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bitterrfruit · 4 months ago

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iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea.

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her.

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy.

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too.

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers.

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper?

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give.

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint.

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft.

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate.

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind.

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale.

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were.

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.”

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.”

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them.

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent.

He needed nicotine.

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with.

A blink of red pierced through the mist.

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave.

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon.

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day.

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater.

A lifeboat.

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips.

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.”

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Roger.”

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall.

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom.

“What’ve we got?”

“Life raft.”

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots.

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers.

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat.

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean.

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.”

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat.

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged.

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.”

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads.

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line.

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them.

“You sure?”

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together.

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch.

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive.

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up.

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?”

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already.

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind.

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath.

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure.

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard.

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand.

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman.

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.”

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face.

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly.

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat.

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.”

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.”

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging.

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth.

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it.

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm.

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.”

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back.

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again.

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell.

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension.

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb.

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them.

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down.

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs.

“Gotta get her warm,” John said.

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?”

“One year,” Kyle corrected.

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious.

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck.

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully.

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled.

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?”

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.”

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall.

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her.

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away.

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations.

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head.

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled.

“What is.”

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant.

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him.

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand.

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste.

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity.

John did not care, he had no qualms.

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again.

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin.

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs.

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them.

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall.

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided.

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again.

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair.

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that.

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle.

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested.

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.”

John said nothing.

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude.

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening.

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word.

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough.

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?”

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.”

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud.

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres.

“Ferry capsized, maybe?”

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.”

“Mh,” Gaz agreed.

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.”

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting.

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs.

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship.

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley.

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?”

“No.”

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.”

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder.

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull.

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together.

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it.

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.”

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.”

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.”

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered.

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal.

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.”

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly.

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?”

“Will do, Captain.”

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness.

Still, salt on your tongue.

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in.

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine.

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe.

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate.

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you.

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again.

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth.

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it.

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back.

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet.

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.”

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you.

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water.

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright.

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft.

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings.

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.”

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.”

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him.

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him.

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.”

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab.

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you.

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives.

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands.

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence.

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.”

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously.

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway.

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you.

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again.

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank.

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside.

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step.

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets.

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step.

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked.

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!”

“Oi — girl—” Called one.

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!”

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach.

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed.

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?”

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you.

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed.

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.”

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you.

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly.

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?”

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction.

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.”

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor.

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone.

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze.

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him.

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs.

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.”

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed.

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched.

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly.

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle.

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut.

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.”

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you.

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg.

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears.

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg.

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting.

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being.

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers.

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees.

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again.

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion.

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece.

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together.

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?”

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.”

“That’s fine,” you croaked.

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head.

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.”

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.”

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion.

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting.

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.”

“Iron Tide?”

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.”

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?”

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him.

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.”

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased.

“So?”

“So what?” You asked, with a frown.

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?”

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea.

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke.

You didn’t have an answer.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you.

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully.

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head.

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?”

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.”

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?”

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty.

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it.

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.”

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?”

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back.

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.”

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade.

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.”

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff.

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.”

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece.

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder.

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.”

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle.

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair.

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.”

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat.

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead.

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs.

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about.

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself.

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one.

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it.

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table.

“Happy?”

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him.

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?”

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.”

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between.

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase.

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door.

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse.

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else.

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.”

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste.

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room.

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate.

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it.

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up.

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it.

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up.

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy.

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface.

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle.

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you.

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface.

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again.

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness.

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed.

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours.

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull.

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm.

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on.

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent.

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming.

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again.

#cunty little beanie is here #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod smut #bella-writes

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ltwilliammowett · 1 year ago

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Smoke on the Water

Sailors loved to smoke, it was a distraction from the hard work, the conditions around them and the often scarce food etc. Tobacco could now be consumed in different ways, either smoked in a pipe or chewed.

In addition to the pipe, officers from the 18th century onwards also liked to have a cigar from time to time, conveniently in the last days of sailing ships when the hand-rolled cigarette emerged, which incidentally was then very popular with all sailors.

Three Sailors having a break at the galley, smoking a pipe and having some tea or coffee, HMS Union of London, by unknown 1823 (x)

Now there was only one problem, because smoking was not always allowed, only at the smoking lamp or in the galley and at permitted times, and so many people chewed their tobacco, which could be consumed in between. The only thing that was a little more difficult was storing it, because it was not so easy to simply put it in your pocket if you had to expect to lose it while working in the air. That's why the sailors put their chewing tobacco under their hats and the inner lining became soaked with sweat and tobacco juice over time. Now there wasn't always tobacco to buy, or the gentleman didn't have enough money to buy it, so he took the lining out of the hat and chewed it instead. Hence the exclamation "Eat my hat".

What did a tobacco plug look like? The leaves were dipped in honey, molasses or flavoured syrup. A hole was drilled in a block of wood - hickory was preferred, but other types of wood were also sufficient - and the soaked tobacco was pressed into it, hence the word "plug". As soon as the tobacco had hardened, the plug was pulled out of the hole and wrapped in cavas so that it could be used.

As tobacco was considered essential for survival, it was almost a catastrophic event if it ran out. So worn cordage, whether manila or hemp, was tried and found to be very pungent and intoxicating; tea leaves had their devotees, and some hardy spirits experimented with some of the green weed that graced our waterlines when dried in the sun. The most popular smoke, however, was a combination of dew sausages, coffee grounds and the bark of a pork barrel, grated into small pieces and mixed in equal quantities.

#naval history #smoking #life aboard ships #18th century #19th century #age of sail #age of steam

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carnalcrows · 2 months ago

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UNDER THE SEA

summary: When a voiceless prince of the sea washes up on shore, the last thing you expect is to fall in love with him. But Suguru is nothing like the legends — sharp-eyed, wild-hearted, and hiding more pain than he lets on. As your world turns upside down with stolen glances and forbidden touches, you're both pulled into a storm of old magic, royal wrath, and the kind of love that changes everything. In the end, the only thing stronger than the tide is the bond between you.

pairing: ariel! suguru geto x prince eric! male reader

content warnings: 18+, top male reader, the side characters are originally sea creatures but get turned into humans at the end (for the plot), shapeshifting, thoughts of suicide (implied).

word count: 8.0k

The coast was a living thing.

It breathed salt into the air, stirred the waves with invisible hands, whispered secrets through the sea grass curling around the rocks. You knew the shoreline better than you knew the royal gardens, better than the throne room where your future was supposed to be waiting. Here, at the ragged edge of the kingdom, you could pretend the world was yours alone.

Megumi barked at the foam licking the sand, then trotted back to nudge your knee with a wet nose. You smiled, absently scratching behind his ears as you watched the ships bobbing out on the horizon — pale ghosts against the setting sun.

Tomorrow there would be meetings. Talks of alliances, marriage contracts and duty. You had been reminded of it a hundred times this week alone. A prince's life is not his own, they told you. A prince lives for his people.

You tipped your head back and let the wind steal the breath from your lungs. Maybe that was true. Maybe that was why you spent so much time down here, pretending you could forget.

The first night you saw him, you thought he was a dream.

A figure cutting through the dark waves, black hair slicked back from his sharp, beautiful face, a flicker of something silvered and strange at his waist where legs should have been. He didn't speak. He only watched you from a distance, half-shielded by a jagged rock outcropping — until the tide rose too high and you had to retreat, pulse thundering like a drum.

You didn’t tell anyone. You weren’t even sure he was real.

But you came back the next night anyway. And the night after that.

⋆｡°✩

The sea above was never quiet.

It pressed against Geto's skin like a second heartbeat, a steady drum of currents and whispered storms. He learned long ago how to move with it, how to let the world pass around him without leaving a mark. Down here, nothing changed. Down here, he could be anything except free.

His father's court was endless: treaties with the southern pods, patrols against deepwater threats, lectures on duty and bloodlines. The weight of it wrapped around his ribs tighter with every passing year. One day, Gakuganji told him, the crown would be his. One day, he would lead their people. One day, one day, one day.

None of it ever felt like it belonged to him.

Only the surface did.

Only the wind-struck light dappling the upper currents, the forgotten shipwrecks rusting like bones, the songs carried down from the world above. Only the days he risked everything to rise to the rocky cliffs near the human harbour — to watch them, to imagine a life where he could breathe air and walk wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without permission or fear.

It was on one of those days that he saw you.

A boy standing barefoot on the rocks, hair tousled by the wind, face turned toward the horizon like he was searching for something he hadn't found yet. You looked out at the world the way Geto did from below — aching for it.

He should have swum away. Should have gone back to the safety of the deeps.

But he stayed. And he watched. And for the first time in a long time, the ocean around him didn’t feel like a cage.

⋆｡°✩

The night the storm hit, the harbour bells rang too late.

You had been aboard one of the trading ships by then, half-listening to the captain grumble about incoming weather and ignoring the pit twisting in your gut. The sky was already bruising purple when the first gust hit — tearing sails, snapping rigging. Men shouted, scrambling to reef lines and lower anchors, but the sea didn’t care for human hands.

It swallowed the ships one by one.

The deck pitched under your feet. You stumbled, slamming against the rail just as a wall of black water rose above the stern. Megumi barked once, sharp and terrified, before something wrenched you backwards — the mast, splintering free and crashing down.

You didn’t have time to scream.

The ocean yawned open and dragged you under.

⋆｡°✩

Geto felt it before he saw it.

The current shifted — sudden and wrong — churning with debris and panic. He surfaced just in time to see the human ships breaking apart like toys, to hear the distant wail of horns and voices swallowed by thunder.

And you.

Sinking.

He didn't think. He never thought, where you were concerned.

Geto dove, cutting through the wreckage, ignoring the jagged shards that scraped his arms. He found you drifting down like a broken-winged bird, limbs slack, hair fanning in the dark.

The ocean wanted you. It always wanted the beautiful ones.

Not this time.

He caught you around the waist and kicked hard for the surface.

You were heavy with soaked clothes and fading warmth. Every second dragged like chains. His lungs burned, his vision blurred, but he held onto you like you were the last real thing left in the world.

When they broke the surface, the storm was still raging. Waves tossed them like driftwood. He scanned the dark coastline — spotted the jutting rocks near the harbour mouth — and swam.

