#like um ig hes retired

[yeyinde]

SEA FEVER | Sailor!John Price x Reader

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

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

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

—PRICE

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

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

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

But, unfortunately, not quick enough. 

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

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

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

Until now, that is. 

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

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

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

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

With a nod of thanks, he sets off. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. 

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

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

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

But it's stifling all the same. 

And cold. 

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

The best description for this little place is dreary. 

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

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

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

Then, of course, there's you. 

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

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

Or maybe it's just exactly what it is:

Loneliness. Distraction. 

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

Well. 

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

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

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

And fuck—

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

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

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

It starts over a glass of whisky. 

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

(Or so he's been told.)

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

"Not from around here, are you?"

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

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

"That so?"

You nod. "Yes, sir—"

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

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

(Especially when he shouldn't be.)

"Then what should I call you, stranger?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, he doesn't. 

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

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

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

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

"Glad you've got my back." 

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

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

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

"Well, aren't you charming."

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

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

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

"Just don't be a stranger." 

He should have been. 

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

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

And everything about you is dangerous.

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

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

You—

You make him yearn. You make him want. 

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

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

Dangerous, indeed. 

And despite everything warning him away, he goes back. 

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

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

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

It's practical. A necessity. 

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

No one. Except you, that is. 

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

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

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

He needs a smoke. A stiff drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous if left unchecked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. If you'll have me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To make a man like you so smitten."

And Jesus Christ. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, ain't you funny." 

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

"You love it."

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

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

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

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

So, he does what he does best:

"Not in your lifetime, love." 

He runs. 

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

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

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

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

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

Three weeks. 

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

Well, then. 

It's set. 

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

Or you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You—

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

But even so—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But with you—

It's easy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mean and drunk, his dad was.

And Price—

Well. Sometimes he feels himself getting there, too.

But this. This. It feels different. 

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

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

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

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

But he doesn't think about that at all. 

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

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

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

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

Always liked the way some things were meant to hurt. 

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

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

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

The contrast is jarring. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But a moment feels too long. Not long enough. 

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

He isn't him. Not anymore. 

(Hasn't been for a long time.)

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

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

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

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

He isn't a young lad. Not anymore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He feels—

Stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And—

Shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Handsome. 

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

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

That he needs. 

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

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

And he wants. Oh, how he wants—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn't—

Isn't him. It isn't you. 

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

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

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

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

You don't finish. 

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

And softer. Softer still—

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

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

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

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

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

But he can't—

(Knife to his chest, you walk away. 

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

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

(All of his own making, of course.)

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

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

Both of you. Both. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selfish. Mean. Cruel. 

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

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

He can handle women like that. Prefers them. 

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

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

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

He can't give that to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Listen t'me, you—"

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

"Hey—!"

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

"It's time for you to leave." 

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

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

And you don't.

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

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

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

Things, apparently, are very different here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in the swell of you. 

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

But John had no plans to go anywhere else. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, John. I'm good."

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

(Because it's always been you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Should be expected." 

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

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

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

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

"—shouldn't bloody 'ave to—!"

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

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

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

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

"I will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It builds. Builds. And breaks—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to go there with you. 

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

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

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

It's cacoëthes. 

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

John makes the awful choice to kiss you.

It starts with a look. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until him, that is. 

(Until you, as well.)

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

Want to know. Need to.

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

Desire. 

Intrigue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come back to my house, John."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A place he wants to go with you.)

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

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

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

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

The man meets him by the harbour. 

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

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

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

Right. Right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day dwadles, sun fading into a stunning sunset. 

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

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

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

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

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

It's a lie. Barefaced and ugly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Want to spend the night?" 

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn't. You didn't ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm, it is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That has nothing on the ocean after dusk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You trail off, but he knows. He knows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(All of it. Every part—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." 

—so he doesn't let you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you say: "oh." 

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

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

Then: "oh."

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

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

He doesn't. He can't.

John lets it necrotise instead. 

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

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

So, he says, "soon."

But you ask: "how soon?"

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

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

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

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

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

And now—

Nothing does. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous. Perfect.

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

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

But—

But. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans into it. Buries himself deeper. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Until you—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—love—"

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

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

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

(Sappy, tragic fool—)

"How long do I have to pack?"

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

But he doesn't doubt you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or a mockery of one, anyway. 

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

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

"Love—"

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

"I'm sure," is all you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Permanent, if you'll let him.)

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

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

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

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

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

YOU—

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

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

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

The ocean loves you in the worst way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's fine, of course. 

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

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

Burdened by the encompassing emptiness of time. 

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

You're fine, you think.

Until him. 

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

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

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

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

Because, really—

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

So, you stay.  

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

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

It's good. Good—

—but this is better:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

Land. 

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

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

A silly thought, in hindsight. 

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

And really. 

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

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

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

"It's home, y'know?"

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

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

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

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

"Fuckin'—Christ—" 

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

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

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

"Can think of worse places to be."

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

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

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

[lostandbackagain]

I understand that orpheus is like the personification of toxic nostalgia so his continued fixation on what he knows from childhood makes some sense but it's crazy to me that he's such a powerful mage and instead of going back to our world and making himself rich and hanging out, he'd rather be poor and miserable in the inkworld and be mean to small children if he thought it would make dustfinger upset

[foxglovepng]

TWST Overblot theory

CW: Spoilers book 6-7, this post is really long btw, Spoilers spoilers SPOILERS Spoilers for Malleus's age, grim boss theory.

So while I was going through book 6 (This was like when it came out) Idia made an observation and he theorized someone could be inciting these overblots. I looked over it as to what he said after made sense but I watched a theory from Rose Ember in which she discussed a time loop theory. I wanted to throw in my own two cents about an overblot theory I had been thinking about.

(As of making this post it is May of 2024 I am not up to date on any JP chapters, Crowley's card, or Heartslabyul manga book 4-Octavinelle. All of my sources I will be putting as I am taking direct game quotes)

I also would love it if at least some of you guys read this post and reblog I would love to hear y'all's opinions on this. I never seen people really look into it and I want to maybe bounce ideas off of some people on what's really going on.

Just remember all of this is just a theory...A GAME THEORY (RIP Matpat we love you king)

(Book 6 ch51) Idia was talking about how absurd it is that 5 (5 overblots up to this point) Coincidentally happened in 6 months "Overblots can happen when the caster overuses magic and builds up too much blot while experiencing intense negative motions" "It's a cascading effect that stretches back years." "And the thing that triggers emotional outbursts is the hardest to quantify our innermost feelings, or 'heart', so to speak a persons heart is the one thing we can't control no matter how hard we try." Idia's exact words. Now going with that statement and saying all of the overblots are just merely a "Coincidence" let's examine and analyze the overblots and why they happened.

Riddle

(HIS SAILOR MOON OF AN OVERBLOT TRANSFORMATION IS SO COOL IN THE MANGA.) Riddle's overblot obviously happened because his authority was being challenged as the housewarden from Ace going in a duel against him to everyone else getting fed up with his rules to defying him. Not to mention with the deep severe ties with his mother and her rules he well overblots.

Leona

His overblot happened because of his failed plan to basically kill off Malleus (He really pulled a long live the king here) from my understanding he gave up and the Savanaclaw students were like 'tf why?' he turned into an angry kitty and the feelings of being the second born prince and all that trauma raised up especially when Lilia went off on him (I fully blame Lilia for this). And he overblots.

Azul

His overblot happened from when Leona used his UM on Azul's contracts and blipped them away basically. When this happened he went back to that time when he was being bullied and was no longer powerful like he is now.

Jamil

Jamil's happened because well Azul thought it was cute to live stream his whole plan to the world exposing the fact that Jamil was essentially going to betray Kalim and well his deep-rooted years of being merely a 'servant' came up and he overblotted.

Vil

He overblotted because he basically lost to neige and was attempting to kill him (Almost killed Rook and the others). He accepted he had lost to him and will always lose to him and just snapped.

Malleus

He overblotted because of the announcement Lilia was leaving and retiring to Red Lagoon (Okay just leave your kids...ig?). I also want to say Yuu's announcement added to it because well Malleus is a lonely dragon who just wants friends and someone who is basically his father announced he's leaving and his friend outside of Diasmonia is leaving too.

Idia isn't in this list for a reason will get on with that later.

When it comes to all of these overblots in a certain sense none of them make sense as to HOW they happened. Coincidentally how is it that 7 students overblot in a school year especially with how rare they apparently are supposed to be. With them being 16-18 (Leona being 20 and Malleus being 178) You'd figure the eldest third years know the most to be careful. Plus if the staff is doing their job correctly all the students know to be careful right?

