by your arm, and Bucky hummed. “You have been tense all day–you want to be in control of me? That why I’m prone on your bed waiting for you to fuck me?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky breathed, and you peeked from your arm to behind you. His predatory grin was warped by the candlelight and shadows, though his gaze was entirely focused on your bare ass and weeping entrance. “Don’t tell me you don’t like pleasing your sir, fuckin’ look at you–filthy and already dripping wet for me.”

A low moan started in your throat before you could stop it. Bucky’s attention focused on your face – softening his manic glint only slightly. “Hands behind your back, lass,” he ordered, stepping closer to the bed and kneeling on the edge. “Go on now.”

“Sir,” you whined, shuffling your knees and arching your back further. “Please.”

“Do as you’re told, Minx, be a good girl. Hands behind your back.” The bed dipped behind you from Bucky’s weight, and you hastened to obey – his proximity and authoritative tone making your brain grow fuzzy. “That’s it, good girl.” 

The bed creaked as Bucky removed the last of his clothing, and you looked back to see him stark naked, hard and swollen cock bobbing between his legs as he shuffled closer. “We don’t need this,” he said, and the sound of fabric ripping filled the air and a chill settled over your bare back, shirt long gone. “Much better.”

“Please,” you whispered, and Bucky cooed, his scarred, rough hands rubbing over your ass and hips before one grabbed your crisscrossed wrists. “Please, sir.”

“Is my Minx achin’, hmm? Here?” The sudden brush of a finger against the weeping entrance of your cunt made you gasp, and you jolted forward. “Such a sensitive lass,” he whispered, rubbing his fingers up and down slowly, teasing your entrance. Biting your lip, you nodded. “Can’t have that, can we?”

“No,” you replied. The anticipation of finally being filled made your breath come in heavy pants, and you wiggled your hips to entice him to move, to finally get on with it. “Use me, sir–fuck me, and you’ll feel better, promise-”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled darkly, and he draped himself over your back and kissed your shoulder. “You just need to be a good girl and take it.”

A shout of surprise tore from your throat when Bucky finally thrust forward, his cock forcing its way in to sit to the hilt in one swift movement. The burn and pull of muscle as your body gave way to him made you hiss through your teeth, “Fuck!”

“God,” Bucky groaned, draping his chest over your back. “You feel so good, sweetheart, fuckin’ hell.”

A nonsensical moan fell from your lips as Bucky shallowly thrusted, his hips rocking back and forth so the head of his cock brushed against your walls in all the right places. “Oh my god,” you moaned, blinking rapidly to clear the tears that had gathered on your waterline. 

“Just stay like that, little Minx,” Bucky growled. His body heat left your back as he sat up, and you whimpered. “Easy, ‘m here,” he cooed. You felt the rough calluses of his hands brush over your hands just as he gripped your crisscrossed wrists. His other hand forced your face into the bed – effectively immobilising you. “You’re gonna let your sir fuck his anger out, aren’t you? You’re gonna sit there and take it?”

“Yes, yes–use me! I can take it,” you rushed, grinning against the soft cotton on the mattress, and you were rewarded with a sharp, quick thrust. “Sir!”

“Knew you could, lass.” The grip on your wrists tightened to be bruising, and you huffed, wriggling slightly in his grip to get closer, only to feel the sting of his palm and hear the resounding crack from his palm spanking your ass. “Sit fuckin’ still. How am I meant to fuck you if you keep squirmin’, sweetheart?”

“Sorry! ‘M sorry, sir, I’ll be still,” you gasped, rocking slightly. 

“Good girl,” Bucky praised. 

The first thrust punched the air from your lungs in a keening moan, and Bucky hummed approvingly, bending over your back while still rocking his hips. His hot breath fanned over your ear, and you whimpered, chasing the feeling of skin on skin. “Sound so pretty, Treasure, huh?” he purred. “But I think you can be louder than that. Let it out; let your sir hear you.”

The drag of Bucky’s cock over your walls made you moan loudly, and the sudden change in speed caused a domino effect you were powerless to control. “Feels s’good, sir! Fuck!”

Bucky’s hips slammed into yours, his growls and grunts of efforts adding to the litany of sounds that echoed off the walls of his cabin. His hand gripped your wrists tightly, the pain of his grip only adding to the pleasure that crested in the coil between your legs. 