He didn’t know how long it took. He didn’t care.

He hauled you up onto the slick stones, shielding your body with his own as the rain lashed down. You coughed weakly, choking on salt, and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Alive.

You were alive.

⋆｡°✩

The sound of human voices echoed from the cliffs — search parties, flashing lanterns between the rocks. Geto looked down at you, memorising the line of your jaw, the stubborn set of your mouth even in sleep.

He wanted — stupidly, selfishly — to stay.

Instead, he pressed his forehead briefly against yours, whispering something he would never have the chance to explain. Then he slid back into the water and vanished with the tide.

By the time the villagers found you, the only trace of him was the salt drying on your skin.

The throne room shimmered with trapped light — columns carved from coral and salt-stained marble, banners heavy with the weight of generations. Geto stood in the centre of it all, dripping seawater onto the polished floor, heart hammering against his ribs.

"You endangered the whole pod!" Gakuganji’s voice cracked through the hall like a whip. His crown tilted slightly with the force of his rage. "You think the humans would hesitate to capture you? To carve you open and mount you on a wall?"

Geto said nothing.

There was no point arguing. Not when his father’s anger was loud enough to drown the entire ocean.

Beside the dais, Nanami stood stiff-backed, arms crossed. He didn’t look triumphant about reporting Geto’s surfacing — just tired, like he hated this as much as everyone else. It almost made it worse.

"You're heir to the throne!" Gakuganji thundered. "You have responsibilities beyond your childish fascinations."

Geto's hands curled into fists. He could still feel the weight of you in his arms, the raw terror of losing you to the storm. "I saved him," he said quietly.

"What?" The king leaned forward, incredulous.

"I saved a human boy," Geto repeated. "He would have died."

"You risked us for one human?!" Gakuganji slammed his trident into the floor, the impact echoing up the columns. "You think they would show you the same mercy? You think they would not hunt you down the moment they saw what you are?"

"They’re not all the same," Geto said, teeth gritted. "He—"

"Enough." Gakuganji's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "You will not surface again. You will not approach the humans. You will remember who you are."

"And if I don't?" Geto asked, before he could stop himself.

For a moment — a long, dangerous heartbeat — the throne room went dead still.

"You are my son," Gakuganji said, low and cold. "You have no other path."

⋆｡°✩

Later, in the empty coral gardens, Gojo found him — lounging sideways across a crumbling pillar, grinning like he hadn't just been chased out of a war meeting.

"Yikes," Gojo said cheerfully. "You sure know how to make an exit."

Geto didn’t answer. He stared up at the distorted sunlight filtering through the water, aching all over in ways he didn’t have names for.

"You’re lucky," Gojo continued, drifting upside down just to be annoying. "If it were my old man, I’d already be gutted and grilled."

"You're not helping."

"You never let me," Gojo huffed. He floated closer, peering at Geto. "So. You gonna tell me what’s got you risking excommunication? Or do I have to guess?"

Geto stayed silent.

Gojo tilted his head. "It’s a boy, isn’t it?"

Geto groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Gojo whooped. "I knew it! The brooding, the reckless endangerment, the classic tragic ocean prince move—"

"Shut up."

"Make me," Gojo said smugly. He poked Geto’s arm. "Come on, you big idiot. You’re already halfway to disaster. Might as well tell me the whole tragic love story before Nanami comes back and scolds you again."

⋆｡°✩

The sea grew colder as Geto swam downward.

Here, light barely touched the water — a place forgotten by even the boldest currents. The rocks twisted into cruel shapes, and whispers rode the tides like broken shells. If there was a place for mistakes to be made permanent, it was here.

He should have turned back.

He didn't.

The cavern loomed ahead, yawning wide, lit from within by a sickly green glow. Strange silhouettes moved against the walls — half-formed faces, reaching hands. Geto steeled himself and drifted closer.

"You’re a hard one to catch," a voice purred from the darkness.

Kenjaku.

The wizard drifted forward, robes flowing like smoke around his legs, face split by a smile too wide to be friendly.

"You want something, little prince," Kenjaku crooned. "I can smell it."

Two figures uncoiled from the shadows behind him — long, sinuous, sharp-toothed. Mai and Maki, twinned and terrible, circled lazily around Geto, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Look at him," Mai said mockingly, twirling a lock of her hair. "So serious."

"So sad," Maki agreed, baring her teeth in a grin.

"So stupid," they said together, and laughed — a low, rippling sound that made Geto’s skin crawl.

⋆｡°✩

"I need legs," Geto said, forcing his voice steady.

Kenjaku’s smile sharpened. "Legs, hm? For what, I wonder? A human? A flash of bare skin and you’re ready to drown yourself in heartbreak?"

"Name your price," Geto said flatly.

The witch tsked, floating closer until their noses almost touched. "Such a waste. Such beautiful magic, all tangled up in something as stupid as hope."

Behind him, Mai and Maki snickered.

⋆｡°✩

Kenjaku raised one hand, tracing a circle in the water. A contract shimmered into view — ancient script twisting around its edges.

"The price is your voice," Kenjaku said sweetly. "Three days. If he falls in love with you — truly — and seals it with a kiss, you stay human. If not..." His smile grew wider. "You belong to me."

The eels spun around Geto, tightening the circle. Their laughter dripped like venom into the water.

Geto hesitated — just for a breath.

Long enough to remember your face, lit by stormlight. Long enough to remember the way you clutched his hand even unconscious.

He reached out and touched the glowing contract.

⋆｡°✩

Pain flared in his throat — white-hot and merciless — cutting off his cry halfway. The magic stripped him clean, peeling his voice from his body like silk torn from skin.

He gasped silently, clutching his throat as the spell wrapped around him, crushing, reshaping, burning.

When it was done, he drifted there — smaller, heavier, different.

Legs where there had been fins. Silence where there had been song.

Kenjaku smiled like a man who had just caught a very rare fish.

"Good luck, little prince," he said, voice syrup-thick. "And do hurry."

Mai and Maki cackled as the currents carried Geto upward — toward the waiting world above.

⋆｡°✩

The morning broke soft and slow over the coastline, spilling gold across the restless sea. The world still smelled of the storm — salt-heavy, sharp with the tang of broken kelp — but the sky had cleared, vast and aching blue from horizon to horizon.

You stumbled barefoot across the sand, Megumi racing ahead, nose low to the ground. Every muscle in your body ached from the night before — the crash of the ship, the icy clutch of the water, the way your lungs had burned as you fought to surface. It blurred in your memory now, stitched together only by fragments: the cold, the fear — and something else. A hand, pulling you upward. A voice you couldn’t remember, except that it had made you feel safe even in the middle of drowning.

You had barely slept. You couldn't. Not when the memory of it kept clawing at you, whispering that there was more you were supposed to remember.

And then Megumi barked — sharp and urgent — and you saw him.

A body crumpled on the sand, half-buried in seafoam, black hair spilling in tangled waves across pale skin. He was naked — startlingly so — his skin marred only by the faint bruises of the storm, the faint shimmer of salt drying on him. There was nothing indecent about it; it felt more like finding something sacred, half-formed and left behind by the tide.

You ran before you even realised you were moving, dropping to your knees in the wet sand beside him. He wasn’t breathing — or if he was, it was shallow enough to terrify you.

"Hey," you gasped, pressing trembling fingers to his cheek. "Hey, wake up—"

He stirred faintly under your touch.

His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted in a soundless breath. Dark eyes blinked up at you, wide and dazed and afraid.

Relief crashed through you so fast it left you dizzy. "You're okay," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "You're okay."

You sat back, heart hammering, and without thinking, yanked your jacket from your shoulders. You wrapped it hastily around his body, covering him, trying to shield him from the cold — from the world — from everything that had brought him here.

He flinched slightly at the contact, but didn't pull away.

"Can you speak?" you asked, softer now.

He shook his head.

Panic twisted low in your gut. You scanned the beach for any sign of help — villagers, healers — but there was only you, the boy, and the endless hiss of the tide.

"Alright," you said, forcing your voice steady. "Okay. You’re safe now. We'll get you help."

He looked at you then — really looked — and the vulnerability there, raw and unguarded, made your throat tighten.

You slid an arm under his shoulders, lifting him carefully. He was heavier than he looked, all wiry strength packed into his slender frame. Still, you managed to half-carry, half-drag him toward the path leading back to the village, Megumi trotting anxiously at your heels.

You didn’t even know his name.

But some part of you whispered — old and certain — that you would learn it.

Whatever it cost.

Sneaking an unconscious man into the palace was harder than it sounded.

You kept your head down, murmuring apologies to the few kitchen servants and gardeners you passed, trying to make it look like he was a drunken cousin you'd plucked off the docks rather than a half-drowned stranger you’d found lying naked on the beach. Thankfully, your reputation for odd charity cases preceded you, and nobody dared stop you outright.

Megumi pressed close to your leg, hackles raised, growling low at anyone who came too near.

The boy clung to you with what little strength he had, swaying on his feet, skin still clammy under your jacket. His eyes stayed downcast, wide and dark and unreadable, like he was waiting for the moment someone dragged him away.

You tightened your grip on his waist.

Not happening.

Not while you were breathing.

⋆｡°✩

You finally reached your wing of the castle — a small, sun-lit corner usually ignored by the court — and kicked the door open with your boot.

"Utahime’s gonna kill me," you muttered under your breath.

As if summoned by fate itself, Utahime appeared at the end of the hall, a stack of linens balanced precariously in her arms. She froze when she saw you — soaked, half-dragging a half-naked stranger through the corridor, dripping seawater onto the rug.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

You spoke first. "It’s not what it looks like."

She raised an eyebrow so sharp it could have cut glass.

"Really?" she said flatly. "Because it looks exactly like you smuggled a drowned courtesan into the guest quarters."

"Utahime," you begged, "please. Just... trust me."

Her gaze flickered from you to the boy — to Geto — noting the way he sagged against you, the bruises on his skin, the way he flinched from sudden movement. Something softened in her expression.

"Fine," she said, voice clipped. "But if the king finds out you brought another stray into the palace, you’re explaining it, not me."

"Thank you," you breathed, genuinely relieved.

She rolled her eyes so hard you thought she might sprain something, then spun on her heel. "Hot water. Dry clothes. Quietly, if you have any sense left at all."

You turned to Geto, offering the barest smile. "See? It’ll be fine."

He gave you a look that clearly said he wasn’t so sure.