If it happened like once in a year that's understandable but 7 coincidentally? Leona had 4 years to overblot why all of a sudden??

I also want to point out something whenever blot would get built as far as I'm concerned they wouldn't even be using magic (Just having a negative emotion) and blot would built. Going by all the patterns from the overblots they get pissy it builds up they use their UM BOOM overblot. I think someone is personally targeting people to build up negative emotions purposefully and then they use a lot of magic which causes it. Having a UM like this could be entirely possible because look at the facts.

Book 2. It makes sense Ruggie would overblot rather than Leona. He just drank a potion that enhances his UM he was mad struggling he just GOT betrayed by Leona makes sense for him to overblot right? Not to mention during the Camp vargas events Overblotting was such a huge concern with just via their magic so why would the staff risk putting MANY students at risk of an overblot if they knew it wouldn't happen.

I also want to add Idia has a curse which has him burn blot and he was the first in hsi family to break that and overblot. However in order for him to thrive he needs to build it it's most likely being in Tartarus he built too much than he could burn off. (In Ch 6-51 it is also stated curses, and sealed phantoms getting lose can cause overblots as well meaning negative emotions and building power aren't the only causes to an overblot) There is a possibility from being around too many phantoms he built too much, but even then his family curse could have been burning blot during his overblot so Idia was probably never meant to overblot by any normal means (However if his curse wasn't burning off blot foul play could be involved)

Going by these facts the theory in question is a possible UM that affects negative emotions to be built up more and possibly a mood change. OR there is a pause on how blot is released causing it to build up.

(Has it ever been stated on how normal humans release blot if it's been built up...?)

ANOTHER THING. JP SPOILERS BTWWWW.

I cannot confirm my sources with this one so please take this with a grain of salt. I came across a post (I CANT FUCKING FIND IT) in which it translated if Malleus's ob doesn't end he will basically become the no. 1 enemy to society (Basically pulling an Eren jaeger). He's very powerful so you'd assume he's very mindful about overblotting especially if he's going to become the no.1 enemy of humanity.

I have some theories on who could be doing this.

1. Crowley

CROWLEY? Him and my other suspect are battling for first place but let me state my reasoning.

For the exception of Book 3, 4, 5? and 6? he was not present during the overblots and was basically useless. However he was present for book 1, 2, and 7. I put a question mark near 5 and 6 even though he was not present he was still in the general area. Via he was brought to Styx and he was DEFINITELY there at the VDC since it was a school event. book 3 and 4 he was for sure not present for.

We quite literally know nothing about him not to mention he's kind of a jerk face and will do anything to save his ass. For Jamil's and Azul's overblot this goes into hand that he could have activated his UM beforehand on them and the overblot started.

Not to mention during book 5 the headmaster of RSA was like "Bro I sense heavy magic presence" and Crowley was like "Naw you mad tweakin homie."

Two thing

He's Fae.

He has to be as old as Lilia or younger. But he definitely has at least 300 years of existence in his age.

HES A LITERAL HEADMASTER FOR A MAGIC SCHOOL

Meaning he DEFINITELY can sense magic so for him to blatantly ignore the blot sense with Vil either he was protecting his ass from losing his job or he is hiding something. Especially since it was an overblot If Malleus's magic was that good Crowley would have either sensed Vil's overblot or Malleus's Magic.

(If I'm correct an anonymous tip was sent in to Styx to check out NRC the anon in question was possibly RSA headmaster as it makes sense)

2. Ortho

Stay with me here

Ortho is from Styx and obviously Styx investigates overblots what if styx itself is causing overblots so they can study them and they are using Ortho.

Since Idia was theorizing about the Obs there is a possibility that he is not in the plan and it's Ortho plus his family and styx staff that's all in the plan.

(They could have gone too far with Malleus's)

It's merely a theory and I have no evidence to back this up

3. Grim

Quoting Idia's exact words ahem..

"He is seriously mediocre in every single way." "The preliminary report of him being a dire beast with high cost of blot density checks out, though." "He's a magical fusion of a direbeast, and some kind of animal." "He's as lackluster with magic as he looks...and his blot density COULD be phenomenally high."

Ahem okay.

So as we know Grim is a fusion with what could be a Direbeast and possibly a cat. Going back to exhibit A in which Idia said loose phantoms could cause an overblot he could be affecting the blot levels around him Yuu being the only one not affected since Yuu isn't from said world.

Some Cons tho

Using this logic Ace would overblot as well same as Deuce hence why I think he is the least likeliest but it does make sense as eventually Grim does interact with the overblot squad.

4. Yuu

STAY WITH ME STAY WITH ME OKAY

Yuu comes from different world and are trying to actively escape using their new plan MICKEY. However it doesn't exactly explain how Yuu got there since well 1 they are from a different world how would a horse basically cross the multiverse (Unless the Magic mirror is scheming against Crowley and needs Yuu's help that's a different conversation) we know jack shit about Yuu. HOWEVER Yuu could be subconsciously activating overblots since they are prom a foreign world (I'm basically thinking of that one mickey game with the ink brushes EPIC MICKEY) except Yuu causes them.

Cons tho.

As per the manga every Yuu is different every chapter and this would highly contradict (Also how tf are there multiple Yuu's?) not to mention Ace and Deuce would also OB.

[p-redux]

Inbox Summary 9/29/2023

Hi peeps, so I'm going to try something new. For some of your Asks in my Inbox, instead of answering them individually, I'm going to do a combined summary post of all of them.

I'm doing this because a lot of the questions are about past stuff I've already answered. I don't have time to keep answering the same questions (Search is your friend, my friends), I don't want to take up space on my blog to answer stuff that has already been answered, and the main thing is, I'm TIRED.

I'm in one of my fandom "meh" moods. I get into fandom funks every once in a while, where I'm over it, and don't feel like posting. BUT, I love you guys, and I know the next big scoop is just around the corner. Every time, I say to myself, I'm just going to fandom retire, Cait gets engaged, Sam is seen with a new woman, Cait gets married, Sam is seen with a new woman, I get the scoop AHEAD of time that Cait is pregnant (remember when I posted MONTHS before that someone from Outlander was pregnant? and 'lo and behold, that August, Cait announced she'd had her son), Sam is seen with a new woman, Cait has her baby, etc, etc. So, I don't give up...because I know there's more stuff coming, and also, like I said, I really enjoy my Team here.

So, what I'm going to do is either on Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays, depending on how busy I am, I'm going to do a weekly summary of answers to some of my Inbox questions. They will be short answers. And for further details, you guys can just Search my blog or Search Google.

I'll still answer some questions individually, but it will depend on the subject, and how busy I am in RL. Please keep sending me questions and DM's. I'll answer them. Some won't be answered as in depth as others, that's all.

So, here we go for this week's round up...in no particular order:

Susie Evans is in Austin with friends.

_

Sam is still in the UK. Cait is in Paris.

_

Sam is expected in New York next week, for the Keepers of the Quaich event ON Cait's birthday, October 4. For those gnashing "why do you think Cait wouldn't go to New York to spend her birthday with Sam?! She could?! They're friends?!" Um, yes, they're friends...but REALITY CHECK: Cait is married to Tony McGill and has a toddler son with him. Logic dictates that Cait and family aren't going to schlep from Europe to New York to be with Sam, who is simply her friend and costar, and NOTHING MORE. Cait will spend her birthday with her husband and son, and she has a TON of friends, she's not going to fly to NY expressly for Sam. Plus, he's BUSY on her birthday, remember? He's going to be at that Keepers of the Quaich event.

_

No, Sam and Sophie Skelton never dated. Sam never posts who he dates (except when he went Instagram official with Mackenzie Mauzy, but that was after 2 years of a committed relationship), and he posted pics with Sophie on a motorcycle at his Glasgow home. If they were secretly dating, he would have been much more secretive about it. I mean, I hope Sam is into some kink, but da/daughter ain't one of them. Who's your daddy? hahaha.

_

By now, we all know Sam's ex, Abbie Salt is fighting some type of cancer. Yes, she hasn't posted in a while. I'm worried about her too. But her sister, Charlotte Salt, has posted, and she posts on her professional design IG accounts as well. If Abbie had taken a turn for the worse, I don't think her sister would be posting. I hope Abbie makes a full recovery, wish her all the best.

_

Yes, I know, Sam's ex, Anna Modler is pregnant and having a baby girl.

_

Thanks for letting me know that two other of Sam's exes, Hannah James and Mackenzie Mauzy recently started following birthing, doula, and parenting accounts on IG. Looks like their next adventure is motherhood. Also wish them all the best.

_

The podcast with that IG influencer that was supposedly going to have some Sam content, as far as I know, there hasn't been any Sam mention. So, that was all smoke and mirrors, trying to get some free advertisement. Nothing to see there.