The hand that held your face to the mattress still pinned you, and with the force of Bucky’s thrusts, your knees started to spread even further apart, forcing your back to arch – the angle sent him far deeper in your cunt than ever before.

You called out wordlessly the faster he thrust, the pace turning brutal as the bed frame below you creaked and groaned, the rocking matching the ferocity of the waves that gently swayed the ship. 

“Fuck, you feel s’good–never gonna leave your tight cunt,” Bucky moaned, his voice raspy with feral need. His words made your walls flutter, and you could just feel the arrogant smirk that quirked his bitten-red lips. “You like that idea, huh, little Minx? Jus’ being a hole for your sir to fuck and fill whenever he wants–’specially when he’s angry?”

“Oh my god,” you cried, “please!”

“Tell me, Treasure. Tell me you want it,” Bucky ordered, each word followed by a harsh thrust. “Go on.”

“I want it! I want it, please,” you begged. It was getting hard to think through the onslaught of pleasure, and If Bucky kept hitting that spot, you wouldn’t last much longer – not to mention if he kept up the train of filth falling from his lips in that tone, the tone of a Captain and sir. 

“Fuckin’ take it then, whore,” Bucky spat, and his hips pistoned into yours, each thrust became a sharp stab of pleasure adding to the inferno burning through every last one of your nerves. “Cum for me, cum on your sir’s cock–lemme feel it.”

Your thighs began to shake, the wave becoming too hard to keep your head above. “Oh, fuck, please! I’m close!”

Bucky angled his hips down and fucked you onto the bed, a snarl on his lips and his panting breaths fanned over your ear and cheek. “Give it to me, sweetheart–fuckin’ cum, now.”

The command made your eyes roll and your body seized as the waves consumed you. A scream tore from your throat as you fell off the cliff into the waves, and Bucky moaned loudly, grinding his hips and digging his cock further into your heat. “That’s it, lass, fuckin’ good girl–such a good girl, milkin’ my fuckin’ cock, shit.”

Bucky’s breath hitched on a moan while you pulsed around him – his hips faltering before a whimper fell from his lips as warmth spread in your cunt, his spend leaking from your entrance and onto the cotton sheets covering the bed. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, lowering himself over your back, still thrusting shallowly. “Good god, my love–y’know just how to snap me out of it.”

“Sure do,” you giggled, sighing contentedly. “Love having my sir fuck me.”

A soft kiss landed on your shoulder, and Bucky exhaled heavily. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No–no, you didn’t, love,” you replied quietly, smiling. “I hurt just as I should, just as I wanted.”

Bucky chuckled and shifted to sit up, his softening cock leaving your cunt and making you feel empty. “We made a mess,” he observed, his hand running up and down the back of your thigh. “Should fuck you like that more often.”

Just to fuck with him a little more, you tensed once, twice, and a groan echoed behind you. “Good god, you fuckin’ whore–teasin’ me like that. You have no idea what that does to me, Minx.”

“Oh, but I do,” you replied, winking. 

Bucky stared at you, his lips in a firm line and eyes flashing dangerously. “I’m not done with you. Stay there while I get something to clean you up with.”

Following orders, while second nature, had never been so rewarding.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[thatawkwardmoth]

In honor of it being my birthday (I'm 20 now bitches, made it), I give you people celebrating Scott's birthday. Because he is a fellow Virgo, I know it in my soul.

Jean: bakes him a cake and makes him dinner. The one meal he likes and eats all the time. Her soup. It's a simple recipe and she stopped making it as much so Scott could expand his palate a little more. It doesn't but she makes it for him on his birthday. She gets him a gag gift and an actual gift. The gag gift is usually something like a card that says a really bad dad joke just so his face drops as he reads it. She's thoughtful with her gift and doesn't pry into his mind for it. She knows her husband.

Emma: Buys him a small cupcake and has him blow it out early in the morning. It's a private moment between them. Scott doesn't like that much attention on him, especially on his birthday so she keeps it between the two of them. She spends a ridiculous amount of money on model plane sets, knowing he enjoys making them in the rare instances of free time he gets and adds a little more spending money on the budget for the Blackbird so her nerdy boyfriend can have his fun upgrading it.