You shifted him toward the washroom, only to hear a wet slap! behind you. Startled, you turned — and blinked at the sight of a bright blue fish flopping awkwardly across the tiles, tail flicking madly.

"...Okay," you muttered. "Guess the tide brought in a few extra things."

Megumi barked once, chasing after the fish with a delighted growl.

In the basin, a large lobster scuttled up the side, clacking its claws indignantly. You laughed under your breath, because what else could you do? First the storm, then the mysterious boy, now sea creatures invading your house. It figured.

You shook your head and nudged the boy toward the warm towels waiting near the fire. "Come on. Let’s get you dry before you catch something worse."

Behind you, the lobster snapped its claws in what might have been furious disapproval.

You chalked it up to a very weird day and got to work.

⋆｡°✩

The water in the copper basin steamed gently, carrying the soft scent of rosemary and soap into the air. You crouched beside it, wringing out a clean cloth with careful hands, trying not to startle the boy any more than he already was. He sat on a low stool wrapped in one of Utahime’s thick linen towels, the oversized fabric drowning his frame. His dark hair clung wetly to his cheeks, droplets carving slow trails down his throat and collarbone.

You worked in silence at first. He didn’t speak — couldn’t, you remembered with a pang — but he watched you with those dark, endless eyes, wary and unblinking. Like he expected you to change your mind. Like he was waiting to be thrown back into the sea.

You hated that look.

"You’re safe here," you said softly, dipping the cloth again and squeezing it out. "I swear it."

He blinked once, the smallest tremor of a nod, and let you gently wipe away the sand and salt crusted on his skin.

The bruises were worse up close. A constellation of them across his ribs and hips, angry purples fading into sickly greens. You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling slightly as you cleaned him, careful not to press too hard. He bore it in silence, though his hands fisted white-knuckled in the towel whenever you touched a particularly deep mark.

"You really went through hell, didn’t you?" you murmured, not expecting an answer.

He just tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t decided to trust yet.

You couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking — waking up in a strange place, surrounded by people he couldn’t understand, without even his voice to defend himself.

Still, he didn’t pull away from you.

That had to mean something.

⋆｡°✩

You helped him stand — slowly, carefully — and guided him to the clothes Utahime had left out. Simple trousers and a linen shirt, soft from years of washing. Nothing that would bind or restrict him. You turned your back politely to give him privacy, but you caught glimpses of him fumbling with the strange fastenings, his hands clumsy and uncertain.

You hesitated for a heartbeat.

Then — cursing the blood already rushing traitorously to your face — you turned back and crouched in front of him.

"Here," you said, voice low. "Let me help."

His hands trembled as he held out the shirt. You took it from him, sliding it carefully over his arms, mindful of the bruises. Your fingers brushed the bare skin of his back — warm now from the fire — and he shivered under your touch.

Not from cold.

From something else.

You swallowed against the tightness rising in your throat and focused on fastening the buttons one by one, your hands slow and steady.

He smelled of salt and clean water, of something older and wilder than anything that had ever lived in the palace. Being this close to him felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and daring the wind to take you.

When you finally looked up, he was watching you again — close enough that you could see the fine droplets clinging to his lashes, the faint pink rising in his cheeks.

For a moment — just a moment — the world narrowed to this: your hands still resting lightly on his ribs, his breath ghosting warm across your mouth, the almost unbearable weight of the things you weren’t saying.

You cleared your throat roughly and stepped back.

"Better," you said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

He smiled — small and uncertain, but real.

It hit you like a sucker punch.

Gods help you.

You were so, so doomed.

The next few days blurred into something slow and strange and golden.

You weren’t sure when the man slipped into the rhythm of your life. It happened so naturally that even Utahime stopped giving you suspicious glares after a while, though she still huffed disapprovingly whenever she caught you teaching him how to balance a teacup properly or helping him pronounce simple words by mouthing them slowly across the breakfast table.

He learned fast.

He struggled with some things — forks, for instance, and the baffling concept of shoes — but he watched you intently whenever you demonstrated something, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration. You found yourself performing for him more and more, exaggerating small daily tasks just to hear the faint huff of laughter he tried to hide behind his hand.

He was different from anyone you had ever known. He didn’t speak, but he listened. He didn’t understand your world, but he treated every clumsy new experience like it was precious — sacred.

And gods help you, every day you spent with him carved deeper into your ribs.

It wasn’t just the way he looked — though that was its own kind of torture, the way his hair curled damply against his forehead in the mornings, the way his smiles bloomed shy and bright when you praised him. It was the way he made everything feel new. Like you were seeing the world for the first time through his eyes.

It terrified you.

And you never wanted it to end.

⋆｡°✩

One evening, Gojo hatched a plan.

The fish flopped dramatically into Geto’s washbasin, splattering water everywhere, and gurgled out something that sounded suspiciously like, "You need a romantic setting, dumbass."

Nanami snapped his claws sharply at Gojo, looking scandalised, but Geto tilted his head thoughtfully, considering.

Thus: the boat.

It was old — a battered rowboat the castle’s fishermen had abandoned months ago — but you managed to patch it up enough to float. The little inlet near the gardens shimmered under the late afternoon sun, warm and heavy with the scent of summer roses. It wasn’t much.

But Geto beamed when you led him to it, and that was enough.

⋆｡°✩

The boat rocked gently as you pushed off from the shore, settling into the lazy current. Megumi whined once, left behind on the dock, but Utahime had promised to watch him with strict warnings about muddy paws on clean linens.

You and Geto sat side by side, knees bumping occasionally as the boat drifted.

He leaned over the side once, trailing his fingers through the water, eyes wide in quiet wonder. You watched him, unable to look away. The way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way the breeze toyed with the loose laces of his shirt — he looked like something dreamed into existence, something too fragile for this world.

Your heart ached with it.

Gojo and Nanami lurked somewhere nearby — you caught glimpses of them in the water now and then, little splashes and flashes of colour as they tried (very badly) to be subtle.

At one point, Gojo bumped a lily pad under your boat in what could only be described as a "subtle nudge."

You laughed under your breath.

Geto looked up, curious, and you smiled at him, helpless against it.

The boat drifted into a patch of golden reeds. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the soft lapping of the water, the gentle hush of the wind.

You turned toward him.

He turned toward you.

The distance between you shrank — slow, inevitable.

You could feel the heat of him, the tentative hope in his gaze, the silent question trembling between you.

You leaned in. He leaned in. Closer. Closer. Your breath mingled. Your noses brushed.

And just as your lips were about to meet—

A massive wave crashed against the side of the boat, nearly capsizing it.

You yelped, scrambling to grab the edges as Geto flailed, soaking wet, clutching desperately at the seat. The boat rocked wildly, slamming back into the reeds.

You twisted, scanning the water. No wind. No passing ship. Just... a single ominous ripple fading into the distance.

Your heart pounded with more than just adrenaline. Geto looked at you, his mouth tight with frustration, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the wood.

Something was wrong. You could feel it.

⋆｡°✩

You sat on the damp seat of the rocking boat for a long time after the wave struck, breathing hard and blinking salt from your eyes. The boy — the stranger — hunched beside you, gripping the edge of the hull so tightly his knuckles had turned bloodless. Water dripped steadily from his hair, trailing down his throat, soaking the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt until it clung to the sharp lines of his body. His mouth was a tight line, his brow furrowed in frustration, but when he turned those dark, searching eyes on you, all you could feel was the echo of something unfinished.

You almost kissed him. Gods above, you almost kissed him.

Your skin still tingled from the near-touch of it. Your heart hammered an uneven beat, deafening in the quiet. You didn’t know what you would have done if the kiss had landed — you barely knew what you were doing now, sitting here, pretending that the whole world hadn't shifted around you in the space of a breath.

You laughed under your breath — short, self-mocking — and shook your head. What was happening to you?

The boy watched you with something complicated in his gaze. There was no fear there, no hesitation. Only a kind of raw, aching patience, like he would wait as long as it took for you to understand something he couldn’t say.

The boat rocked gently again, nudged by a smaller ripple. You glanced around — no sign of the flounder or the lobster now. The water stretched flat and empty in every direction, save for the faintest shimmer on the horizon. For a moment, you thought you caught a glimpse of something — a shape beneath the surface, too fast and sinuous to be natural — but when you blinked, it was gone.

You chalked it up to exhaustion. To nerves.

You rowed back to the dock in silence, your arms aching with each pull. He helped where he could, clumsy but determined, his strength returning with every passing hour. He steadied you when you nearly slipped on the wet stones, his hands warm and sure on your waist, and you laughed breathlessly despite yourself.

He smiled back — that small, fierce thing — and your heart nearly stumbled out of your chest.

⋆｡°✩

That night, the castle felt different.

Quieter, heavier.

The halls echoed strangely under your boots as you made your rounds, half-hoping to spot him tucked somewhere unexpected — curled in the library window seat, maybe, trying to puzzle out one of the battered old books you kept stacked there. Instead, you found Utahime in the kitchens, snapping orders at the scullery boys while Megumi chased a half-plucked chicken across the floor.

"You should be resting," she scolded, tossing a towel at your face without looking up. You caught it, laughing. "I’m fine. Just... restless." She gave you a knowing glance but didn’t push.

You slipped away again, heading out into the garden where the moon silvered the paths and the roses breathed heavily in the night air. You thought of the boy — of how the candlelight caught in his hair, how he tilted his head like he was listening to music no one else could hear. You thought of how close you had been on the boat, how your bodies had leaned together like they belonged in the same breath.

You thought — for the first time — that maybe the world was bigger than the walls you had been raised inside. Maybe it had always been bigger. You had just never seen it clearly until now.

You tipped your head back and let the stars blur overhead.

And somewhere, far below the still surface of the ocean, something watched. And smiled.

It began the next morning, without warning.

You barely noticed her at first — a new arrival to the court, travelling with a merchant caravan from the northern coast. She was beautiful in the way painted icons were beautiful: too polished, too deliberate. Skin like porcelain, hair so dark it seemed to swallow light, a smile that felt just a little too fixed when it landed on you.

She introduced herself as Kaori.

The name meant nothing. The smile meant even less. You nodded politely, offered the customary welcome, and forgot her almost immediately, distracted by the far more pressing task of slipping away to find the boy — your boy, you thought, and then hated yourself a little for the possessive curl of it.