_

The two blonde, blue-eyed Scottish IG influencers supposedly being linked with Sam. I see no evidence of that. Again, seems to be just smoke and mirrors, and names dropped in my Inbox to see if I would post them or not. Nothing to see there.

_

Asking for a cheat sheet of the women Sam has dated and what do certain initials mean. I've done plenty of posts summarizing the women Sam has dated. Please Search my blog or Search Google. As for initials, I don't use initials, I post full names. So, if you see a woman's initials, match them to the full names I've posted.

_

Cait's dad's funeral. And do I have questions about Sam being there? Um, that's all Extreme Shipper bullshit, lies, spin, deception, and now they've sold it as shipper canon. NO, I don't have any questions because WHO was at Cait's father's funeral is VERY clear. Again, Search what I've posted. There are pic, video of Cait sitting next to her mother, and the "Sam is sitting next to Cait but he's wearing a wig" is her brother. NOT Sam. Tony is sitting in the rows behind, holding baby BalfeMcGill, as are other spouses. NO ONE from Outlander went to Cait's dad's funeral. Please THINK. Cait has a big family and she has a TON of friends, some she has known for YEARS. If anyone was going to go all the way to Ireland for her father's funeral, it would be her immediate and LARGE extended family, all the family's friends in Ireland, and then Cait's close friends. Sam and Outlander people aren't even in the first few rungs of WHO would get invited to the funeral. And yes, that includes, Sam Heughan. Besides, Sam was in Las Vegas during the funeral, and there are lots of posts showing that.

_

I know the TRUTH about Cait and Sam never dating, and Cait being with Tony since 2014. I know this thru verifiable and identifiable sources who directly and personally know Cait, Sam, and Tony. So, there are NO questions for me, because I've known the TRUTH for 9 years. It's that simple.

_

As, for my little frothy pet troll who sends me weekly rants about Sam. You can keep going, but all I do is laugh and laugh at how pathetic you are. What you write doesn't upset me because I'm not personally invested in Sam. I'm really not. I post about him because I get info about him, and people are interested in it. But I don't care one way or the other. My IP tracker tells me where the basement is from where you gnash and froth so desperately. So, go ahead, make my day, but I'm NEVER going to post what you send me. You'll never get that satisfaction. Never. Try me.

Okay, peeps, that's it for the summary. I may do more on Sunday. And like I said, I'll still answer individual questions, depending on what they are. If you ever want to know something from the past, please just Search my blog. If you can't find it there, then go to Google and Search p-redux and names or words you're looking for, and all my past posts will pop up.

Thanks for reading!

[dglvr1760]

sobbing

my eyes hurt rn and I had the want to draw but can't rn, so here's au info that imma drop:

Hercules one piece au:

The couple who took zoro in (hercules) is actually just the dojo

Whos zues in this au? Idk um, smoker idk-

Then mihawk comes and is so done with this kid, but oh well-

Anyways, zoro just happens upon luffy, not made for him, just happens to find him while he got lost finding a mentor-

He saves sanji from a sea monster/beast (og thought was saving him from one of sanjis brothers buuuut idk, seems odd but it still could work)

Sanji had his heart broken by a woman, big surprise and his father set up the breakup so sanji could never leave or want to (aka, women are overrated kid)

See, I also want to do one where big mom is hades, it'd fit more ig....

Anyways, take this au with a grain of salt, so much in the works!

To the theater one piece au:

Im taking a theater class so-

Shanks in the iconic hat scene gives luffy a hat and a script shanks had written and told him to become the greatest director (changed from actor to director-)

Shanks works on on the road Broadway stuff

Zoro is a fight choreographer

Nami is a stage manager/ stage producer (yes ik the differences but still)

Sanji is the normal choreographer (dance and he has to work with zoro alot)

Usopp work with set but wishes to become a great actor one day

Chopper is on props and is a stage hand

Robin is another manager that helps with stuff back stage and helps give everyone a break

Franky is our man for tech, lights, and sound

Brooke is on it for music and some sound

Lastly Jimbe is here because he retired but is helping the gang make some amazing musical (teacher who helps)

Ace and the white beard pirates are a group that goes around doing musicals on the road too, but mainly stationed in one area

Marines can be the government or even critics

Sabo and revolutionaries do postmodern stuff

Buggy does circus stuff

Mihawk is king at fight choreography while perona is out here with costumes

Some of the crews are actually doing some stuff as actors too, like they aren't just crew

Sea kings *thats the name* are minor inconveniences

Fights that occur are actual fights so yes, adults r having beef with teens here too

When it comes to devil fruits they are still in play, and yes... even Chopper or Brooke and no, Fishman don't exist neither do I other species besides humans. So everyone else is human, an animal (via gum gum fruit) or dead/skeleton (gum gum fruit) no exceptions unless mentioned in comments

What do yall think, it's v long but I just wanted to get it out there

have a good day and here

Have men who always have their tits out for ur troubles-

[voraciouspangolin]

Going through my notes and I stumbled upon this... script I guess? Well, I don't even know if I wrote it, I have no recollection of doing so. But the way it's laid out matches the way I brainstorm ideas so Ig so?

Anyways so it's a script/roughdraft for what I assume was going to be a comic about demoman and his mother

I don't know what to do with it so I'll just leave it here for wayward souls to read if they so choose to do so

It's unfinished but, yeah

Badlands, New Mexico, Demo's Mansion, Morning.

Demo: For the last time mum. I don't have to go to work, it's me morning off.

Mum: "Morning off"? Oh, Lord help me, you've been fired. I knew it.

Demo: *sigh* No, mum. It's just the one mornin'.

Mum: oh, well, that's fine then, I'm sure. I just wish your poor ol' da could take a morning off. From spinnin' in his grave at your idleness!

Demo: I'm holdin' down three jobs, mum.

Mum: Three jobs! Ha! Listen to him! Tavish, your father, god rest him, had twenty six jobs! And he still found the time to teach you the family trade!

Demo: I made five million dollars last year, mum. We live in a mansion.

Mum: Aye, and who told you to buy a bloody mansion, I'd like to know. These're your prime earning years. You're halfway to retirement already. Mark me, boy: No Demoman worth his sulfur ever had an eye in his head past thirty!

Demo: Mm-hm. Tea's up, mum.

Mum: It wasn't easy bringing you up scottish, lad. Lean years. In those days you could bomb mercs all day and still not have enough for a loaf an dozen eggs. That family portrait cost more'n what we paid for the castle! And more than the materials we used t'rig the road with the family recipe for when those arse-faces found out we didna pay for the castle!

Demo: ...(reaching to grab some scrunpy for his own tea)

Mum: Yer da walked fifteen miles in the rain to blow up the queen of england for a nickel!

Demo: I'll get more jobs, mum. I promise.

[ in this panel we see a family photo of the Degroot family from before Demo lost his eye. They are standing in front of a family emblem. It has three bombs and a wide and round bottle of alcohol, with the text "Regionem Caecoru(m? n?) ... Re... Luscus" the portrait is in sharp focus meanwhile the two are out of focus in the foreground. In front of the portrait, there is a small bench, as though someone spent so long looking at it that they found it suitable to bring something to sit on. There is a smaller version of the portrait hung right beneath the paintint. It is carved from a stone slab, with very precise depth and relief etched into the family's features. There is no paint. It is completely featureless apart from the carving. Parts of the portrait seem different in texture, reflecting the light a bit more, as though buffed out. Stray and smeared fingerprints of grease and gunpowder on these smoother areas reveal the source of its polish; the blind woman with a fiery whip in her words spends indefinite amounts of time tracing the stone faces of her son and late husband, dry fingertips with damaged nerve endings struggling to pick up the finer details of the portrait. ]

Mum: I just hate to see you squandering your gifts.

Demo: I know, mum.

[Beat. Mum angles her head towards where she knows her loyal stool sat, in front of that portrait. ]

Mum: [sigh] I miss him, Tavish. Every day.

Demo: ....I know, mum. Bloody hell, me one

Eyelander: pattern welded damascus steel. Harmonically balanced. Slow forged for generations in the bowels of captured english kings. Um, and it's haunted.

[cakejerry]

Yeah bts need to retire ASAP I don't know when it was the last time they looked like they had blood running through their veins. Jimin looks completely SOULESS bro it scares me sometimes. The only gimmick he and jungkook have is pretending to love their fans, not an ounce of creativity left in their bony bodies. Thv will never be anything more than a ig model and not even a good one, he's so mediocre it's painful. Yoongi has been releasing the same album over and over again but he will do good producing for other people. Hobi is talented af but he had like 30 years to develop some kind of personality and failed, it's time to go man. Rm must perceive himself as tyler the creator's afro korean cousin but he's just the corniest lyricist alive. And jin idk he's just jin, painfully unfunny, brings nothing to the table. Honestly I can't imagine anything good resulting from a bts reunion in 2025 and they suck ass as soloists. It's time to let go.