Rachel: as a child in her home timeline, she'd wake him up early, screeching about it being his birthday and getting him a present with mommy. She'd count herself lucky a few times that Scott's optic beams don't harm people with his genetics with how roughly she shook him. Nowadays, she leaves a card and a gift on his desk. The first few years, it was basic stuff with no thought behind it, thinking Scott wouldn't want personal gifts from her, just ties and supplies. Then it turned to science fiction memorabilia that the two shared a love for. She doesn't outright tell him happy birthday, just leaves the stuff on his desk.

Nathan: as a baby and a child, same as Rachel. Jean would dump him on the bed to distract Scott and head off. The two just spent the day together. His gifts were usually drawings and small crafts made with some students' help. More presently, it's usually alcohol or favors traded. Showing up for family dinner with Hope so Scott can have his whole family there.

Madelyne: Wakes up early to put on the right music, spends time just dancing with him. He enjoys the quiet moments before the rush of birthday well wishes. She makes a lopsided treat for him and new books he's been wanting to read but won't buy himself. She has to, he deserves this day to mean something.

Alex: Usually annoys him first, making fun of his age. Buys him a card and a round of drinks. Scott likes to feel useful but Alex takes the lead on their hangout days. They sightsee, go to aircraft shows and museums. He gets Scott a few more puzzles, teases him, enjoys seeing his uptight brother smiling and relaxing for once. He's happy to celebrate with his brother after years of not being able to. He's glad to have another year with his older brother.

Corsair: completely forgot, came back three months later with a lame cheap space book that isn't correct at all and is from an Earth thrift store.

Charles: Ignored it. Just didn't say anything.

Ororo: Forcibly made him give up leadership for the day. Of everything. She's in charge and she demands he spends the day relaxing. She gets him a tea, something he prefers over coffee, and locks him out of the danger room.

Logan: Gets him drunk at their usual bar, let's him rant drunkenly about whatever. Is careful to not start fights with him that day. Challenges him to a race on their motorcycles just to have Scott take a ride with him.

Warren: Expensive gifts but from the heart. His assistant didn't buy the gift for him. Warren spent two months finding out all the details and information he needed to gift Scott with all the proof that he'd donated a large sum of money to mutant charities and an even larger amount to an orphanage for mutant children. He gets Scott other gifts but this one means a lot to Scott in a way another book or trinket doesn't.

The team/mansion/island: Doesn't throw a party for him. He's antisocial and hates them. But all day he gets quiet well wishes and cards. He gets small favors and free drinks. They're all careful to not make a big deal out of it but to show him that they care.

[detective-and-dreamer]

28 for Lenora & Emory perhaps :0?

- @zeebreezin

28. a kiss in parting

"It won't be like last time."

"I should certainly hope not. Our dear doctor would hate to give you that many stitches again, for one thing," Lenora said with forced lightness. She adjusted Emory's collar, letting her fingers trace the jagged line of a scar she knew lay just beneath.

"It won't." Rough fingers slid under her chin to make her look up at them. "I was...too impulsive then. I know better now."

"I know," she said. As soon as he'd been able to, he had spent the rest of his convalescence studying. She and the Meticulous Doctor had brought in every book on Monstrous Anatomy they could find, between their own collections and those at the University. Lenora had sat in bed with them to read along and define the occasional word when they asked. It wasn't as though he hadn't already been a skilled hunter, and now he was a much better prepared one. And yet...

"I don't doubt you, I just cannot see you like that again, I - " She paused to choke back a sob and steady her voice. "I cannot write another letter like the last one."

It was hardly long ago that two of the Neath's most infamous pirates had been with her, waiting for him to heal. Nobody would have guessed their father's title had they seen him then, as he sat at his child's bedside and kept vigil through the worst of the fever dreams. She could practically have kept time by the heavy footfalls of the Gilded Corsair, who endlessly paced the deck of the Aegis when she was not with Emory herself. How could she bear to tell them that such a thing had happened again - or worse, that he had not returned at all?

"I'm sorry," Emory said. Their face had fallen at the mere mention of it. "I don't like worrying any of you. This is just...something I have to do. Something I feel called to do. You understand."