You found him in the gardens again, his bare feet tucked into the sun-warmed grass, his eyes closed, face tilted to the sky like he was trying to drink the sunlight straight into his bones. You stopped in the doorway, momentarily robbed of breath by the simple, devastating sight of him.

He didn’t hear you approach. He never did. He always felt you instead — like a tide pulling at his skin.

He opened his eyes slowly, smiling that small, secret smile that made your heart ache. You crossed the distance without thinking, dropping onto the bench beside him, letting the silence settle between you like a familiar cloak.

You wanted to ask him about the wave. About the way the boat had nearly capsized at the exact wrong moment. About the way he had looked afterwards — hollow-eyed, trembling. You wanted to ask if he felt it too — the wrongness riding the air like a brewing storm.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you found yourself laughing about something trivial — the look on Utahime’s face when Megumi tracked mud all the way across the main hall — and he laughed too, breathless and soundless, clapping a hand over his mouth like it would help.

It didn’t. You caught a glimpse of it then — a boy trying so desperately to belong in a world that wasn't made for him.

And gods above, you wanted to give him that world if you could.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t see Kaori again until the next evening, at the palace banquet.

She appeared at the foot of the great staircase, clothed in sea-green silk that shimmered like scales. Her smile caught the candlelight and bent it in strange ways. When your gaze slid over her, something in your gut twisted — sharp and cold — but you forced it down. Court life was full of oddities. Beautiful strangers were hardly rare.

Still, when she moved toward you, the crowd parting instinctively around her, your hands clenched at your sides without you meaning to.

She spoke little, but when she did, her voice was soft and lilting, curling around your thoughts like mist. Every word sounded somehow heavier than it should have — harder to resist, harder to ignore.

When she laughed — high and delicate — you smiled back without wanting to. When she touched your arm, you didn’t pull away. Not because you wanted her to. Because your body wouldn't listen.

In the corner of the hall, you caught a flash of movement — the boy standing stiff and small near the tapestry-lined walls, clutching a goblet like it was a shield. His face was pale, drawn tight with something you didn’t have words for yet.

You started toward him — almost managed to break free of the invisible weight sinking its claws into you — but Kaori’s hand slipped through the crook of your elbow, light as a breath.

"Stay," she murmured. And you stayed.

You stayed while the boy you had dragged from the sea turned away, his shoulders stiff with heartbreak. You stayed while Kaori's smile sharpened at the edges.

You stayed while, somewhere deep in the castle’s belly, something ancient and wrong grinned wider in the dark.

⋆｡°✩

The days after the banquet blurred into a haze you couldn't shake.

Kaori was everywhere.

Always at your side — during morning council, during the endless, glittering dinners, during the quiet walks you used to sneak alone along the cliffs. Her hand found yours without asking; her laughter brushed against your ear like a ghost. She said very little, and somehow that made it worse — like a dream half-remembered, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you tried to hold onto the pieces.

The boy — the one you had pulled from the wreckage of your life — withdrew further with every sunrise.

He stopped meeting your gaze across the long banquet tables. Stopped smiling when you stumbled over your words trying to make him laugh. Stopped trailing after you like a shadow you had learned to need without noticing.

You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself he was settling in, finding his place, finding a way to live here without needing you to hold him up.

But when you passed him in the garden one afternoon and he didn’t even glance up from where he was hunched over a battered book, something in your chest cracked so hard you almost stumbled.

You almost turned back. Almost said his name — whatever it was. Almost begged him to look at you like he used to.

Instead, you let Kaori curl her arm around yours and lead you back inside.

The court whispered, as courts always did. About alliances. About bloodlines. About destiny. The king, old and growing frail, watched you with something like approval warming the corners of his sharp mouth. His advisors began drawing up the paperwork without waiting for your consent.

The date was set. Three days from now. The engagement would be announced with all the pomp and ceremony a prince deserved.

You barely felt it happening. You smiled when you were meant to. You bowed and raised toasts and accepted the congratulations of men you hated.

You told yourself you were happy. You had to be happy.

Wasn’t this what you had always been raised for?

⋆｡°✩

That night, standing alone in your chamber, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

A stranger stared back at you — a boy dressed in a prince's clothes, weighed down by invisible chains.

You stripped the coat from your shoulders and let it fall unheeded to the floor. Your hands braced against the cold glass, and for a moment, you could have sworn you heard something — faint and broken — pressing against the edges of your mind.

A whisper. A cry. A name you had never been told, and yet somehow knew.

⋆｡°✩

Far across the castle, in the cramped little servants' room where he had been given a pallet and a worn blanket, the boy curled in on himself.

He clutched the locket around his throat — the one token of home he had been allowed to keep — and pressed his forehead to the rough mattress. Silent tears soaked into the fabric. His voice was gone, stolen by magic and bargain, and now the last thread tying him to you was slipping through his fingers like water.

He had almost kissed you. He had almost been enough.

Almost.

But almost didn't win. And the clock was running out.

The castle at night breathed differently.

Gone were the courtiers, the musicians, the easy laughter. The corridors stretched long and hollow, lined with flickering torchlight and the faint, restless whisper of the wind clawing against the stone. Somewhere in the kitchens, rats scrabbled unseen. Somewhere higher up, the great banners bearing your family crest sagged like forgotten memories.

And in a disused fountain tucked into a shadowed courtyard, two very angry sea creatures plotted treason.

Gojo flicked his tail in irritation, sending a ripple across the stagnant water. "I'm telling you," he hissed, voice low and urgent, "this is a full-blown, classic villain enchantment scenario. I’ve read about these things. You think princes just fall in love with creepy water-witch girls by accident?"

Nanami clacked his claws together in sharp agreement. "The signs are all there. Sudden behaviour shifts. Loss of free will. Proximity compulsion." His antennae twitched in frustration. "It's textbook dark magic."

"Exactly!" Gojo splashed dramatically. "And if we don’t snap Prince Broody out of it, he’s going to end up shackled to that creepy fake mermaid until death do they part."

Nanami adjusted his position with a weary sigh. "Do you have a plan, or are you just here to complain?"

"I always have a plan," Gojo said smugly. "Step one: cause chaos. Step two: expose the truth. Step three: make sure someone kisses Geto before the clock runs out."

Nanami paused, considering this. "You realise the 'chaos' part will get us executed if it fails."

Gojo grinned, showing far too many sharp little teeth for comfort. "Worth it."

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, across the castle, you paced your chamber like a caged animal.

Something was wrong. You could feel it — thick and choking in the back of your throat, wrapping around your ribs like iron bands. Every time Kaori touched you, your skin crawled. Every time you smiled at her, something inside you shrivelled smaller.

You had dreams now — strange, aching dreams where a boy with black hair reached for you through a wall of glass, his mouth open in a silent scream you couldn't hear.

You woke gasping, fists tangled in the sheets, heart battering itself bloody against your ribs.

And yet in the daylight, with the court watching, you went through the motions. Smiling. Nodding. Playing the part of the perfect prince. You told yourself it was a duty. You told yourself it was the expectation.

You lied so well, you almost believed it.

Until tonight. Tonight, something inside you snapped.

Standing before the mirror, dressed in the ceremonial clothes chosen for your engagement announcement, you caught sight of yourself — not as a prince, not as a puppet — but as a boy trapped in a cage of golden lies.

And somewhere deep in your bones, a voice you had never heard but always known whispered:

Find him.

⋆｡°✩

It began with a ripple.

A wrongness threading through the crowded ballroom — subtle at first, like a chill down your spine, like a pressure change before a storm. You stood at Kaori's side, the official proclamation clutched in your hand, the weight of duty coiling tighter and tighter around your throat. The court watched, expectant and smiling, their faces blurred at the edges of your vision.

And then the fountain at the centre of the hall exploded.

Water erupted sky-high, dousing nobles and chandeliers alike. Screams tore through the air. Plates crashed. Horses whinnied outside the gates. And in the chaos, two very familiar figures flailed onto the polished marble — one blue and flopping indignantly, the other red and clacking his claws with the frantic dignity of a man facing execution.

Gojo. Nanami.

You blinked, stunned.

Kaori gasped, stepping back from the spreading flood. Her hand brushed your sleeve—and for the first time, you felt it.

The illusion slipped.

The magic peeled away like rotted paint, revealing not a girl at all, but something older and hungrier. Her eyes flickered black for a heartbeat. Her mouth twisted, something wrong slithering just beneath the surface of her skin.

You staggered backwards, revulsion crashing over you like a tidal wave.The boy — your boy — caught your eye across the hall.

He stood frozen in the archway, soaked to the bone, clutching the locket at his throat like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His face was pale, his mouth trembling with words he couldn’t speak. His eyes — gods, his eyes — were wide and aching and full of so much hope you thought it might tear you in two.

You moved before you even realised it.

Across the ballroom, through the wreckage and screaming and magic unravelling at the seams, you ran. Kaori shrieked behind you, her voice warping into something guttural and wrong, but you didn’t look back. You tore past the courtiers, past the guards, past everything you had been trained your whole life to care about, and skidded to a halt in front of him.

He flinched — tiny, automatic — but didn’t run.

You reached out, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the tremor racing through him. He smelled like salt and sunlight and something sharp and ancient that had nothing to do with this world.

"You," you whispered, your voice breaking. "It was always you." His mouth opened — a gasp, a sob — but no words came.

He didn’t need them.

You surged forward and kissed him.

The world splintered.

The spell shattered with a soundless crack, like a mirror dropped from a great height. Light spilled from the locket at his throat, engulfing you both, washing the last of Kenjaku’s magic from the air. Somewhere in the distance, you heard a shriek — furious, inhuman — and then silence.

Only the two of you remained, tangled together, breathless and shaking.

He stared up at you like you had hung the stars.You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to.

You leaned in again, slower this time, pressing your forehead to his. His hands fisted in the front of your jacket, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like you might still disappear.

"Stay," he mouthed.

You nodded, voice wrecked and raw. "Always."

And then you kissed him again — harder, desperate — and he melted into you like he had been waiting his whole life for this.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t know how you got back to your room.

The storm had ended. The court was in chaos. Kaori — no, Kenjaku — had vanished with the tide. And yet, somehow, you were here, the boy in your arms, trembling like he couldn’t believe you were real.

The moonlight pooled across the floor in silver-blue waves. The bed creaked softly beneath your weight as you helped him sit, careful, reverent, like he might dissolve if you touched him too roughly.

His hair was still damp, sticking to his cheeks. His lips were red from your kisses. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his story. But you knew his eyes — you’d always known them — and that was enough.