Akdksldn you should make a blog or dm me or something. But bts will NEVER retire omg they will milk their delusional fans DRY. The number of people who will stan through HELL just because they USED to be good will be enough to make them millionaires several times over. Even though they already have enough in the bank to retire, they're just greedy like that.

You ate with the analysis kinda unfortunately, people being like "this is music jimin makes when he's HAPPY" um bro I don't think that's the case I think he's going through some sort of crisis. All of them going through middle age tbh, conscription and fame fucked them up badddd. Taekook on their steady way to onlyfans accounts, yoongi just greedy. You can tell rapline ran out of their creative juices BAD because do you agust d and 1verse (and the cyphers) were so GOOD man wtf happened. As for jin, he needs to put ME in charge because. Actually scratch what I said earlier about bts needing each other, I'm honestly seeing a Huge career for jin, first of all in music as a Norazo type, second of all as a televison darling. Like i just got a vison of him age 45 married with kids and a regular spot on whatever variety show korea gets obsessed with by then.

As for 2025 comeback, sihyuk still milking the hyyh cow is not instilling me with confidence. My dream (which i know they will crush) is them releasing actual KPOP. But im expecting american radio doodoo.

[whoredmode]

For the ask meme I'm like...

But I'm going to go with Dexteros bc they've been on my mind this particular week! 😅

Obviously for the fic questions it could be hypothetical and/or DexBoss in general 😊

Send me one of three prompts

made a whole meme and everything omg

When I started shipping it if I did:

honestly i’d say like. pretty much right away when i went through sr1? i thought they just made a perfect pair. dex complemented anteros so well imo, and eventually it snowballed into becoming a cornerstone of my canon. their dynamic is crucial to the foundation of my sr canon. kinda interesting how it started out w “i really love dex and i think he works well w my boss character and how he develops into srtt” to “my canon as we know it would literally not exist without the relationship between dex and anteros”

My thoughts:

where do i even start. what can i say that i haven’t said about them before. two halves. the sun and the moon. would find each other in any universe. trapped in an endless cycle. i love you i hate you no one can kill you but me no one will ever understand me but you. devoted until the end.

What makes me happy about them:

i love thinking about them in sr1. it’s so important to me that they goof off together; anteros showing dex all his fave clubs and going out drinking and anteros trying to get dex to dance w him but dex getting too self-conscious but they’re still laughing anyway and then coming to the church the next morning hungover but trying to not make it obvious. both showing more vulnerable sides of themselves to each other. just that whirlwind romance of sr1. then 10 years later having them start over and having this become a slowburning desire for each other. a yearning to return to what once was and eventually trying to create some semblance of a normal relationship. those little moments. the knowledge that despite it all they never stopped loving each other.

What makes me sad about them:

honestly what makes me happy abt them also makes me sad. the death of anteros at the end of sr1. dex feeling as if he’s lost everything at that point, w julius leaving and anteros dead. his anger at troy for lying, for not putting anteros out of his misery. and just the entirety of sr2 and srtt. similarly once they DO “start over” post-sriv, it’s overlayed w a sense of tragedy bc what does it mean to have a “normal” relationship when you’re them? does it mean hiding it all over again? when will it be their turn. for better or for worse things will never be like they once were. we can’t go back to stilwater 2006.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me:

never really ventured into dex/boss fic i’ll be real. ig in general i just don’t like when dex gets characterized as this irredeemable villain bc that’s just not him at all. i see so many old things that just give him no nuance or just forget he exists…..heartbreaking

Things I look for in fanfic:

again never really looked at dex/boss fic so not super applicable. the things i would look for are. um. do they kiss.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: 

anteros has either of his other partners which i’m happy with. i suppose kinzteros in a more canon sense and troyteros for more AU stuff. or at least that’s how it seems to usually end up. dex i think would be fine alone. unlike anteros who will explode if he doesn’t have a partner, dex is fine being single and on his own. he’s an independent person. tho if voli somehow came out tomorrow and said dex ended up w a nice husband i’d be happy w that too.

My happily ever after for them:

wouldn’t that be nice……ig just them making it work as best they can. unless anteros retires—which is something that wouldn’t happen for a very long time—i can’t imagine a real like. marriage and house and kids and all that. just not really in the cards for them. honestly that is one of the things i wanna explore post-sriv: what does the future of this relationship look like? both are committed to it, both still madly in love, but is this how it’s always gonna be? anteros missed the point for a normal life a long time ago.

Who is the big spoon/little spoon:

anteros is the big spoon. it’s like a inch height difference and anteros is using that. traps him w his arms and legs. clingy.

What is their favorite non-sexual activity:

talking and getting into arguments, and i mean that sincerely and not in a bad way. as in, getting into discussions about topics bc they’re both insanely academic. especially as they get older, talking about more mundane things like, as you and i have talked about before, arguing over shit like what colors to paint their bedroom walls and getting ultra specific about it. they love it. anteros’ favorite thing in the world is to disagree w dex. dex would be lying if he said he hated having their discussions too. sometimes anteros just plays an overexaggerated devil’s advocate just to get a smirk outta him. it’s fun. they genuinely love it.

also music! listening and singing along. both share a lot of favorite artists and even tho anteros’ taste can get a lil. eccentric. when it comes down to it, there’s nothing better than driving through stilwater at night together, blasting the radio and singing along. also i think dex just has a really nice singing voice so anteros is more than happy to let him take the lead. one of thew few things in this world that’ll make anteros happily be quiet.

[midnightactual]

ig the other thing that cheeses me off about TYBW is that despite the shock moves of killing Sasakibe, Yamamoto, and Retsu, outside of the funeral ceremony none of the characters actually act like they’re in danger or anything has changed and so all the stakes fall completely flat

people still quip with their enemies, nobody comes out of retirement, nobody (except Sajin and Nemu) exceeds their limits, nobody busts out truly forbidden moves or techniques, nobody stops caring about collateral damage and friendly fire, nobody learns or uses Final Bankai despite the fact that reasonably speaking they’re all gonna die and being depowered doesn’t matter, Tessai doesn’t show up, Ryūken and Isshin are content to play UPS when the opportunity to confront their wives’ killer comes, and so on and so forth. why are the Vizard not using their masks? because they promised not to? they don’t know Central 46 isn’t already dead or that they won’t die if they don’t

it doesn’t feel real. nobody actually acts like they’re facing down not just death but the literal end of the world. nobody except Nemu and Sajin truly pulls out all the stops. this is like. basic storytelling? Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan handles this better by at least acknowledging it:

Saavik: [to Kirk] On the test, sir. Will you tell me what you did? I would really like to know. Leonard McCoy: Lieutenant, you are looking at the only Star Fleet cadet who ever beat the no-win scenario. Saavik: How? James T. Kirk: I reprogrammed the simulation so that it was possible to save the ship. Saavik: What? David Marcus: He cheated! Kirk: I changed the conditions of the test! I got a commendation for original thinking. I don't like to lose. Saavik: Then you've never faced that situation, faced death. Kirk: I don't believe in a no-win scenario.

hey at least saying something like this would explain why nobody acts pressed: they’re true believers in Ichigo as the chosen one to save everyone or whatever

there’s an effort to point at this in CFYOW where Tokinada says only 2/4 (3/5 with Ichigo and Ganju for the Shiba) of the Great Noble Clans participating is shameful but like um Tokinada himself did nothing?? what was your plan if everyone else didn’t succeed? if you had enough faith in them to win then, how can you believe they won’t stop your plan too??? just lampshading the problem doesn’t actually fix it

contrived—the word for all of it is contrived. going through the motions. it was the most basic and unfulfilling way of presenting the idea. there's not a single inspired or exciting thing about it

[sawyingthroughthewasteland]

Sawyer Lockwood’s Backstory pt. 1

Hi! It’s me again, once again trying to explain this bitch’s entire story. There’s a lot, and normally I either have it all organized in a long bullet list or pinned in DMs to my co-author but alas- I feel like everyone should know his story at this point given I’ll probably never finish every single fic I want to write sadly. Ah well, I’ll at least try to make his story somewhat understandable. If this shit is too long for you and you want to speedrun my story, his master post for reference is here. 