"I do. And I know you can," she said, so that she could see their confidence return with the reassurance of her own. Her hands framed his face as she stared into his eyes. For better or worse, she knew she may never see them as they were again. Then she pulled him down into a kiss, slow and soft. He pulled her closer in response, one hand at her waist while the other came up to cradle her jaw.

"Hunt well," Lenora murmured against Emory's lips as they parted, "and come home to me." She felt him smile and pulled away to see it. This was the image she wanted to keep in her mind, to try and replace the memory of seeing them so pale and still. It would still plague her as soon as he was gone, she knew, but she would hold onto this moment until he returned. Until she could see him smile again, this time in triumph.

"I will." They kissed her once more before she returned to the dock. She stood at its end to wave him off, watching until she could make out nothing between the dark sky and darker zee.

There was nothing left but the wait.

[angelinecarax]

-- tagged by @archaiclumina

✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✦✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✦

✫✧✩EMOTIONS/FEELINGS✫✧✩

✫✧✩COLORS✫✧✩

✩ pearlescent inside of a shell ✧ faded blue of an inkprint in the sun ✫ holographic glitter rainbow ✩ soft clouds as the sun rises ✧ where the sky and the sea become indistinguishable

✫✧✩SCENTS✫✧✩

✧ sea breeze, sun cream, and the scent of hydrangeas. her home. ✩ the first sweat at the beginning of a long day. just getting started. ✫ a dreamy melange from powders and lotions. finally drop into bed. ✧ veryberry lipgloss and citrus candies. never not on hand. ✩ a light + enveloping perfume that leaves the mind hazy. Nite out.

✫✧✩OBJECTS✫✧✩

✩ a broad-brimmed sunhat. a sweetness from flowers in the band. ✧ a keychain of charms. hard to place where they're from... or when. ✫ a well-worn journal. complete with special aetheric glitter gel ink. ✩ a scattering of trinkets. cheap, shiny, various. Ever-present. ✧ a hardy backpack. with a glowing heart and pristine wings.

✫✧✩BODY LANGUAGE✫✧✩

✧ an ever-present rhythmic humming sway any time she's at rest 🎐 ✩ when feeling bashful, she'll tap her earring with her fingernail ✨ ✫ on her favorite mounts she'll dig her fingers in deep in their fur 🎠 ✧ when laughing, she'll lace her fingers in front of her mouth 🌟 ✩ as she casts magic, she'll dance to a melody only she can hear 🫧

✫✧✩AESTHETICS✫✧✩

✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✦✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✧✩✫✦

this....... was SO much fun to put together. To those I tag, I wish this fun upon you - or, if you did it already, link me again so I'm shore I see it (or re-see it lmao!) I capped this at lucky eighteen - if you'd like to do it even so, this is your tag! (see interact masterpoast here as well!)

TAGGED: @archaiclumina for Ren!!!!, @viiioca, @aislingsurrow, @thatoldstandby, @a-sleepy-dragon, @cd-container, @corsair-kovacs (I know you did yours and it was one of my inspirations!), @generaltacticus, @moldy-mold, @airis-ray, @xmimiteh, @reconditerune, @zeloinator, @discountdps, @chadhunkler, @sjofn-lofnsdottr, @pumkinbones, @gatheredfates

[gaythreadrunner]

i got a corsair mouse off ebay and left the old razer on my bed so id remember to put it in my spare parts box later and when i was getting ready for work i saw butterfly snuggling it

[rowanthestrange]

I think I like the Corsair because this is a Rogue Time Lord who doesn’t have to come from some Academy past.

There’s such value in that.

Not just because you’re not lumbering them with a load of canon and extended-universe and fanon and all that, but because you can get different relationships out of it.

When did the Doctor meet them? Which Doctors? Which Corsairs? Do they have a friendship? A deep one or just a mate you get drunk with sometimes one? And if that - one you wake up in bed with along with a splitting headache? Or wake up abandoned but thoughtfully laid in the recovery position with a traffic cone jammed over your head?

And if you make it not some ancient childhood friendship, but a normal adult one, then maybe the Doctor knows the Corsair but the Master doesn’t.