He looked at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles just to be here. And when he reached out — hands clumsy, unsure — it was you who leaned in, pressing your mouth to his, slow and sure and deep enough to make him gasp.

Clothes slipped away like seafoam. Not rushed, not greedy — just... necessary. Like you’d both been waiting for this without even realising it. He was lean under your hands, sculpted by the current and salt and something softer underneath. He didn’t try to hide himself. There was no shame in the way he looked at you, only want. Trust.

You laid him back carefully, the way you’d handle something sacred. His legs framed your hips, his fingers tracing your jaw like he needed to memorise you. You kissed down his throat, over his collarbones, across his chest — pausing only when you felt the shiver run through him again.

"Okay?" you murmured, voice low.

He nodded, breathless.

You went slow.

You took your time with him — with your mouth, your hands, your everything. You kissed every inch you could reach. You made him fall apart with your tongue before you even pressed inside. And when he finally gasped and arched beneath you, eyes glassy with pleasure, it felt like the sea itself rose to meet you.

You held him through every thrust, every moan, every desperate whisper. And when he came — shaking, clinging, mouth open in a silent cry — you followed right after, burying your face in his shoulder, trying not to break in half from the way it felt to be wanted like that.

When it was over, you stayed tangled together in the sheets. Breathing. Listening to the ocean outside. Letting the quiet settle over you both like a promise.

His voice came at last — a hoarse whisper, barely a sound.

“...Suguru.”

You blinked. Looked down.

He gave you a tiny, tired smile. “My name. It’s Suguru.”

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

And in the silence that followed, you kissed him again.

Just because you could.

The sea had been quiet ever since Kenjaku vanished. No more sudden storms. No more secrets in the tide. Just warmth. Calm. Healing.

Suguru had never imagined he’d walk on legs — let alone walk down an aisle.

But there he was, dressed in white and gold, barefoot in the grass, arm linked with Gojo’s (who was somehow crying and smiling at the same time). The kingdom had gathered in the cliffside courtyard overlooking the ocean. Shells and petals lined the aisle. Musicians played softly. And at the altar, you waited — standing taller than you ever had, like the earth itself had been holding its breath for this moment.

When Suguru met your eyes, it was over. He laughed. You did too. Both of you lost to it — that stupid, breathless, aching kind of joy.

The ceremony was short. Sweet. Suguru’s father, still stiff with guilt, gave a reluctant blessing. Gojo (still sniffling) handed off the rings. And when you finally kissed him — husband and husband, above the sea, with the whole world watching — it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the start of everything.

There was a party after, of course. Suguru twirled in his robes, kissed your cheek until you blushed, danced barefoot on the stone with his hair loose and his smile wild. Gojo sang an off-key love song while Nanami tried to shove cake into his face. Mai and Maki bickered over who got the bigger slice. You stood with Suguru’s hand in yours, watching them all, heart full in a way it had never been before.

And later — when the moon rose, and the guests had gone, and you carried Suguru into the bedroom like he weighed nothing at all — he whispered something against your chest that made you stop breathing entirely.

“I used to dream of being part of your world,” he said softly.

You kissed the words from his lips. “You are my world now.”

And outside, the sea sang softly to itself, content at last.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq

#male reader #top male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #geto x reader #geto x male reader #geto suguru #suguru x reader #gay #smut #suguru geto #getou suguru x reader

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fashionsfromhistory · 1 year ago

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Sailor's Slops

1600s-1700s

Extremely rare survival of a shirt and breeches, called slops, as worn by sailors from the late 16th through to the 18th centuries. This unique set of loose, practical sailor’s clothing reveals life aboard ship. They are made of very strong linen to endure the hard, rough work. There is tar across the front from hauling ropes. The breeches are heavily mended and patched, which the sailor would have done himself.

The Museum of London (ID: 53.101/1b)

#shirt #breeches #menswear #fashion history #historical fashion #17th century #1600s #1610s #1620s #1630s #1640s #1650s #1660s #1670s #1680s #1690s #1700s #linen #brown #museum of london #popular

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a-mint-bear · 3 months ago

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I Think My Cute Co-Worker Got Taken Over By an Alien Hive Mind

On a mission and aboard a ship in space, your only real friend there is the cute and shy janitor. After an accident where he crashed on a nearby planet, he's been acting very... strangely.

(just a teensy bit of nsft implications in the dialogue here, nothin explicit)

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You're a scientist on a long-term space expedition. It's mission is to find possible inhabitable new worlds for humanity to live on in the future. Your job is to monitor and research environmental factors that could pose a threat to your crewmates and the mission and find ways to make planets more livable.

There are security officers, miners, your fellow scientists and researchers, the doctor and her assistant, a couple of maintenance androids for the ship and of course the crew who navigate and serve on the big hunk of metal you're all zipping through space on. On that crew is the ship's custodial worker.

You're not so snobbish to undervalue the importance of a clean living environment, especially in the medical wing and your own lab, but there are some on the ship that treat him like he's invisible or like he's not important just because he's not the brains or muscle on board. He comes and cleans up in your lab every day before dinner, and while sometimes you're too busy to really spend any time chatting, you do enjoy the talks you get to occasionally have.

Sometimes you're so busy that you end up working through dinner, and when you finally pull yourself out of it, you find quick and easy dishes ready for you well past the allotted mealtime. He always leaves a little candy from his personal stash alongside them, so you know it's from him.

He's a bit shy, and very quiet, but he always seems to light up whenever the two of you get to talk. You heard a rumor that he's the son of some business associate of one of the benefactors of the mission, and he just needed a job. Another rumor that he was a bit of a screw-up back on Earth and needed a fresh start somewhere far away. But to you, he was just your friend.

If you were being completely honest, you might've had a bit of a crush on him. He was just so kind and genuine, compared to the self-important scientists you spent every day with. And he was pretty cute, behind the baggy janitorial uniform and the dirt that sometimes smeared his face. He was sweet and he seemed to always be thinking of you, and he was one of the only things in your life that made you smile.

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There was a mishap one day, a near cataclysmic crash where six members of the mission crew were dislodged from the ship and fell into the low orbit of the nearby uninhabited planet.

He was the only survivor. He'd managed to land in a strange body of water where the density levels were so high that he hit the water mostly safely and stayed afloat until rescue. A broken arm and a minor head wound plus a slight concussion, but he was alive.

Other people on the crew seemed almost angry that out of the six people lost, including the ship's first mate and a researcher, the janitor was the one to survive. But you were just so happy he came back to you.

But after that day, your friend had... changed.

He was smooth and cool, almost confident? A little awkward still, but he carried himself differently. Almost like he was an entirely different person.

And he was... a lot more forward with you. Despite being so happy he was alive and even glad that he was making a move on you finally, you couldn't help but feel like something was wrong with him.

One day, he came in to clean your lab like every day and when you asked him how he was feeling, his arm still in the quick-print cast and the stitches on his forehead still healing, he just smiled.

"I'm fine." he smiled at you, standing a bit too close. "I missed you..."

You joked with him that he just saw you that morning, and he smiled that same smile.

"I've been thinking about you..." He held a lock of your hair in his fingers, seeming almost entranced by it. "My thoughts are damn near consumed by you, love."

You couldn't help the warmth that sprung to your cheeks. He was standing so close, and while he was acting odd, he was still that same considerate, sweet man.

"I want to touch you..." His voice was low and hit just right. You wanted it too, but you faltered. You told him that you weren't sure... that something felt wrong.

"Just let yourself go..." he smiled, caressing your cheek, his other hand holding your wrist. "I want you... Let me feel you."

Wrong. It felt wrong. He wasn't that type of guy. This...

You smiled, putting your hands on his chest. You told him that you were in charge here, pushing him back slightly with an authority you weren't used to wielding. But you stayed calm. Your hand lingered on his chest, pressing him against the wall.

He bit his lip, such a confident face... it only confirmed what you feared. Taking a step back, you ordered him to not move, he needed to be good for you. Your gaze still locked onto his, you pulled up a holo-screen, locking down your analyzer containment field. His smile didn't slip, but his eyes darted around with a puzzled look in them.

"What are you doing, love?" His voice didn't seemed alarmed or even mildly concerned. "Locking me up? If you wanted me all to yourself, all you had to do was ask..."

You told him you didn't know what he was up to, but you weren't fooled by him. He wasn't your friend.

"What do you mean?" He pressed his hands to the shielding, like he was testing it while still talking to you, placating you. "It's me... Let me out, love."

You told him your friend, even if he wanted you, would never push past your boundaries like that. He was sweet and considerate, and the kindest man you knew. While whatever this was had been ready to hold you down to get what it wanted.

You started your scans while it just talked to you, but you didn't respond.

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An hour had passed. If anyone found out what you were doing, they would deem it too risky and demand he be ejected from the ship. It wasn't like this was the captain you were scanning, or a fellow scientist. The mission could afford to lose him. But you couldn't.

"Let me out." It still wore your friend's smile, but there was something in it's eyes. Something... old. Something consuming him. "Let me touch you, love. I want to feel your warmth."

Your hands danced across the holographic screen, lining up your scanners. Usually they'd been used for scanning minerals and water sources to make sure they were safe for humans, but they were equipped with biological scanners in the case of the med-bay's destruction or shut-down. You were looking for what ever could be possessing your dear friend.

Something had been in that water, you were sure of it.

"We need to taste you..." It's tongue lolled out from it's mouth, panting and dripping saliva. "One taste, that's all we need. And then you'll be part of us. No more worries, no more searching, no more fighting to survive... you'll finally be free."

When you didn't respond, it laughed.

"We know how much you want him." It almost seemed to be taunting you now. "We can smell it on you... Don't you want to know what it's like? His lips on yours? His touch on your skin? You've been so isolated on this ship... long, cold endless nights with no one beside you. We know his mind, love. It's plagued by thoughts of you. Oh, how he spent night after night... positively enraptured... consumed with the mere possibility of your attentions. Your affection... Your toucccchhhh..."

You tried to shut out his words as your scanners looked for a way to stop this, to get him back, but the thing inside him seemed unbothered. Almost amused.

"He loves you..." It laughed. "It's an intense, burning thing. He wants nothing more than to feel you under him, in the throws of his LOVE... Your nails digging into his back, screaming his name... His obsession is what let us in... So singularly-minded... It was almost too easy..."