Pre-Fallout (Note: NOT pre-war)

Yeah so maybe a year or two before I fell in love with fallout, I had a beloved dnd character that I played as in a campaign where I worked heavily with the DM and helped sometimes with worldbuilding. His name was Sawyer Belmont and was an oath of devotion paladin. His backstory is a bit complicated as with all my OCs that I’m able to hyperfixate on for more than a few months but long story short- in his past was a high ranking demonic warlock. Something happened and a year before the campaign started he woke up in a small town, heavily scarred with absolutely no memory of who he was with a small voice in his head. His voice was a demon named Zariel (no, not that one. I literally googled ‘demon names’ and chose one, literally months later WotC released Baldur’s Gate so fuck me ig). Said demon was essentially the only thing that kept him alive but he quickly strived to stay humane despite his circumstances and prevent Zariel from ever taking over again. 

How does this relate to Sawyer Lockwood?  Well the campaign was ended abruptly and so I was never able to finish his story which,,, was a big blow to me as a person who had written a ton for him. To cope, I used his name when it came to video games in his memory and almost as a way to try to finish his story? I guess? Used him for Elder Scrolls, Skyrim, Dragon Age throughout the pandemic and when I started Fallout, I walked in expecting to play as him. Yeah I’d have to fuck with his backstory to make him fit but I plugged in his name, tried my best to make him look like old Sawyer did and off I went with a high CHA and STR build. 

And fucking hated melee. 

I love sniping, always have since borderlands so um,,, I eventually had him have some character changes then,,, then the fo4 story made him change more then,,, I min-maxed his SPECIAL and completely redid how he looked and,,, then I joined a server with others who had OCs and,,, 

welp. Here he is! Absolutely nothing like the OG Sawyer but we love him anyways. I suppose in the end in a way the old paladin Sawyer got to live on (I mean Lockwood does eventually become a,,, paladin,,, hm)?

Sawyer’s Parents

I won’t go too into detail because honestly it doesn’t effect him all too much/ he doesn’t remember a lot of it- but here we go. 

So Sawyer’s dad was a guy name Jared Lockwood (what? no. I’m not reusing characters what are you talking about -shoves RDO OC under rug-) who was a pretty successful horse breeder and jockey! His beloved horse was a thoroughbred named Brisket and retired from his racing days not long after he had met his wife and they were expecting a child. It wasn’t a lot of money that he made, but enough to buy them a small secluded ranch on top of a mountain in the middle of West Virginia where they raised sheep and chickens. The little bar room in the basement of said ranch house is actually dedicated to previous racehorses and are where he displayed his trophies from past races and such. 

However, when Sawyer was maybe 5ish, as I write with the 1950s timeline version of fallout because I like writing stuff from that era don’t @ me, WW2 began. His father left for the navy, promising to return to his wife and kid after a few years and- yeah he went MIA somewhere in the ocean. Sawyer’s family never found out what really happened, but a good guess has to do with U-boats. Sawyer was fucking heartbroken, he loved his father and had been really close to him during the five years he had with him and was certainly quieter from then on.   

His mother, meanwhile, was Shay Lockwood. She’s straight from Ireland and a often was the anchor for her aloof husband. She was a very down to earth lady, loved farming and tending to their animals- but often was maybe a bit... harsh on Sawyer. Certainly didn’t help that she came from a catholic background and well... yeah

Sawyer’s Childhood 

Sawyer was an only child, and for the most part between daily chores- loved to study. He was a huge fucking nerd. His bedroom was constantly covered in sketches of his designs for machines, tools, and buildings. Additionally, growing up he stayed very close with his father’s horse, Brisket- often riding him to school and reading to him when he was younger. 

Growing up, due to his home’s secluded nature he never really had any close friends? Aside from a girl named Nora, who he was quite close with. In high school they’d actually dated once but while discovering their differing sexualities- things didn’t shake out but they still remained close. 

For the most part, he studied his heart out for all of high school and strived to place himself in a good engineering school to continue his studies. Unfortunately though around the time of getting ready for college- his mother developed cancer. This was rough for him for multiple reasons- she was the only family he was really aware of and not only that, they were in a rough standing with each other when things began to pick up and she got sicker and sicker. As Sawyer was slowly discovering himself in their small town, it was quickly becoming evident that he was most definitely queer- something that his mother disapproved of heavily. When she passed- it was without ever their relation ever being mended and Sawyer still kicks himself about it even a good 200 years later. 

He delayed college for two years or so afterwards, taking care of his farm and struggling to figure out what to do. He was the only one left, who knows what would happen to his childhood home if he ever left for too long. 

College Years 

With a heavy heart, eventually he decided to take a leap of faith and have a go at college again. Due to the gap years, he struggled getting financial support and was only able to make it through two years of civil engineering before his funds dried up. He was getting desperate at this point and in a hail Mary- joined the Navy for the G.I. Joe money when the Big War came around. 

Congrats on making it this far! Now onto the fun shit :)

Bootcamp arc (ft. Baron)

Long story short- Sawyer fucking hated being in the military lol, and for a while they hated him too. He was often subjected to beat ups and rude comments just because.. well he... he twink. It was during one of these beatings that someone swooped in and promptly handed his bully’s asses to them- a man named Baron Teague. 

He’s my friend’s OC and honestly most of the stuff I write these days is between these two (affectionately called ‘Bawyer’). I have no idea if she’ll ever make her own tumblr and write about him on here but I’ll try to give a long story short for him. He’s from a military family down in North Carolina, joined the air force fresh out of high school and when he met Sawyer, was well on his way to officer school. (why were they at the same base? story reasons that’s why) 

The two quickly hit it off, Baron often lending the man a hand and Sawyer questioning the tiny sliver of heterosexuality he had left in him every time the buff guy ran by in silkies. Eventually it uh,,, turned into a romance between the two when they had the chance between drills, then Sawyer took him home one break and Baron started inviting him to holidays with his family back in NC and well, you get the picture. They gay. I’ll link the fics when I get the chance, but most described above has been written lol. 

Lancer Program 

Okay so this is where I kinda went crazy with homebrewing but whatever its my writing world I do what I want with my toys you know

So. In my uuuh universe? I guess? There was a program pre-Liberty Prime. This program was bleeding edge technology, taking the grand scale of Liberty Prime and the intelligence of the brightest AI at the time and combined it with the maneuverability and skills of a human pilot much like the power armor. It was a super secret thing and was a very small department and in order to get in required vigorous tests of intelligence and creativity rather than the usual strength. 

Pacific Rim- like with a splash of Titanfall and Neon Genesis, these mechs would have a neural link with their pilots and with the pilot and AI combined were able to carry out complex and highly effective maneuvers. This was of course, assuming that the two got along well and the pilot was quick enough to be able to fix any coding issues on the fly with merely their voice commands. Super vigorous, super high tech, yada yada yada..

With a whooping STR of 2 and an INT of 10, Sawyer gladly applied and made it into the program. He was Lancer Unit 02 and excelled in his training. 

The AI later becomes their own character but that will have to come in a different post, which will be linked here when I get to it ;)

It wasn’t until it was almost time for deployment that Baron finally found out about the Lancer Program and Sawyer’s involvement in it.

Quickie Won’t Hurt ;)

Almost forgot lol, so not long after serving some time Sawyer definitely suspected he’s gay. He wasn’t entirely sure though and so in a series of poor decisions while drunk with his close friend Nora,,,, they uh,,,, yep. 

He didn’t find out about Shaun until looong after he’d come home from the war. Lol whoops haha god Nora I am so fucking sorry 

On the Field    

Around the same time that Stg. Baron was deployed to Alaska was the same time that Sawyer’s program was finally being deployed onto the field in [redacted]. The two had a heartfelt goodbye, swapped dogtags affectionately (this will be important in Baron’s story), before going their own separate ways.

The Lancer Program, with how small that it was and how far they were being sent, all loaded into a giant aircraft carrier and sailed off into the sea. 

They didn’t make it far. 

Somewhere in the Pacific, the ship was hit and sank so quickly there wasn’t enough time to usher everyone to lifeboats and almost all lives were lost on that ship along with most Lancer technology (hence why most prewar and ‘modern’ tech isn’t nearly as advance as the Lancer Program’s yet some ideas would be carried over to the making of Liberty Prime and PA suits). 

So uh, Sawyer. As a person who had just left his really... only friend, had been bored out his mind during the trip and did what most do when bored- and had taken a nice nap in his mech that he was neutrally linked to.

Woke up to alarms blazing, the AI panicking, and the entire ship hundreds of feet underwater and his entire squad around him dead and floating in the water around him. 

He doesn’t have much memory about how he even managed to get out of that situation because it thoroughly fucked him up. 

Baron meanwhile dropped everything when a truck rolled up with a compressed and crushed Lancer Unit 3 on it, being ordered to destroy it to preserve government secrets. 

