This is the place where I post my writings and also lose my mind.
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Masterlists:
Haikyuu
Daiya no ace
Call of Duty
Most writings on ao3
Series (ongoing):
Inertia || John Price x afab reader, SMUT-MDNI (updated: Dec 2)
Under false colors || John Price x fem reader (updated: July 23)
Recent writings:
Under false colors, pt. 4 || John Price x fem reader
The devil you know || John Price x gn reader
Inertia, pt. 1 || John Price x afab reader, SMUT-MDNI
In the palm of your hand || John Price x afab reader, SMUT-MDNI
MATSURI. kita shinsuke x reader. 1,145 words. cw: sfw. meet cute, summer festival in the countryside, talk about arranged marriage. // written for @no1frogfan for the hq summer fic exchange hosted by @sodaneko. i hope you enjoy!!
The summer festival in the small farming community is a joyous occasion every year. Paper lanterns are strung up around a large grassy lawn, stalls with delicious food are set up, and there’s a stage where members of the community sing traditional songs to embrace summer.
Kita’s family farm supplies rice to make traditional dishes that are sold at stalls to support the neighborhood association. This year, like each year, he works a stall with his family, but now that the crowd is thinned down and the festival is in full swing his grandmother shoos him away and tells him to go enjoy himself.
Kita smiles to himself. His grandmother is getting to an age where she’s not so subtly anymore asking for grandchildren. Kita is still young, he has time before he has to decide when to start a family. But that doesn’t stop his grandmother from signing him up for a matchmaking service. It doesn’t bother him at all, he knows she means well, so he’ll most likely end up going just to see what the process is like.
Kita is absorbed in his thoughts, passing stalls until he finds something that catches his eye, and reaches for the last taiyaki that he doesn’t realize someone else is reaching for the same one.
His hand bumps against yours and you both immediately pull away. Kita’s grey eyes take you in quickly. You’re wearing a yukata with a subtle floral design. Your hand clutches a small coin purse. Your lips are glossy, but from chapstick or some kind of lip gloss Kita couldn’t say. Still, he has to pull his eyes away from your mouth when he offers you an apology.
“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Kita gestures toward the taiyaki. “Go ahead.”
“But it’s the last one.”
“That’s alright. There are plenty other stalls around. I can find something else.”
You stare at the fish-shaped cake for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out to grab it. You hand the vendor a bank note and wait patiently for your change. Kita thinks that will be the end of it, he’s already thinking about the baked potatoes he spotted on the way over, but then you take him by surprise.
“Would you like to…share this with me?”
Kita’s eyes widen. To be honest, he feels it’s a bit forward of you to ask when you two only just met. But looking at you once more and the way you bite your bottom lip, how tightly your fingers hold onto the wrapper of the taiyaki, and the drop of perspiration he’s not entirely sure is solely due to the heat that slides down the side of your face, he finds himself a little endeared by your courage.
“I would like that,” he answers.
You both walk toward an empty picnic table and sit across from each other. You tear the taiyaki in half and offer him the bigger piece, which he politely accepts. You both bring your hands together and give thanks for the food before digging in.
Kita feels stiff as he eats. He’s not sure if you can tell but it feels like his body has reverted to being a teenager, shy and uncertain in the presence of a stranger. An attractive one at that.
But you fight through your nerves better than he does. You strike up conversation first and Kita finds that you’re easy to talk to, and he’s glad the conversation doesn’t end when you finish eating. You walk around the festival together while talking about his rice farming and your work at an antique store.
Over shaved ice you find out that you both played volleyball in high school. You admit you only did it because your best friend was desperate to meet the minimum number of students needed to form the club, but you ended up really enjoying it and playing all throughout school. Kita shares his own experience and he feels something stir in his chest when you keep full focus on him. So much so that you don’t realize your ice has started to melt, dripping down your hand.
“Here.” Kita reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, patting away the moisture away from your hand. “There we go.”
The performances are long done. The singing of cicadas in the background slowly becomes less and less as the sun dips behind the mountain.
“Thank you,” you softly say, ducking your head to hide the way your face betrays your shyness. “Um…do you think you might want to—”
Suddenly, someone calls your name.
You both turn your heads to see an older man and an elderly woman looking your way. The man is waving you over while the elder discreetly pinches his side in admonishment. Still, you stand and apologize for having to leave in the middle of your conversation. Kita says he doesn’t mind, even though his gut is telling him not to let you go. To say something that will guarantee he can see you again. But what?