"We came into his body, his mind... it was hard not to be consumed by the thoughts of you. His wants became our wants. We are one, love. His love, OUR love... Be ours, and nothing else will matter..."

You paused. The thing inside him, It was speaking in the present tense. Like he was still in there somewhere. Or at least he wasn't dead. This thing wasn't possessing his lifeless body. It was in there with him. You felt more determined than ever.

You told it you would keep it here until you found out how to get it out of him. Even if you had to study him for days, weeks, you wouldn't stop until he was safe.

"You don't know how happy you've made him, love." It smiled, licking his lips. "He always wanted you looking only at him."

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light novel-ass titles are so funny to me

still working on CO3 but i needed to write this. i promise it's coming soon

can y'all guess what movie i went and saw that made me think of this one?

i've been thinking of a yandere that it actually some kind of possessing entity, and the idea latched onto a sci-fi vibe.

i wanted the header to reflect a darker haired, scruffier guy with a bit of chin hair who gives off a real loser vibe, but i usually source from other people's ai images (can't be copyrighted), and damn it all if they aren't all baby-faced little guys lol

something more like this:

but that's just fanart of Eraserhead from MHA lol

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novelistwriter · 6 months ago

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Phantom Sea Emperor

DP x DC Prompt

Danny had been bored as the Ghost King, having reigned for centuries with his friends and family, so he went to Clockwork to check on the timelines of some dimensions with the Time Ghost, again.

Instead, he found himself underwater and looking completely different than usual. This is something to cure his boredom, so he accepts that this is his temporary life until he either dies again or is brought back to the Infinite Realms manually.

Many years go by, and Danny hears the sound of something big falling into the oceanic planet he calls home. He goes to investigate and finds a massive spaceship that's had a crash landing. He searches the area for any survivors but finds none. The next day, he comes across three humans who had survived the crash. He spends time with them, but they die from smaller 'Leviathan's' as the Humans call them and him.

It was another 10 years until he would encounter more humans in another crashed spaceship. But these humans are colorful and are obviously heroes of some kind, and they have little Ghost Babies!

Meanwhile, the Batfam has found themselves stranded on an oceanic planet when they snuck aboard the 'Aurora' with no way to contact the Justice League for aid. They have found an old and damaged log about a 'Phantom Sea Emperor' from previous humans on a ship known as the 'Degasi' that crashed on the planet they are on.

The Batfam try their best to avoid any of the dangerous wildlife on the planet, but the 'Phantom Sea Emperor' had found them. They expected to be eaten or something, but instead, they were greeted telepathically by the Leviathan Class creature. Jason, Damian, and Cass are being treated as "babies" by the creature.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcu #batman #ghost king danny #danny fenton #dp crossover #dp x dc prompt #subnautica

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cybertron-after-dark · 10 months ago

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what the FUCK happens in cyberverse

Here's a list just off the top of my head, in no particular order. MASSIVE spoilers ahead.

-Wheeljack keeps making party drugs. This is not only accepted but wholly encouraged by the Autobots. He's made the bot equivalent to cocaine so strong it made grimlock physically unable to stop himself from running around the ship at mach 5. This was the basis for an entire episode. He's also made patches that give you a direct link to the Allspark that he passed out at a party specifically to get everyone as fucked up as physically possible. I cannot overemphasize that Optimus make no effort to stop this until things turn destructive on both occasions.

-Soundwave and Shockwave completely fucking hate each other and have a whole rivalry trying to be a better and more useful follower for Megatron than each other.

-Soundwave is a fucking memelord who will play clown music or dramatic riffs to dunk on people from the soundboard he has built into his hardware.

-theres a sort of liminal dimension referred to as Unspace that you can get stuck in and if you are there for too long you will straight up disintegrate. We see this happen to the entire crew aboard the arc from different timelines several times while the main timeline crew we follow tries to escape this fate, thus dooming dozens of other timelines.

-Cheetor is basically Allspark Jesus, and he's tired of all the fighting, so he tries to have Optimus and Megatron settle their differences once and for all. The chosen method for this was making them both play the Newlywed Game. They were both terrible at it, the MegOp Divorce agenda is alive and well.

-the Quintessons invade Cybertron and stick the entire population into a simulation a la The Matrix, which slowly drains their life force until they die. This kills countless unnamed Cybertronians, both Autobot and Decepticon, as well as Hound, who does not get to appear on screen.

-the Quintessons also catch Starscream, rip his face off, and modify him into an Eldritch tentacle beast with his brain attached to two other aliens, and then appoint that amalgamation as the judge that decides the fate of the universe in regards to whether they exterminate all life within it.

-Shockwave commits suicide for Megatron's approval. He launches his spark straight into the Allspark to taint it specifically as a last desperate fuck you to the autobots.

-Soundwave acquired laserbeak by just kind of grabbing a random bird out of the sky.

-Soundblaster is an ex-decepticon that left out of shame. That shame being Soundwave beating his ass in a beatboxing competition so fuckin hard he couldn't show his face around his faction anymore.

-The autobots keep starscream captive and try to get him to take a therapy session with the Arc's AI, and he starts out willing to actually give it a shot but said AI is kind of Stupid and screamer ends up tricking him into letting him escape through an air vent to go wreak havoc instead.

-Starscream also starts a suicide cult with the other Seekers, gains control of Vector Sigma and the Allspark, has the seekers forfeit their sparks to him, thus resulting in a cosmically powered Starscream. He uses that power to "remake" his followers into scraplets that he refers to as, with nothing but love in his tone, his "children."

-Shockwave and Wheeljack are shown to be ex lab partners. Shockwave has an army of drones that look exactly like his altmode that Wheeljack helped program. They are programmed to be able to break out into a coordinated dance number at any given time. Originally this was just to make Wheeljack laugh. Shockwave kept that function in throughout the entire war and initiates it the second there's a truce and Wheeljack asks to see it again.

-Shockwave kidnaps Wheeljack at one point for Science Under Duress purposes and Wheeljack is too invested in all the sweet fuckin tech Shockwave's been making while they were apart to really care that he's being held against his will, and then proceeds to escape without too much issue because he knows Shockwave well enough to know exactly how to disable everything.

-Bumblebee distracts the Decepticons by running in front of their surveillance cameras and shaking his ass in the most underwhelming way imaginable.

-Grimlock is only stupid when he's in his altmode because it takes a lot of power to sustain and he has to sacrifice some of his higher brain functions to keep it manageable. In robot mode he talks like he went to an Ivy League college and knows what champagne tastes like. He throws upscale parties every chance he gets.

-Grimlock also helped start an anticapitalist revolution with Bumblebee when he found an underground society of insect transformers that had a rigid caste system. This was within moments of finding out that the ultra wealthy were hoarding the limited energon reserves for themselves. Grimlock is a comrade and he does not fuck around.

-Skybyte is here and he sounds like Skeletor.

-Windblade and Slipstream are nemeses and somehow it's even more toxic yuri coded than Arcee and airachnid in tfp.

-speaking of Arcee, she's besties with Grimlock. They at one point have a physical fight over who gets to die to protect the other.

-hot rod and soundwave are forced to share leadership over the team of bots and cons that escaped the quintessons' simulation and it's packed with so much homoerotic tension its unreal.

-Maccadam is some kind of lovecraftian war machine that can unfold himself into a whole armory whenever he feels like it. We have no idea what his whole altmode looks like, all we see are the ominous shadows of the weapons on the walls. He uses this specifically as a threat to keep anyone from fighting in his bar bc he's insistent it remain neutral ground. He also can kinda just. See into the future. And casually drops prophecies that get written off as spoonerisms until they turn out to be relevant.

-Optimus Prime has horrific social anxiety that he can kind of power through when he's in a crisis, but the second things are chill and he has to give a speech at a party or something he simply does not know how to function.

-the entire planet of Velocitron gets taken over by cosmic rust and everyone inhabiting it that couldn't escape in time was killed horrifically.

-cosmos is a girl and she hangs out with a dude named Meteorfire who is, for all intents and purposes, just robot Steve Irwin.

-Astrotrain keeps closing doors in people's faces for the funny

-Megatron is killed by a version of himself from an alternate universe that went nuts and starting creating a master race of perfect Decepticons to inhabit Cybertron. Said perfect Decepticons were carbon copies of idw Tarn in all but personality.

-Acidstorm is canonically genderfluid and keeps switching between male and female seeker frames whenever they feel like it

-Kup, who had not been in the show at all until this point, decides to show up and narrate an entire episode like hes giving a political speech.

And, the infamous one we all know and love

-Megatron is a twitch streamer and he livestreams Starscream's fucking funeral. The chat has custom Decepticon emotes.

#maccadam #transformers #cyberverse #show that vacillates between deeply silly and unbelievably fucked at a moments notice

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2b4st4r · 1 month ago

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lookkkkk what if Shanks accidentally showed his very clingy side with reader infront of his crew? I mean shanks would probably be the type who wouldn’t mind to display public affection but maybe he was just too drunk and starts acting clingy in a way(or maybe different types of actions)that the crew would not expect?

hopefully this could give you some ideas!!<33

The Red-Haired Pirates Love

Shanks x reader

Words: 4,794

Warnings: alcohol consumption, vomiting, mild language, threat of violence, and caregiving themes.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The gentle rocking of the Red Force was a familiar lullaby, one you’d grown accustomed to over your years with the Red-Haired Pirates. It was a life of salty air, boisterous laughter, and an unspoken understanding that wove through the crew like the threads of a well-worn sail. And at the heart of that understanding, for you, was Shanks.

You never needed to announce it. There were no grand declarations, no whispered confessions overheard by nosy crewmates. Instead, your relationship with Shanks was etched into the very fabric of daily life aboard the ship. It was in the way his hand would subtly find the small of your back during a heated discussion, a quiet anchor in the midst of the chaos. It was in the almost imperceptible press of his lips to your forehead when he thought no one was looking, or the soft brush against your cheek that felt more intimate than any passionate kiss. These weren't constant displays of affection, but rather fleeting moments, stolen glances, and quiet touches that spoke volumes. The crew had seen it all—the way he’d pull you a fraction closer when you were standing side-by-side on deck, his fingers lightly grazing your arm, or the almost absentminded way he’d press his lips to yours, a soft, comfortable gesture that meant more than any word.