You could have a story where the Master washes up on the Corsair’s space-pirate-decks, and he gets to be treated neutrally. If he wants. A friendship which we already know to be ultimately damned, and the Corsair doomed to be Frankensteined in their future, as the Master was in their past.

I just think we’ve got room to drive with that character, and we should.

And a space pirate ship always looks so cool.

[thebibliomancer]

Earth X #5

Thor seems different than usual.

It’s probably the braids.

Earth X: what you get when you ask Alex Ross to write a Kingdom Come tier story for Marvel. It is Bad Future! Uatu the Watcher has been blinded and he’s forced Aaron to be his seeing eye robot.

If you’re wondering what their dynamic is, it’s this:

The world is a mess with mind-control squids and body-control forever teens. Everyone has been mutated and Reed Richards blames himself. Many of the heroes we know are dead, retired, or in the clutches of the squid or the kid. And the world may be destroyed by vibranium or humanity may super-evolve into space gods.

As we go on and learn more about this setting, there are more and more plot threads.

Captain America in a flag yoga and Wyatt Wingfoot went to California to investigate the Skull, a horrible teen with the power to control people. The Skull took Wyatt for his growing army but left Steve alone because it was funnier that way.

While Steve sits and despairs about the hopelessness of the situation, circus Daredevil shows up and offers to become Steve’s new sidekick.

I am alarmed that this guy is relevant to the plot.

Also… I’m kind of wondering if he’s supposed to be Deadpool. Not actually Wade Wilson Deadpool himself but he has a lot of Deadpool energy and almost nothing to do with Matt Murdock. Alex Ross usually doesn’t like anything introduced after the death of Barry Allen but I wonder if he liked Deadpool enough to want to include someone like him.

This circus Daredevil is given an actual origin in a prequel from a few years back but the idea is sticking in my mind.

He’s red and black, he wants to work with Cap, he’s got an irreverent sense of humor, and he’s got a healing factor so strong he can’t die and has little self-preservation instinct anymore.

Anyway.

The Inhumans continue their journey to find their missing prince. Last issue, Reed Doom promised he’d help by getting a Cerebro and reprogramming it to find Inhumans. He takes off - using a teleportation device made out of Lockjaw… Aww, best doggo is dead? This really is Bad Future.

Reed leaving causes the Doombots of Castle Doom to suddenly register the Inhumans as intruders.

Their fight against the bots leads Medusa and Luna to discovering Dr Doom’s time platform… and Reed’s notes on it, reflecting he really wants to use it to save Sue from exploding but he doesn’t know when he’d stop altering history if he started.

Elsewhere, Cyclops is contacted by Corsair, Havok, and Polaris. FROM SPACE!

They know something bad is going to happen to Earth and want to bring Scott away to space safety.

He refuses to leave without Jean, even though she chose Wolverine over him in the love triangle.

Also, when Alex Ross doesn’t like a character, you know it. And he seems to hate Wolverine.

The appendix reveals that all the psychics are dead (Professor X, MODOK) or depowered (Jean).

Not sure yet why but it means there’s nobody to counter the kid or the squid.

Over in New York, Kid Bruce and Gorilla Hulk visit Sorcerer Supreme Clea.

Clea and Wong explain to Bruce that Strange’s astral form was destroyed while it was out of his body. His body still lives but he’s essentially dead. And that’s why Clea is sorcererly supreme.

So Bruce explains what he’s there for. He’s been having the oddest recurring dream.

Of Captain Marvel on his Death of Captain Marvel deathbed. In the dream, he rises out of bed and shows the assembled crowd of friends, allies, and respected enemies that he has the universe inside him. And then dies.

A universe inside a person sounds to Clea like Eternity. But Eternity is dead. Despite being the universe. Not sure how that happens.

Bruce really wants Mar-Vell to explain the dream to him so he asks Clea to dunk him into the Realm of Death.

I feel like there’s intermediate steps you could try but what do I know.

And geez, Bruce’s dream of the universe inside a dude and visiting death to interpret it on top of the world possibly ending and superpowered menaces running amok with nobody to stop them… This universe is a mess.

(By the way, the appendix notes that Carol Danvers is the current Captain Marvel and that she’s in space helping the Kree on their destroyed capital. So Earth X gets two more tallies for things the 616 would copy later.)