Parsons State Insane Asylum    

For the following year after that, Sawyer spent his entire time in Parsons as a broken man. He’d been moved to Boston after his record had listed only Nora and Baron at the closest he had to family. With Baron deployed in Alaska, he was sent to be near Nora has he recovered while she was dealing with her own problems. 

The last time Baron saw Sawyer before the nukes fell was the asylum, hardly able to speak a word and shaken to his core from what he saw down there (fic about it to be linked here). It certainly didn’t help that this was also the time that Nora couldn’t hide her pregnancy anymore and her family started asking Questions. 

The follow year was a blur for him, stumbling through treatment and slowly becoming somewhat functional again. During that time he could vaguely recall marrying Nora and them settling on a house in a place called Sanctuary but he wasn’t super lucid until close the time that the nukes fell. Link about the nukes actually falling linked here. 

Because this post is hella fucking long, the second part will be linked here! Hope y’all enjoy it so far and as always, feel free to send asks about him or me :)   

[titsuya]

I was told to come here-

I'm a 5'9 latina, my aesthetic and clothing style tends to be either dark academia or grunge though ive been told I look like a retired mechanic which I find funny- since I don't know shit about cars- Um I smoke a bit but nothing like cigarettes, it's pot but it's very rarely touched. I'm an INTJ, very laid back nonchalant type of person. You'll very rarely see me get pissed off or show much emotion unless I'm passionate about something which people will occasionally mistake as anger from how hyped I get but I swear it's not. I do alot of boxing and I've done some martial arts in the past. I work more now with entertainment like dancing, singing, art making etc. I make my own music (I don't publish because I'm a pussy-) I'm an introvert to a fault but if you get some liquor in me or I'm high then I'm definitely more social able. Tough on the streets freak in the sheets type of beat. I'm a Scorpio, a bit of a dark empath ig but mellow. I can manipulate others but I choose not to for the sake of it being, I'm not that big of an asshole. I'm the silent type. Just don't piss me off and I think we can be friends.

Male Haikyuu matchup preferably, happy 1k 🤞

thank u baby +++ u sound so attractive omg — this is a lil suggestive, not very sfw, im sorry

I MATCH YOU WITH

SEMI EITA

you guys are that grunge couple that everyone is fucking terrified of. YOURE BOTH SO FUCKING HOT, TOO. eita writes songs about you +++ he asks you to sing on his tracks because he truly does love your voice. you guys had a rough start, but in the end you both were very happy to be together <3 ++ ur both scorpios so i just had to put you two together

YOUR TROPE: complicated. enemies to fwb to enemies to fwb to lovers LOL

it started when you two had met, you thought he was just the cockiest man you’d ever met and he thought you were just a b word. then one day, one thing led to another and you ended up having hate sex <3 and the kept having more hate sex <3 then you guys got into a fight (bc you know eita has the worst anger issues) which kinda ends your fwb. so you continue with life, hating semi eita for being a cocky bastard, till he shows up at your place to make amends bc he actually really misses you. you miss him too, bc duh its SEMI EITA, but you kinda go about it the wrong way and it pisses him off, so you guys have hate sex again. (lol lots of hate sex <//3 sorry) then one day, you piss him off super bad (on purpose bc riling him up is fun) and he’s like, “i don’t even know why i like you so much since all you wanna do is piss me off!” and now his eyes are wide and your eyes are wide and you just smile and kiss him because <3333 you like him too. (WHO WOULDNT IM SORRY HAVE WE SEEN HIS FACE)

YOUR SONG: sex money feelings die (slowed version) — lykke li &&&& i wanna be yours — arctic monkeys

i gave you two songs because i really couldnt choose between them! sex money feelings die is good representation of your relationship when you were fwb and i wanna be yours was just a good song to represent your entire relationship (??? am i making sense)

moodboard!!!

[postyxmendes]

Shawn Mendes IG Live Breakdown (aka PR shitshow)

okay i decided to talk about the little live we just got....quick disclaimer i do believe Shawn does care about the pandemic going on he and Lizzo were two of the biggest artists to sign that petition before we even knew he was gonna do this little live or anything....anyway here’s my thoughts and observations

okay starting off with my favorite thing about the live Brian, Josiah, Mike, and Prasahan trolling the entire live “notice me” “mike join cod” “quarantine headass” “play Wonderwall”

“Karen” commenting “Fantastic guys. Miss u both so much xx.” yeah “Karen” i’m sure you do....☕️

John Mayer king of not knowing anyone his own age joining in on the festivities...don’t they have a curfew at the retirement home old man it’s way past your bed time

Silver Surfer, “Dr.” Jocelyn and Lua (who???) also feeding into the festivities...listen ladies clout chasing does not make you quirky it makes you looks desperate 👀

Shawn...dude....i hope you get locked out of Canada (however that works) you looked so disinterested and like you were suffering which i don’t blame you....you have to save a racist career and your not doing to well at that either

Niall...i expected better from you smh

Gerty suck a butt you selfish asshole...that’s all

pretty much this live was more hers than his...and that’s on being an attention seeking racist with no career

um the racist acting quirky was more bearable then her singing tbh....you were in a band called 5th harmony but don’t know how to harmonize how ironic

Shawn not knowing the words to havana...one she’s supposed to be your girlfriend and that’s her biggest song two it’s literally the same 3 words repetitively being sung

Shawn go take a nap you tired old man you are not aging well right now

the viewer count dropping every time kkkarla started to sing....iconic nobody can clear a room faster than that good luck with your 3 audience members at you flop concerts 

only answering verified accounts such as Global Citizens, MTV, Nickelodeon....all of which endorse this pr relationship...hmmm

in conclusion this live was a mess, but more bearable then anything else they’ve done...now that it’s over and y’all looked like friends more than lovers (🤢) can y’all hang it up i know your tired of getting dragged on every social media site.....as for kkkarla i hope you let your dying career die already we’re tired

[coffeeastronaut]

for the character asks: either tanigaki gk or I was gonna send s1 else but forgot bc as soon as I saw ur icon I thought of okuyasu so. okuyasu :)

oh my god i deadass forgot my icon is okuyasu. thats just ‘distressed guy in front of goya’s saturn devouring his son’

tanigaki:

Sexuality Headcanon: bisextual . he never thought woman were sexy until he met his epic dope wife and was like ummm actually im bisexy. he doesnt know that tho he just thinks hes straight and that thinking dudes are hot is normal

Gender Headcanon: hes trans but hes cis. like he transitioned so smoothly and quickly that he forgot he was trans hes just like. im cis now. sugimoto comes out to him and tanigakis like wow thats dope dude! and sugimoto (seen the ye olde top surgery scars) is like. yes :) isnt it nice we can have this little community together :) and tanigaki is like ? huh? are allies lgbt now? and sugimoto is like [thinking abt the sea otter thing and the tscars] um.... yes sure

A ship I have with said character: inkarmat his epic con wife i think she fucking rules and i love that they have ababy and and they the, love,

A BROTP I have with said character: SUGIMOTO i think theyre SOOOO good and dear to me. idr if they even interact in the circus arc but thats the one that made me go ‘these dudes are soul sisters just like the white girls’

A NOTP I have with said character: im sure theres plenty but thankfully my head is empty 💛

A random headcanon: i think he still writes letters to cikapasi :)

General Opinion over said character: yayyyy big honkas and HUGE heart

okuyasu:

Sexuality Headcanon: little gay thing

Gender Headcanon: trans and hes having fun w gender

A ship I have with said character: josuke obviously

A BROTP I have with said character: i think its cheating to say josuke here as well so koichi. theyre besties and it makes me sad koichi gets left out of bro moments in fan content

A NOTP I have with said character: ummm idk. i dont think that hard about these things. rohan ig

A random headcanon: when he grows up i think he either becomes a mechanic (he runs a shop w josuke) or he runs a diner :) i think he starts as like. dishboy >line cook > oh shit he can really cook > owner retires and turns it over to him. the reason he can cook so good is because he apprenticed with tonio :)

General Opinion over said character: THATS MY BEST FRIEND hes so funny i love him :) funnyteen

[xmen-blue]

1. marvel! because i have strongly attached myself to x-men and when i branch out it’s only to venom, fantastic four or spider-man. i don't think my wallet could support me getting into dc

2. cyclops

3. jean or rogue

4. an x-man. i would be ashamed to be an avenger tbh

5. i’m quite hot-tempered and stubborn so i always thought it would be something to do with fire

6. nope, i’m happy reading about them although it would be cool

7. i really love gambit’s mutation

8. do the time-displaced original x-men count as an arc? i wouldn't call the cyclops was right arc my favourite either way, but that’s one which gets me quite emotional

9. if i was a mutant, i’d 100% fight for the lives of my species

10. um cap? i don't like either of them to offer a detailed explanation, but i’m thinking about how old man logan would’ve killed iron man in a 1v1 in dead man logan, and putting cap on similar endurance etc (though obviously not healing)

11. that’s deep. uh maybe apocalypse? but i don't have a solid answer

12. i... can’t answer this? my mind is blank. magneto when he’s being a villain maybe?