And then there were the conversations. "Oh! That reminds me of when you wake up," Shanks might chuckle, a wide grin spreading across his face as he recounted a particularly chaotic morning escapade involving Benn Beckman and a misplaced map. The crew would glance between the two of you, a knowing glint in their eyes, before turning back to their drinks. Or perhaps you'd be admiring a particularly vibrant sunset, a rare moment of quiet contemplation, and find yourself saying, "Shanks would love that," knowing full well the kind of joy such a simple beauty would bring him. It wasn't just your words; it was the way you’d both speak of each other, not as separate entities, but as intertwined halves of a whole. Everyone saw it, everyone felt it. You were Shanks's, and he was yours, in a way that needed no formal title or public display. The crew just knew.

The night was a symphony of celebration, the red haired pirates alive with the raucous joy of the crew. Sake flowed like a river, laughter boomed, and the aroma of roasted meat mingled with the salty sea air. You, however, were an island of sobriety in the boisterous sea. Your glass remained untouched, a silent sentinel beside you. You knew all too well the consequences of Shanks's enthusiastic drinking—a charming, albeit headache-inducing, whirlwind of a man who would need your care later, and even more so in the harsh light of morning.

Your gaze, seemingly casual, drifted towards him every few moments. He was a vibrant blur in the center of the revelry, bottle after bottle disappearing down his throat with alarming speed, his booming laugh easily cutting through the din.

"And so I told Yasopp," Benn Beckman rumbled, a thoughtful puff of smoke curling from his cigarette. You were supposedly discussing the finer points of long-range marksmanship and the surprising resilience of certain sea kings. "A true sharpshooter relies on instinct, not just aim. A calculated risk, you understand?"

"Mhm," you murmured, your eyes flickering back to Shanks just as he clinked bottles with Lucky Roo, a spray of sake arcing into the air. He was already leaning heavily on Yasopp, his arm slung around the sniper's shoulders.

Benn’s observant gaze followed yours. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny ember in the dim light. "He's certainly... in his element tonight," he drawled, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Worried about the hangover, are we?" It wasn't a question, more an acknowledgement of the unspoken duty you always took upon yourself.

You let out a soft laugh, a small, knowing sound that was almost lost in the din of the celebration. You brought a hand up to your temple, pressing your fingertips against your forehead as if already warding off the phantom headache that would undoubtedly be yours tomorrow. "You know it, Benn," you sighed, shaking your head good-naturedly. "He'll be a complete mess. Demanding hot towels, complaining about the light, probably swearing off sake until the next port." You glanced at Shanks again, who was now attempting to dance a jig with a rather bewildered Rockstar, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Someone's got to keep him from sailing us into a storm cloud, right?"

Benn took another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, softening just a touch as he watched you. "It’s a tough job," he finally said, his voice a low rumble, "but someone’s gotta do it." He paused, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his gaze. "He’s lucky to have you, you know. Most people would have thrown him overboard by now, especially after a night like this." He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "He’d probably still be smiling, mind you, even as the sharks circled."

He extinguished his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray, the faint hiss swallowed by the surrounding merriment. "It's more than just the hangovers, though, isn't it?" Benn mused, his gaze drifting towards Shanks, who was now attempting to lead a singalong, albeit off-key. "You keep him grounded. He flies so high, he needs someone to remind him where the deck is." He looked back at you, a knowing glint in his eye. "He trusts you. More than anyone else, I reckon."

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken bond you shared with the boisterous captain. It was true. You were his anchor, and he, in turn, was your unwavering compass. You wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant another morning spent coaxing him out of bed with strong coffee and a steady hand.

Both you and Benn watched Shanks for a few moments, a brief lull in your conversation as the captain continued his boisterous revelry. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Shanks suddenly stilled. The wide grin faltered, replaced by an ill, greenish tinge that spread across his face. His eyes widened slightly before he bolted, a desperate dash to the edge of the ship. He leaned over, a retching sound tearing from his throat as everything he'd consumed that day, and likely much of the day before, violently exited his stomach.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Shanks," you muttered, already moving. You were there in an instant, pulling his long, red hair back from his face with one hand while the other rubbed soothing circles on his shaking back. "Rough night, huh, Captain? Just get it all out." Your voice was soft, laced with a familiar blend of exasperation and concern. "You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, you know that?"

The crew, who moments before had been roaring with laughter and song, fell into an abrupt, almost comical silence. Lucky Roo paused mid-bite, his drumstick still in his mouth. Yasopp lowered his tankard slowly, his eyes wide. Even Rockstar, who had been tangled in Shanks’s ill-fated dance, seemed to freeze in place. They knew this routine. It was a common, albeit pungent, side effect of their captain's boundless enthusiasm for sake. A few of the more seasoned members merely sighed, shaking their heads in a mixture of pity and amusement. Others, younger and less accustomed to Shanks's dramatic exits, exchanged wide-eyed glances, trying to stifle their snickers. Benn Beckman simply watched, a faint smirk playing on his lips, as if to say, told you so.

Shanks heaved a few more times, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Finally, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A slow, almost triumphant smile spread across his face, completely oblivious to the green tinge that still lingered on his cheeks.

"Alright, that's enough of that!" he declared, his voice a little hoarse but already regaining its usual booming quality. He pushed off the railing, swaying slightly. "Now, where were we? The party's still going, isn't it?" He looked around at the still-stunned crew, who were slowly beginning to resume their previous activities, albeit with a new, cautious energy.

You let out a long, slow sigh, a mix of exasperation and profound affection. You were just about to scold him, perhaps suggest he consider a glass of water, when his eyes, still a little glazed from the alcohol and the recent exertion, met yours. A slow, impossibly cheeky grin stretched across his lips, the kind that always managed to disarm you, even when you were at your most annoyed. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Shanks's eyes, previously a swirling mess of drunken cheer, suddenly sharpened, focusing entirely on you. The cheeky grin softened into something profoundly tender, a look you knew intimately but one the rest of the crew rarely, if ever, witnessed. He took a wobbly step towards you, then another, until he was standing just inches away. His hand, warm and calloused, reached out, not to steady himself, but to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

"There you are," he murmured, his voice surprisingly low and clear, completely devoid of the earlier slurring. "My anchor." His gaze held yours, deep and unwavering, filled with an affection so potent it felt like a physical presence. "Always there to pick up after my messes, aren't you?" He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. "What would I do without you, my love?" he whispered, a hint of genuine vulnerability in his tone that made your heart clench.

A hush fell over the ship, deeper than before. The last vestiges of drunken chatter died out. Every single member of the Red-Haired Pirates, from the usually oblivious Lucky Roo to the ever-stoic Benn Beckman, was frozen, eyes wide, staring at the intimate scene unfolding before them. This wasn't the subtle touch or the knowing glance they were used to. This was raw, open affection, a side of their captain they had never witnessed. Shanks, the boisterous, carefree emperor, was openly displaying a profound, loving devotion to you. It was a sight that would be etched into their memories, a testament to the quiet, powerful love that bloomed between their captain and the woman who was his world.

Shanks, still with that uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes, didn't just lean away. Instead, he tightened his grip on your cheek, his thumb continuing its gentle caress. Then, in a move that startled even you, he pulled you closer, wrapping his other arm around your waist and effectively pinning you against his chest. His head dipped, resting on your shoulder, and you could feel the soft brush of his hair against your neck.

"Don't leave," he mumbled, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your ear. It wasn't a demand, but a plea, thick with drunken sentimentality. He tightened his embrace, pressing his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "You smell like… home."

He nuzzled closer, a happy, almost childlike sigh escaping his lips. His grip became even more possessive, as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold even a fraction. He swayed slightly, and you had to brace yourself, hands coming up to his back to keep both of you steady.

The crew remained utterly silent, their gazes glued to the scene. This was beyond anything they had ever witnessed. Their fierce, independent captain, reduced to a clingy, affectionate mess in your arms, openly showing a vulnerability that was startling. Lucky Roo nearly dropped his drumstick, and Yasopp’s jaw hung slightly agape. Benn Beckman, for the first time in a long time, looked genuinely surprised, a flicker of bewildered amusement dancing in his usually unreadable eyes.

You were, for a few long seconds, utterly frozen. Not from discomfort, but from sheer surprise. This level of overt affection, especially in front of the entire crew, was unprecedented. Your mind raced, caught between the instinct to gently push him away and the overwhelming warmth that spread through you at his desperate clinginess.

Then, as his head settled more firmly on your shoulder and his mumbled words of "home" echoed in your ear, you relaxed. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and your hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, finally settled on his broad back. You began to rub gentle circles, a familiar, soothing gesture. He was heavy against you, his familiar scent of sea salt, sake, and something uniquely him filling your senses. You leaned into his embrace, letting yourself be enveloped by his unusual neediness.

"You're impossibly drunk, you know that?" you murmured, the words soft against his hair. A small, knowing smile played on your lips. It wasn't a question, more an observation laced with boundless affection. "Absolutely, hopelessly drunk, Captain."

Shanks mumbled a soft, "I know," his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pushed his face further into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a series of warm, lingering kisses there. Each touch was soft, tender, and deeply affectionate, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous demeanor. You felt a shiver ripple through you, a pleasant warmth spreading from where his lips met your skin.

Then, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes, still a little unfocused but now with a sharp glint, sweeping over the astonished faces of his crew. His arms, which had been wrapped around your waist, tightened possessively, pulling you even closer until there was no space between you.

"What are you all looking at?" he demanded, his voice suddenly back to its familiar roar, though it held an edge of something new—a possessive challenge. A wide, almost feral grin spread across his face, daring anyone to comment. The crew, who had been gawking openly, flinched back, some quickly averting their gazes, others pretending to be deeply engrossed in their drinks. The silence that had fallen over the Red Force moments ago transformed into a palpable tension, thick with unspoken questions and newfound understanding.

You could feel the heat radiating from Shanks, both from his body pressed against yours and the sheer intensity of his gaze on the crew. It was a clear warning, a declaration of ownership that made your cheeks flush. Yet, despite the public display, you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth. This drunken, clingy Shanks was surprisingly endearing.

"They're just surprised, Shanks," you murmured, patting his arm. His embrace, however, only tightened.

He grunted, still glaring at his stunned crew. "Well, they shouldn't be. You're mine," he declared, his voice booming across the ship, leaving no room for misinterpretation. He then buried his face in your hair again, letting out a contented sigh. "My lovely, beautiful Y/N."