Now then. Let’s talk cover Thor.

Earth X wants to paint the entire history of Marvel with one brushstroke. Superpowers and even super genius is the result of Celestial meddling.

The gods were mentioned in issue 0 as being in conflict with the Celestials but I guess Ross didn’t feel like actual gods fit the picture he was painting.

On Earth X, the Asgardians aren’t gods. They’re super advanced shapeshifting emphatic aliens with no personality of their own who take their identity from those who observe them.

They came to Earth and were viewed as the Norse gods so the Norse gods they became.

Their powers became what people expected them to be. Their personalities became what people expected them to be.

I have no idea how this alien race of blank slates managed to invent space travel.

I don’t particularly like this worldbuilding idea for Thor’s slice of Marvel. His mythos feels diminished if it’s just aliens play-acting old stories.

Anyway, girl bod Thor is fighting some storm giants that made their way to Midgard* alongside the Iron Avengers, who Thor treats as friends.

*Earth

Tony Stark in his isolation somewhere tells the Iron Avengers to respond to another crisis because Thor’s got this one handled.

Vision in a cool hood wants to argue, feeling Tony is being manipulated by President Norman Osborn but ultimately does what Tony asks.

Back of the book appendix info: when the mass empowering event started, Tony sealed himself in isolation, afraid of being changed. He didn’t know but Scott Lang Ant-Man snuck himself and his daughter Cassie into Tony’s isolated environment to try to protect her. But she wound up changing anyway. And now they’re stuck because they can’t leave without compromising Tony’s sealed environment.

The people outside that were mutated came to resent Tony for not being mutated so kept trying to attack his bunker or whatever. So he created the Iron Avengers and gave them his dead friends’ personalities.

Honestly, I can’t wait for the issue that focuses on Tony. There seems to be a lot to unpack.

Also in appendix news, Osborn went on a secret killing spree of supervillains before he took power. He wiped out a lot of Tony’s rogues gallery, for example. And he was never elected as president. He just had himself declared as such and a jaded mutated populace went okay whatever.

Earth X is a mess.

After fighting off the storm giants, Thor calls Loki out as responsible for the attack.

Interesting new design Loki. Could do with you being less interpersonally gross though.

Unsurprisingly, Loki is behind Thor’s new look, having somehow tricked Odin into turning his brother into a woman as his latest trial of humility.

And if Thor goes back to Asgard to tell Odin that Loki is up to his shit again, Loki will lock Thor away from Earth so he can’t stop his evil scheming.

This is a weird plot point.

I’ve heard that it inspired Jane Foster Thor but I’m pretty sure both this and Jane Foster Thor were inspired by the What If where Jane Foster became Thor.

Thor seems only mildly irritated by this whole thing but sheesh, with everything else going on why throw this in?

Earth X is a mess. Captain America is demoralized and wearing the flag as a toga. Cyclops is depressed and lost the love of his life, again. Spider-Man is depressed and has a Venom daughter. Reed is depressed and blames himself for the state of the world.

And Thor has been rule 63’d. But at least he’s not depressed?

[flowers-of-io]

Inspired by the tags under this post by @ninerivens <3 I wrote the majority of this fic back in Haunted and kinda forgot about it whoops, hence why I’m posting it at such a random moment.

Read on Ao3

When the H.E.L.M. was being designed, there was one room tucked under its left wing that had a table with two chairs and a coffee machine, and many blinking monitors covering all of the widest wall. It turned out to be a good place to sit and talk when the main area was occupied, or just to and gather thoughts over a cup of awfully bitter coffee, and Zavala liked to watch it transform over the months of use: an Imperial banner looted from the Halpheas Electus strung over the kitchen counter, some spare parts left by Corsairs and gathering dust in the corner, a third chair brought here by an Eliksni technician when they were celebrating Crow’s “rez-day” here, back when things were simpler. Several mugs in significantly differing sizes clutter the cupboard. There is even a bedroll tucked behind the table, one Zavala has found himself sleeping on more than a few times lately. Crow has been talking about bringing more of those, maybe even a bunk bed, maybe some more folding chairs or a clock or a microwave. A Cabal-sized ottoman occupies one corner, next to a pile of blankets.