All his thoughts come to a halt when you bend down and place a brief kiss to his cheek. It last only a second, but to Kita it feels like the world has slowed down as he watches you turn and make your way to that man and woman. He’s able to come to his senses quick enough to blurt out a goodnight when you’re halfway across the grass. You turn and also wish him a goodnight with a warm smile that makes his heart race.
Kita doesn’t see you for another month. You said you lived in the area, but he’s yet to see any sign of you. He didn’t ask for your phone number either, which he’s kicking himself about now.
The summer heat is brutal and all he can think about is how cool and wet your lips were against his cheek when you kissed him. He feels slightly bad when he attends the group date arranged by the matchmaker, already comparing any prospects to you.
When he arrives there are already several other men and women. He finds a spot by the window and introduces himself to those who approach him. Most know about his family’s farm, and one or two ask him about his time playing volleyball in school.
It’s nearly time to begin and the organizer directs everyone to take a seat. Kita hears the door to the room open then close, followed by a faintly familiar voice offering apologies for being late.
Kita find a seat near the end of one of the tables. The seat across from him is empty, but just as he’s sitting down that seat is also becoming occupied. He glances up, not expecting for his heart to suddenly start beating double time in his chest, and his lips part in surprise.
Series synopsis: With your father unjustly imprisoned, you are forced to find a way to make bail, and fast. Disguising yourself as a ship’s steward seemed like the perfect plan until the captain begins to get suspicious.
Back to series masterlist
Chapter word count: 3.2k
Chapter tags & warnings: misogyny
Note: BIG THANK YOU to my two wonderful beta readers @paleokarst & @tyga-lily!
Imagine I am the guy in the “too many limes” gif except I’m holding an armful of historical references (see end notes) and a picture of topless John Price falls out- wait- how did that get in here, haha……..
Completely unrelatedly, I commissioned some fanart of sea captain Price and his exquisite chest hair (here) to ogle and it’s made my daily life at least 23% better. The artist was awesome to work with! 1000% recommend him!
Clew up the mainsail!
Like clockwork, the sailors move to raise the mainsail. Squinting up from the laundry basin, you soon realize why.
The midday sun shimmers off the ocean, half-blinding, but even so, the water’s surface is mottled in streaks where the currents shift. As the ship swerves one such patch, you see the dark sapphire blue of the sea lightens to aquamarine, and in the crystal clear waters, clumps of oceanic plants gleam in brilliant pinks, yellows, and oranges—a wondrous underwater seascape complete with luminescent trees and dazzling schools of fish darting to and fro. (Alejandro later explains that they are not plants, but colorful corals, of a kind to the vivid red jewelry back home.)
Long, verdant ramparts stretch across the skyline, looming larger as the ship nears the isles of Sumatra and Java. Between them, the entrance to the Strait of Sunda expands, the narrow gap growing from a pinky’s width on the horizon until it is wide enough to fit a dozen ships sailing abreast.
Shining yellow sand beaches rapidly hem you in on both sides as the ship nears Prince’s Island, narrowing further still past the great volcano Krakatoa.
On the main deck, the ordinary seamen trim the sails under the direction of Ghost and Soap. The sailors obey with alacrity—the imminent restocking of provisions must buoy everyone’s spirits as they scramble to steer the Cutty safely through.
On the quarter deck, you can just see Gaz and the captain if you crane your neck. Gaz is at the wheel, guiding the ship. Captain Price stands planted with feet apart, surveying the waters ahead through a hand-held telescope, beard twitching sporadically as he relays directions.
With everyone occupied, you take the opportunity to slip away.
The officers used to let you alone for the most part. It meant you could use the officers’ head and wash yourself off in the captain’s bath while performing your duties, as long as you kept it quick and inconspicuous.
Since the raisin incident, however, if you’re out of their sightlines for more than a few minutes, it’s almost a surety that Ghost or the captain will burst in. For such large men, they are impossibly stealthy. (Ghost is the quieter of the two, materializing from below decks and blind corners where you least expect him. Astonishing, considering he’s often accompanied by loudmouthed Soap.)
It’s become so oppressive that you’ve had to sneak bowls of water to your room to use for cursory towel baths and cleaning your monthly rags. You’re likewise more mindful of your chest bindings throughout the day.
The great irony of their intensified scrutiny is that the persistent mistreatment you receive from the hands of Nichols and his mates still somehow goes undetected. It all leaves you so on edge, you’re making more blunders than when you first started. You’d overslept dawn watch and spilled their food so often in the past weeks, even mixed up Soap’s and Ghost’s shirts out of the wash, that you may well be swabbing the decks for the rest of your life.