The crew, having taken their cue, quickly scattered or found something intensely interesting to stare at in the opposite direction. The previous boisterous party atmosphere slowly began to filter back in, but now with an undercurrent of new understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the captain's unspoken, yet now very much spoken, relationship.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Yes, yes, I'm yours. Now, how about we get you to bed before you decide to declare war on the moon?" You tried to gently extract yourself from his grasp, but he held firm, a stubborn weight against you.

"No, stay," he whined, sounding remarkably like a giant, affectionate child. He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of the kind of unspoken devotion that had always existed between you two, now laid bare for all to see.

When he finally pulled away, a triumphant, if still very drunk, smile played on his lips. "See? Much better than dancing with Rockstar."

You rolled your eyes, a smile of your own blooming across your face. "Come on, you big oaf," you said, finally managing to guide him away from the railing and towards the captain's quarters. "Let's get you cleaned up. And tomorrow, you're getting a very strong talking-to about your alcohol intake."

Shanks just chuckled, leaning heavily on you as you steered him through the lingering festivities. "Anything for you, my love," he slurred, before promptly tripping over his own feet, nearly taking you both down. You braced him, a familiar rhythm of support and unwavering affection that had always defined your life with the Red-Haired Pirates, and with him.

Navigating the bustling, still-celebrating deck with a half-conscious, overly affectionate Shanks was a familiar challenge. You chuckled softly as he mumbled about forgotten treasures and the bravery of seagulls, his weight a comfortable burden against your side. Finally, with a surprising amount of effort and a few gentle shoves, you managed to get him through the door of the captain's quarters.

The cabin was dimly lit, the only light filtering in from the single porthole, casting shifting shadows on the familiar maps and discarded coats. You maneuvered him towards the large, comfortable bed, his momentum almost toppling you both onto the soft mattress. He collapsed onto it with a contented groan, sprawling out like a starfish.

You sighed, but it was a soft, fond sound. You pulled off his boots, then his coat, tossing them onto a nearby chair. His movements were slow and sluggish now, the last vestiges of adrenaline giving way to the heavy pull of sleep. He shifted, reaching out a hand, blindly searching for you.

"Y/N?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"I'm here, Shanks," you replied, gently pushing his unruly red hair back from his forehead. You slipped off your own clothes, leaving them in a neat pile. The cabin air was cool, a welcome relief after the warmth of the crowded deck.

When you slid under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping with your weight, he immediately shifted, rolling onto his side to face you. His arm snaked out, pulling you close, tucking your head under his chin. His breath, smelling faintly of sake, ghosted over your hair. He pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. It was a primal request, born of deep comfort and a profound sense of belonging.

You nestled deeper into his embrace, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. The rhythmic creak of the ship, the distant muffled sounds of the lingering party, all faded into a soothing background hum. You closed your eyes, a peaceful smile on your lips. Being here, with him, was exactly where you were meant to be. Drunk or sober, boisterous or tender, he was your home, and you were his. And as sleep claimed you both, you knew, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow, even with the inevitable hangover, would begin exactly where today left off: in the quiet, comforting embrace of your shared world.

The first rays of morning sunlight, usually a welcome sight, felt like daggers against your eyelids. You stirred, a familiar ache thrumming behind your eyes, a ghost of Shanks's impending hangover. He was still dead to the world, a heavy, warm weight beside you. His arm was still slung possessively around your waist, his head buried in your hair, his breathing deep and even. He looked utterly peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaotic, vibrant man he usually was, and certainly a marked difference from the drunken mess he'd been mere hours ago.

You carefully extracted yourself from his grip, a feat that usually required a surprising amount of stealth. He mumbled in his sleep, a soft, indistinct sound, but didn't wake. After slipping out of bed, you pulled a loose shirt on and padded quietly around the cabin, gathering the strewn clothes from the night before. His boots lay haphazardly by the door, his coat draped over a chair like a fallen hero. The faint scent of stale sake still clung to the air, a testament to the previous night's revelry.

You glanced back at him, a fond smile touching your lips. He was completely oblivious, sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the side. You knew what the morning would bring: the groans, the complaints about the light, the desperate pleas for water and strong coffee. But for now, in this quiet, peaceful morning, he was just Shanks, your captain, your lover, lost in a deep, well-deserved sleep.

You slipped out of the cabin, closing the door softly behind you. The deck was still mostly deserted, a few early risers already tending to their duties, their movements quiet and purposeful. The fresh morning air was a welcome contrast to the stale warmth of the cabin, and you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable chaos of a pirate ship waking up.

Your first stop was the galley. You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of simmering stew and fresh bread washing over you. Yasopp was already there, perched on a stool, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He looked surprisingly spry for someone who'd been partying just hours ago. He glanced up as you entered, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Captain's personal nursemaid," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Rough night, huh? Sounded like our captain had a real good time." He leaned back, taking a sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though, I gotta say, never seen him quite so... open about his affections before. Quite the show for the crew."

You rolled your eyes, heading straight for the pantry to grab some crackers and then to the water barrel. "Oh, hush, Yasopp. He was drunk off his skull. You know how he gets." You filled a tankard with cool water and found a small pouch of painkillers in the medical kit usually kept in the galley.

"Drunk, maybe," Yasopp conceded, "but that didn't stop him from practically stapling himself to you, did it? And that little speech about you being 'his'..." He let out a low whistle. "Pretty sure the entire Grand Line heard that one." He leaned forward, his grin widening. "So, when's the wedding?"

You threw a cracker at him, which he expertly caught mid-air with a laugh. "You're lucky I'm too tired to chase you around the ship right now, Yasopp. Just get back to your duties before Benn finds you loafing around." You hoisted the tray with the water, crackers, and painkillers, ready to make your escape back to the cabin and your very hungover captain. "Some of us actually have a job to do."

Just as you were about to make your escape, the galley door swung open again, and in strode Benn Beckman, a fresh cigarette already lit and dangling from his lips. He took one look at Yasopp, then at you with the tray, and a faint smirk played on his usually stoic face.

"Morning, Y/N," he rumbled, his voice low and even, a sharp contrast to Yasopp's boisterous teasing. "Looks like you're already earning your keep this morning." He paused, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "Captain giving you trouble?"

"Just the usual," you mumbled, a flush creeping up your neck. You knew there was no escaping the crew's observations.

Yasopp snickered. "She's just mad because I called her the Captain's nursemaid, Benn. And asked about the wedding."

Benn raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Wedding, huh? Well, after last night's performance, I'd say it's about time. He certainly made his intentions clear." He glanced at the crackers on your tray. "Crackers, though? For him?"

You sighed. "It's all I could grab quickly. He's still dead to the world, and I just want to get him something before he starts demanding it."

Benn shook his head slowly. "He'll want toast. Thick, buttery toast. Always does after a night like that." He gave you a look that said, you know this.

"Crap," you muttered under your breath, realizing he was absolutely right. Shanks loved toast. You knew this. You just hadn't thought of it in your sleepy rush. Turning on your heel, you marched back to the counter where the bread was kept, already pulling out slices. "Alright, fine, toast it is. Happy now?" you grumbled, half to yourself and half to the two grinning pirates behind you.

"Just make sure it's nice and toasted, Y/N," Yasopp called out, still chuckling. "He likes it practically burnt sometimes, remember?"

"Oh, I remember!" you shot back, already sliding the bread into the galley's well-used toaster. "I remember a lot of things about him that I'm sure he'll regret remembering himself later today." You grabbed a butter knife, intending to spread butter on the eventual toast.

"And make sure you slather that butter on," Benn added, a smirk playing on his lips. "He needs his sustenance after such a… vigorous night."

"You two are absolutely insufferable," you muttered, turning to face them, the butter knife pointed playfully in their direction. "One more word, and this butter knife is going to find a new home in your respective eyeballs."

Just as the words left your mouth, the galley door creaked open. In a flash, a pair of hands were around you, pulling you back against a familiar, warm chest. You tensed, ready to fight, but then a low groan rumbled against your ear, and the scent of stale sake and Shanks's unique musk filled your nostrils.

"My head," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a burgeoning hangover. He buried his face in your hair. "And you shouldn't threaten the crew, Y/N. They're good lads." His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer still, his chin resting on your shoulder. The butter knife still clutched in your hand felt suddenly ridiculous.

Yasopp burst into outright laughter, quickly joined by Benn's deeper snicker. You felt a mortified flush creep up your neck, heat spreading to your ears. Shanks, oblivious in his hungover haze, simply tightened his grip, burrowing his face further into your neck.

The toaster dinged, signaling the readiness of the toast. You carefully twisted within Shanks's embrace, his grip surprisingly pliant when you moved with purpose. You managed to butter a thick slice, the rich aroma filling the galley. Turning back to him, you held the toast up to his face.

"Here," you said softly, pushing a piece into his mouth.

He grumbled around the mouthful, his eyes still closed. "Not hungry."

"I know, baby," you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "But you can't take painkillers on an empty stomach, or you'll feel even worse." You waited patiently as he slowly chewed, the motion of his jaw a silent testament to his reluctance.

Once he had swallowed, you handed him the tankard of water. He took a long, grateful gulp. Then, you offered him the painkillers. He swallowed them without complaint, still leaning heavily against you, his familiar weight a comforting presence despite the morning's chaos.

With the painkillers swallowed, Shanks finally let out a long, shuddering sigh, the worst of the immediate nausea seemingly abating. He sagged against you, a dead weight, but his grip remained stubbornly firm.

"Better?" you asked, gently rubbing his back.

He nodded, a barely perceptible movement against your hair. "Still feels like a sea king's trying to dance on my brain."

Yasopp and Benn, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange, exchanged a glance. Yasopp cleared his throat. "Alright, Captain, glad to see you're still in one piece. We'll, uh, leave you to it." He winked at you, a mischievous glint in his eye, before he and Benn discreetly exited the galley, leaving you and Shanks alone.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "They'll never let you live this down, you know."

Shanks just grumbled, burying his face deeper into your neck. "Worth it," he mumbled, his voice already drifting. He shifted, his body relaxing against yours as the painkillers began to take effect. You could feel him sinking back into a lighter sleep, the heavy weight of his hangover beginning to lift. You stood there for a few more moments, cradling him, the quiet hum of the ship your only company. It was a familiar comfort, this dance of chaos and calm, of boisterous adventures and tender mornings. With Shanks, it was always an unpredictable journey, but one you wouldn't trade for anything.

#red haired shanks #red haired pirates #shanks #akagami no shanks #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #shanks x reader #shanks x you #shanks x y/n

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