It is quiet here, now, save for the soft buzz of monitors and Crow’s measured breathing as he slumbers on the bedroll spread out under the opposite wall, curled around Glint like a cat. It must be horrendously late by City standards, but Zavala still holds a cup of fresh coffee, huffing on the surface and feeling hot vapour caress his face. The monitors blink—shifting images of the Leviathan’s rooms from different angles, awfully familiar by now, making his skin crawl all the same. He barely registers the quiet rustle as the door behind him slides open.

“Zavala,” the voice is soft, but he almost spills the coffee with how abruptly he turns around.

“Ca— Empress,” he stumbles, because this is an official space, even with all the mess and his lead scout currently snoring in the corner; but she only gives a weary shake of her head and he settles on, “Caiatl.”

“Could you… spare me a moment?”

“Always,” he moves to give her some room. With how small and cluttered the place is, her arm almost brushes against his shoulder when she comes to stand beside him.

Tension radiates off her, he can see it in how stiff her back is and how she clasps her hands in front of her, knuckles white, in the stained expression on her unhelmeted face. Worry curls in his stomach, but he doesn’t rush her—only watches as she stares at the monitors for a moment, then finally turns her gaze to him.

“The severance ritual,” she begins.

“Are you… alright?” An impulse makes Zavala want to put a hand over hers, but he resists it. Caiatl draws in a breath.

“Ghaul’s… the phantom’s words…”

“They’re lies,” he says immediately.

“They’re my own thoughts.” She looks away, and speaks slowly, as if every word was being pushed through her lips with great effort. “My own doubts. I… I fear putting the lives of my men in the Guardians’ hands. Every time, I’m second-guessing myself when I send them under someone else’s command.”

“That is a reasonable concern to have.”

“I fear I’m not taking something into account and will end up with a knife in my back, just like my father. I’m weighing the Guardians’ motives. The Red Legion razed your City; sometimes I have nightmares about my armada burning, a fair vengeance for that war.”

Zavala watches her wring her fingers, rings clicking against each other. Her hands must be warm, even in the coolness of the H.E.L.M., and they are soft and wide and safe, and he is trying not to think about this now but cannot help himself.

“Some time ago you said, ‘trust is still being built’.” He looks to her face half-turned away, blue streaks on her profile flickering in sync with the monitors. There is no accusation in his tone as he continues, “Are you worried I will betray you?”

“No,” she says this instantly, and then frowns, as if considering the words only after she had uttered them. “No, not you. I would lay my life in your hands.”

This is not spoken like a vow or a confession, but Caiatl is looking at him now, and something warm and so very soft coils in his chest without a warning. He puts the mug down.

“I wanted this to be clear between us,” she presses on, “and that what you heard—”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he interrupts, and shakes his head when she opens her mouth to speak. “You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you. We all have fears, but they’re not who we are.”

She sighs, “Zavala…”

“Caiatl.” He moves, because the tension is unbearable, because she keeps looking at him like she wants a way out but can’t find it, because her eyes glow dimly in the darkened room and he couldn’t break their gaze even if he wanted to. His hand touches her forearm and he marvels at the softness of her skin, at the electricity upon contact that has nothing to do with the Light. Caiatl’s shoulders slump, and she reaches back, her fingers brushing the side of his face.

From there it is easy to lean in, his forehead coming to rest against her chestplate and her chin atop his head, and then her arms curl around him, and he breathes in the mixed scent of musk, iron and herbs. They stay like this for a long, wonderfully warm minute; until a soft chuckle escapes Zavala and Caiatl hums at this inquisitively.

“You’d think it would be harder. This,” trapped in the embrace all he can do is shrug unhelpfully, though Caiatl’s gentle nod suggests she understood. “But frankly, I’ve found it quite effortless.”

“Easier than most things lately,” the small scoff she breathes out is almost a laugh. He shifts to look up at her, at her golden eyes and glimmering ring-bands, the long carved tusks casting strange shadows across her face.

Facing the risen Hive. Losing his faith. Falling in love. Losing his son, again, in a whole new and terrifying way, almost losing himself in the process. That moment in the Hangar when he watched Caiatl storm towards Crow and for one horrible second was ready to kill her.