13. do the starjammers count?

14. um maybe mondo?

15. i liked the x-films, but maybe give warren a solo movie? they could be fun

16. oh geez. anything where a woman who can fly wears a skirt (wth?) because i don't hate lorna’s current outfit but it’s impractical and it’s really time jean retired the marvel girl outfit. a few hellfire gala outfits (notably emma’s and betsy’s etc) qualify too

17. marcus to. i like his art

18. i thinks it’s cullen bunn. he write x-men blue (comfort series) and venomized (another comfort book of mine) and i don’t really follow a particular writer but his work with characters like kei kawade and magneto was good in my opinion

18. um idk. thanks for creating the x-men ig? i don't idolise him or anything

REALLY COOL questions about comic books

1. marvel or dc?? why? 2. favorite male character? 3. favorite female character? 4. would you rather be an xmen or avenger? 5. what would your mutant superpower be? 6. would you want to live in a universe where superheros/villains existed? 7. who do you think has the coolest superpower? 8. favorite story arc? 9. what would you do if you had a superpower? would you keep it to yourself? 10. who would win in a 1v1 fight: iron man or captain america? 11. which character do you wish didn’t exist? 12. favorite villain? 13. favorite extraterrestrial character? (ie. superman, thor) 14. lamest superpower? 15. which character do you think should get a movie? (besides hawkeye and wonder woman bc literally everyone wants that) 16. worst outfit ever? 17. favorite comic book artist? 18. favorite writer? 19. what would you say to stan lee if you met him?

[womenofcolor15]

Be Careful! Going Pantless During Those Zoom Meetings Could Have You Out Here Embarrassing Yourself - Ask Tiffany Haddish!

Folks are getting exposed while on those important Zoom calls. Find out how Tiffany Haddish, a newscaster on “Good Morning America” and more were caught out there inside…

About those Zoom meetings…

Yes, put pants on even IF you think no one will see your bottom half during those quarantine conferences.

Comedienne/actress Tiffany Haddish hopped online with daytime TV host Ellen DeGeneres to share her Zoom mishaps. Well, there are a couple.

Apparently during a live cooking show, she realized she didn’t have a bra on and sis was showing all her goods. Ha!

In another instance, the Night School actress was in a Zoom meeting and decided to use the restroom during the meeting because she thought no one could see. Wrong!

”I start using the bathroom. And they were like, "Tiffany, um, you know we know you're in the restroom, right?" I was like, "Y'all can see me?!"' she explained.

”Needles to say, I sold that show. I sold that show,” Tiffany continued.

Ha!

During the interview, Tiffany CLAIMS she’s single and she’s virtually dating on Bumble. She then said she went on a virtual date with her rumored BAE Common and said he’s on Bumble too. Mmhmm…

Sip the tea below:

  Check out more from her interview below: 

The Girls Trip actress wasn't the only one caught out there in the virtual world:

  ABC’s Will Reeve forgot his pants this morning? pic.twitter.com/c3uF6dFnSN

— PolishPatriot™️ (@PolishPatriotTM) April 28, 2020

  When thinking you're getting over goes wrong!

An ABC News anchor went viral after his appearance on "Good Morning America." The reason? He wasn't wearing any pants and he thought American couldn't see. Ha!

  Hey put some pants on my guy pic.twitter.com/PpCIBRrjP5

— Adam Graham (@grahamorama) April 28, 2020

  Newscaster Will Reeve was featured on "GMA" to talk about pharmacies using drones to deliver medications to people living in a retirement home in Florida. The camera panned out and you could see he wasn't wearing pants. Womp!

Once he got wind of what happened, he laughed it off: 

  When WFH goes wrong (or, your self-framed live shot goes too wide). Hope everyone got a much needed laugh pic.twitter.com/GbyLBhL7Be

— Will Reeve (@ReeveWill) April 28, 2020

    I have ARRIVED*

*in the most hilariously mortifying way possible https://t.co/2NQ85QEJVr

— Will Reeve (@ReeveWill) April 28, 2020

    Listen, we're not even mad at Will. He's the blueprint to how most of us are logging into these virtual meetings.

And he's not the only one:

        View this post on Instagram

                  Pant-less Zooms are apparently a thing. #DaschaPolanco

A post shared by TheYBF (@theybf_daily) on Apr 28, 2020 at 10:50am PDT

  "Orange Is The New Black" star Dascha Polanco has joined in on the pantless Zoom meeting trend.

Are you logging into virtual meetings pantless?!

    Photo: Dascha's IG

[Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/04/30/be-careful-going-pantless-during-those-zoom-meetings-could-have-you-out-here-embarrassing

[paigenotblank]

Ten Things About Me

I was tagged by @fleurdeneuf and have finally put fingers to keyboard and come up with a list. It’ll be beneath the cut, so as not to annoy everyone with it’s length.

Without further ado...

1 - I really love watching baseball and soccer. I’ve been to a NBA, NFL, NHL, MLS, and MLB games in person, but my favorites are baseball and soccer. Mostly I just care to watch my Yankees (I’ve been a fan since the early 80’s when they sucked, so fight me), though I will watch the post season games even if my team isn’t in it. (Last night’s WS Game 5 was insane!!!) And soccer…I love watching soccer. And I don’t even have a team that I identify as mine, though there are several teams that I like more than others. I will watch the hell out of any soccer match. If there is a game on TV, it’s on my screen, all throughout the playing season. I will watch it in English or Spanish even if I don’t understand what they’re saying. I will watch MLS, Premier League, La Liga, Le Ligue, Serie A, Bundesliga, Champions League, UEFA, Jupiler League, FIFA, friendlies, my nephew’s under 8s. I don’t care. I love it all.

2 - I have 10 dogs. I am that person...the crazy dog lady. I am pretty immune to gross. Among my friends I’m the one who gets called for dog advice and gets the weird questions they are too embarrassed to ask “normal” friend. Just kidding, they aren’t really weird questions, they are totally normal, but may seem awkward if you don’t have a lot of experience with dogs. I’ve never not had a dog. Though I did get really involved with a specific breed (Italian Greyhounds) after I graduated college. I house sat for a family friend who was out of the country for 6 months and with the money I made bought my first show dog. And that was the beginning of that. I go to dog shows, I volunteer with rescue, I’m an officer or board of director for 3 different dog clubs. All my dogs are IGs (Italian Greyhounds) and I have friends all over the world thanks to them. They age in range from 16 (today is the oldest ones birthday - Happy Birthday, Fellini!) to 3. I can track most of my dogs’ bloodlines back at least 10 generations. I have two foreign bred dogs - one from Russia and one from Poland. The Polish dog I asked my mom to bring back after she went to visit a friend there, easy peasy. The Russian dog was more of an adventure/intrigue. The airline changed their policy on dogs the week before he was set to fly to the US (even though his ticket had already been paid for), aka they wanted more money and his breeder had to bribe a few people at the airport to get him on the flight (she assured my this a was common thing to have happen in Russia :O). Then there was a snowstorm the day he supposed to leave - 6 feet in Moscow. The breeder couldn’t get to her car, so she had to take a taxi to the airport (6 feet of snow and a hidden car but the taxis were still hustling it). I went to bed not knowing if I was going to have a dog to pick up the next day or not. Wake up to a text that the puppy was on his way. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving and my best friend was in town visiting her parents. I casually ask if she wanted to take a ride to the airport with me. “Uh, sure. Why?” “Err, I am having a puppy shipped from Russia and I have to pick him up.” She didn’t even bat an eyelash. I’m not sure if that says something about her or me. Anyway, I get to the airport and I have to pay the currier who took the puppy on the flight with her. Cash. It felt like I was taking part in a drug deal going down in the middle of JFK. Fun times.