He wants to speak but finds himself choked up.

Caiatl releases him and takes half a step back, though her hands still linger loosely on his shoulders. Her gaze wanders to Crow, curled up in a fetal position on the bedroll, his face smooth and calm under the few strands of hair that fall over it.

“I envy such peace.”

Zavala follows her eyes and for a moment they stay in silence, listening to the Hunter’s measured breaths. He moves slightly, only once, and his arm curls to hold Glint tighter to his chest.

“Sometimes I worry the only peace he ever gets is when he’s sleeping,” Zavala says quietly.

“And you?” She turns back to him, assessing him with her gaze.

“Hmm?”

“Have you been sleeping lately?”

He opens his mouth and stumbles, because it’s hard to lie straight to her face, “…there was a lot of work.”

“I see.”

“I’m fine, Caiatl.”

“If so, why are you making excuses?” She tilts her head, humour twinkling in her eyes. “Another thing I told you was that a true warrior knows when to fight and when to rest. Do not make me doubt your prowess, Commander.”

From his corner of the room Crow gives off a single, definitive snore, and this seals the spell. Caiatl chuckles, a warm and rumbling sound, and Zavala suddenly realises just how heavy his limbs feel—between coffee and the crutch that is Targe’s Light, he really hasn’t been sleeping for days. The Cabal otoman in the corner now looks incredibly appealing.

“Maybe I should heed your advice more often,” he says with a small smile. Caiatl lifts her tusks in amusement.

“You’d better.” The hand ghosting over his shoulder moves to scoop up his palm, and he squeezes her fingers. “See me tomorrow?”

“With pleasure.” A cynical voice in his mind whispers that the rate of crises as of late would have them meet whether they’d like it or not, but he brushes it away. They linger like this for a moment, until Caiatl lets go of his hand and pointedly gestures to Crow with her chin.

“Go rest. It must be late for you.”

She leaves with a smile in her eyes, and the warmth of it settles inside Zavala’s chest somewhere between the lungs, making him breathe deep and easy. He sinks into the otoman, head turned away from the blinking screens that buzz with a pleasant white noise. It is oh so warm, warmer still when he pulls a blanket over himself, and his bones all but melt into the plush as he drifts off. Crow mumbles something in his sleep. The measured footsteps of security frames come from the other room. A sensor beeps, somewhere far enough not to care.

And then there is no sound at all.

[the---hermit]

I am currently crocheting a pic-nic blanket and I am very happy with how it's looking so far!

25|06|2023

I thought it would be nice to do a bit of an update on what I am currently reading, since it's been one of the main activities I have been filling my time with. I am still following the re:dracula podcast, although these last few weeks had few updates. My main read right now is The House In The Cerulean sea by T.J. Klune, a book I doubted I would ever pick up because for some reason I just assumed I wouldn't like it. I decided tovgive it a try after I saw my local book store had a small discount on it, and I had heard some people calling it a lighthearted cozy fantasy. This description is definitely what intrigued me, as it sounded like the perfect thing for me at the moment. As I have mentioned I bured myself out pretty badly while studying for my summer exams, and I am still getting out of there. This is indeed a cozy and wholesome fantasy that is bringing me so much joy without requiring too much brain power. For the moments in which I have very little brain power even for that book (mostly the evenings before bed when I find myself exhausted even if my day was chill and uneventful) I have a graphic novel. I am rereading L'Elenco Telefonico Degli Accolli by Zerocalcare, another collection of the work he originally published on his blog. It's again been years since I read this, and I am really enjoying diving back into his books. Finally the audiobook that has been keeping me company as I crochet is The Black Corsair by Emilio Salgari. It's actually my first Salgari novel! It's been on my tbr for ages because I love anything with pirates, and I want to read more Italian litterature so this felt like the perfect fit. I am more or less half way into it and I am pretty sure the audiobook was the perfrct choice for this book because it's helping me immerse much more into the adventures it narrates. For some reason I wasn't expecting such a romantic depiction of pirates but I am really enjoying it. It's definitely putting me into a more summery mood. This read in particular is also sperking in me a new interest in a couple of classics I have been putting off reading for a while, but we'll talk about it when I get to them.