(Here is a pic of my dogs, if you count closely there are actually 14 dogs in the picture, my 10 and some of their friends who were over for a playdate)

3 - My first “real” job out of college was at a TV station. It sounds way more glamorous than it was. It was an independent station that was owned by a family. The dad bought the station so that his kids has something to do. One sold advertising on the station, one ran the day to day operations, and the other was the host of a political talk show. He really wanted to be a senator, but I don’t think he was that successful in school, so he did the second best thing in his opinion. Anyway, it was kind of a shoddy production. They mostly played infomercials, but had the one talk show that was an hour or two long and a tiny bit of local news. I was one step above an intern, as I did get paid, and ultimately that’s why I left, they wouldn’t hire me “full time” or provide benefits. But I did learn a lot though. The craziest thing about that job is the ridiculousness of the things they asked me to do. I had no background in business or finance, and they made me write the copy for the business reporter’s on-air reports. I got a picture badge and made trip everyday to the NASDAQ MarketSite in Times Square where the financial guy did his reporting from. It was sort of surreal being surrounded by people from all over the world speaking in every language imaginable talking about the state of the world economy. I never really felt like I belonged there, though I guess I did a pretty good job with the business reporting because then they made me a sports producer. Well, intern, but they did’t actually have a sports producer, so… Anyway, I was my responsibility to research major sporting events and book guests. Kentucky Derby? Find someone to talk about the horses and the triple crown. See if you can get a Yankee or Met in studio (LMAO, yeah right…) Anyway, I guess that the highlight of my sports producing was booking former NJ Devil Ken Daneyko upon the event of his retirement. That still surprises me when I think about it. Back to the political talk show, one time we had Ann Coulter in studio as a guest. I helped write some of the counter arguments for her interview and some got used by the host. That was cool to have my arguments trip her up a little. The host was very rude to her, which wasn’t really professional, and she screamed at the whole office before slamming out of the building. Another time, I answered the phone and the guy on the other end was acting a little sketchy. He asked for my boss and when I asked who was calling, there was a long pause and then he says, “Tell her it’s the Secret Service.” I laughed I couldn’t help it. It sounded like a line. It wasn’t a line, it was the secret service, and that is how I found out our guest that week was going to be Hillary Clinton. Hard to top that one, but I will finish it up with not only did I write the business report, try to find guests for the sports reporter, and research for political guest interviews, but since I knew how to use all the equipment in the studio (thank you film school), I helped out there when the tech guy needed it. So one day, he asks me to mic up a guest. The dude was REALLY nervous. He was a newspaper journalist and didn’t do a lot of TV stuff and he was low key freaking out. Anyway I run the mic wire under his shirt, around his back, to the battery pack. I glance down to make sure it’s not visible…turns out the guy had a raging erection. Luckily the guy was sitting down and the shot was mid chest and up. And I know it was nerves, but holy shit, I couldn’t stop giggling.

4 - When I was a little kid, I wanted to be an actuary (um, I have no idea why, maybe I thought it sounded cool. I don’t think I even knew what an actuary does other than it involves numbers and I used to like to watch my grandfather balance his checkbook). Then I wanted to be a veterinarian because I love animals. I also love science. I started college with the general idea that I wanted to do something science-y. I took all classes to pursue an major in biology with a leaning toward pre-med. I figured I be a vet or a doctor or a geneticist. Well to keep kids well rounded, I had to take liberal arts electives and one of those was a film critique class (I liked movies as well as the next person). Guys, I fell down a rabbit hole. I found what I LOVED. I transferred from the school of arts and sciences to the film school and it was the best experience ever. (Though my mother still hasn’t forgiven me, and some days I do think that geeee it would be nice to have the income of a doctor.)

5 - So this might seem unrelated, to this next fact, but I am reminded of the time in film school in one of my writing classes where we had to write a treatment for a potential feature film. It wasn’t something that we had to pursue, but it was teaching us how to write a treatment, so we had to come up with an idea. Anyway, I thought I would do a modern telling of the Mask of the Red Death, but set in Wall Street under the guise of an insider trading scandal. The professor kind of pooh poohed it, saying insider trading was passé and “not an issue anymore.” Well, brah, let me tell you something, two years later Martha Stewart got busted for it, and I was ahead of the curve. Which leads to fact #5: I got called for federal jury duty for the Martha Stewart trial. I didn’t get picked, but I did have to go down town and fill out the questionnaire that weeded through ALL the people that got called. I knew they were going to toss mine cause one of the questions asked about news connections or something, and I was like “I used to work for a TV station and wrote their financial news.” LOL

6 - I once drove Dustin Hoffman’s Lexus. I worked on his son, Jake’s, senior film project and it required the use of a car. So Jake commandeered the car to film in it, and we ultimately drained the battery (don’t plug a powerful light into the cigarette lighter with the car turned off for long periods of time). I also jumped Dustin Hoffman’s Lexus, see previous statement. After filming in the car, we moved on to film in a park and Jake ran into his good friend, Ben Stiller, who had just wrapped filming in the same park. It was a surreal evening. Oh, and when I first met Jake for the first time, he was trying to be all impressive, so he had me and my friend (who was his classmate and acting as his producer on the project) to his dad’s penthouse office. I was seated 2 feet from an Oscar and an Emmy and a Golden Globe. When Jake left the room for a minute, my friend and I were like, “wuuuut?” I really wanted to just touch one of them, but I was scared the office had hidden cameras. On the same note, after the film had been edited, I went to the penthouse for a screening of the rough cut, and DH was in residence. Holy shit the level of security between my two visits was off the charts. I was there during my lunch break from the political talk show I mentioned in #3, and his friend was gonna stop by, so he was all “we should all go for lunch.” Yeah, ok. His friend calls that he’s downstairs in a taxi and he has no money so can Jake pay. Seriously? Anyway we go down and he introduces his friend, Jonah. It was Jonah Hill before anyone even knew who Jonah Hill was. We go get burgers and bring them back to his place and his mom was completely lovely and chatty. She told some embarrassing stories about Jake as a kid, and then his dad comes in the room, steals a few of my French fries and says I should come along to the taping of Letterman that he’s doing in a few hours. I was an idiot and said I had to go back to work. People, that was one of my biggest life lessons. If you get asked to go to a taping of Letterman by Dustin Hoffman, go. I thought I was being responsible, but even my boss was like, “No, you’re just an idiot.” One of my life regrets.

7 - My college roommate gave her (actual!!!) number to a guy she met in the park while walking home from classes. Even though she knew she wasn’t interested in him. It was the shared number to our dorm. He was weird (referred to himself in the third person - his last name was Love, just consider the puns)  and bordered on stalker-ish. He’d call everyday asking her out. She said she wasn’t interested, but he kept trying. Finally she just refused to answer the phone. And since we didn’t have caller ID on our dorm phone, I was left to answer the phone every time it rang. At some point, his stalker affections were transferred to me (and I had never even met the guy.) He’d call me and say things like, “Hey I’m going roller skating at the Roxy tonight, wanna join me?” “My friend, Christina Aguilera, is in town and she really wants to meet you, we should all go to dinner.” “There’s a 10 year anniversary screening of a movie I did, when can I pick you up?” (this was legit but some people probably wish it weren’t - think West Side Story with street fighting dance competitions and roller skating, needless to say it has a 0% on rotten tomatoes). A couple of years ago, I’m talking to my boss, because we are at a convention and see an ad for a guy with this guy’s name as a contact for a roller dance company. And my boss is like, “Yeah, I know his mom, he really does know Christina Aguilera.”

8 - I have a pretty large, complicated family. There is no easy answer when people ask if I have siblings. I have 1 full blooded brother, 3 half brothers (one from my dad’s first marriage; two from my dad’s third marriage - I am from my dad’s second marriage), 3 step brothers (from my dad’s fourth marriage) and a sister who is adopted from China. Do I say I have a brother, do I say I have 4, 7? I’m closer to my three step brothers than I am to two of my half brothers. It’s confusing.

9 - I have a tattoo and a nose piercing which were both done pretty spontaneously after hard days at work. Don’t regret either. I also have my ears pierced which was done when I was 3. At some point one of the ear holes closed up, but I found a really great pair of earrings that I wanted to wear, so I thought to myself, “how hard could it be to re-pierce my ears?” Ice, sterilized needle, temporary post earrings to keep the hole open while it heals. Check, check, check. Guys, if you’re gonna do it yourself, have a friend actually stick the needle though your flesh. It will probably go much faster. I kept just stabbing at my earlobe and slowly pushing it through the pain until I felt like I was going to throw up. Or better yet, go to the mall and have them use the gun.

10 - I am shocked I had all these facts to share, because I really consider my self to be pretty boring. I like introvert activities. Staying home, hanging with my dogs, reading, writing, watching TV. I do like people and am generally pretty easy going and easy to get along with, but I am a homebody. I have to talk myself into going out, even though I find myself enjoying myself when I am out. I am always open to chat, so send me a message if you so care to do so.

Tagging randomly from my mutuals, sorry if you’ve already done this! @everything-she-did-was-so-human @agentkalgibbs @aalissy @thetaswolf @ciara-jane @waitingonthetardis @skyler10fic @buffyann23