You’ll endure it though—and bite your tongue all the while—as long as your wages are on the line.
With one last swipe, you finish your hasty bath and triple-check your chest bindings before rushing back outside.
Squinting into the sun, you step on the main deck to find Gaz at the helm, weaving the Cutty skillfully between the dangerous shoals and ships of all sizes that dot the waters. A few you recognize thanks to Gaz and Soap. Others you’ve managed to decipher from the ship’s log.
(You can’t help but inspect its contents on the rare occasions it’s left open. The entries are reminiscent of your father’s scribblings, but unlike your father’s calculations, most of the captain’s notes are unintelligible—not because of his penmanship, which is irritatingly elegant, but because you have only cursory knowledge of the winds and currents that he keeps meticulous track of.)
There’s no sign of your chief rival, the Thermopylae, but you’ve evidently made good time against the Thyatira who left London a fortnight ahead but is still here at rest in the strait. Then there’s the Doune Castle astern and to starboard, who’s caught up again since falling behind at Cape Colony.
To port side, a small town sits nestled at the base of a lushly forested mountain. A modest pier juts out into the water. Beyond it, the seas open wide and unending once again—the end of the strait—which means this must be Anjer.
“Hard aport!”
The sailors strain and pull as one, reducing sail and slowly halting the forward momentum of the ship. Like at Cape Colony, the Cutty doesn’t bother with the drawn-out process of docking, but anchors at a distance so she’s poised to depart as soon as she’s victualled.
Once the Cutty has stilled and the men are dismissed by Soap’s whistle, they swiftly attach their ropes to the bowlines and surge toward the port side railing, the topmen scurrying down to the deck quick as you like to jostle for position.
Curious, you head over to investigate.
Dozens of bum boats have peeled off from the pier and around the other ships to make their way over. Like small wooden rowboats with colored canopies stretched overhead, some look only large enough to fit two people, while others are longer and more slender, perhaps able to fit ten or twelve aboard.
As they near, you start to make out wares of all kinds, chickens and other animals, barrels of God-knows-what, basins of fish, baskets piled high with meats and eggs and other foods. But most of all—boats crowded with women. Dozens and dozens of them. Young and old, beautiful and ugly, in intricately-patterned skirts and vibrant blouses. Some of them, at least. Others are unabashedly bare-breasted, flirting openly with the men and flashing provocative peeks under their skirts.
Their boldness—and the men’s vocal appreciation—has you escaping the throng just as Rudy squeezes in.
You find yourself backing away, stopping only when the starboard railing prevents further progress.
The sailors grow bold, some practically tipping over the railing to whoop and gesticulate at the women below. It’s like liquor had mounted into their heads, each man shouting in rude and intricate detail and reaching down in a bid to pull the women aboard.
It’s not as if you have no knowledge of prostitutes, nor are you some innocent who is clueless of men and the world. It’s not as if their abuse is directed at you, and yet… You feel exposed. Deeply, uneasily aware of yourself.
From this distance (a meager boundary), Captain Price and Ghost loom over everyone from the foredeck, looking every bit the master and first mate.
Ghost aids Rudy in directing the apprentices and other officers. Soon, mounds of speckled eggs, meats, fish, and vegetables and fruits of all shapes and colors are hauled up over the side, carried above the fray and into the galley. Sufficient to refill the ship’s stores for the last leg of the journey.
The captain keeps watch over the men like a hawk. To your great relief, he holds himself aloof, and though he does not keep the men from howling, neither does he allow the women aboard. In fact, any particularly unruly crewman is leveled with a glare so withering it seems to douse what ignites in their loins.
In short order, with stores full, the crew are marched reluctantly back to their posts to take the Cutty full-sail into the Java Sea.
++++
You look on enviously as the officers and apprentices dig in to their dinner with gusto. There’s tender fish, green vegetables, and even some kind of pudding for afters—nothing salted or pickled for the first time in weeks. Rudy’s outdone himself, and you count down the minutes until you can retire to eat your own meal with him.
“What’s the harm in letting the women on, sir? Would keep the crew in high spirits,” George asks slyly, “myself included.”
“Cannae say I’d complain neither. We can even return ‘em on our way back!” Timothy chimes in, mouth still half-full of food.
“Women are bad luck on ships. My grandfather-” Henry starts, his protests quickly drowned out by the other apprentices.
You bite the inside of your cheek to trap the retort behind your teeth. Ordinarily at dinner, you can let your mind drift while serving the officers and apprentices, but the commotion at Anjer clearly remained top of mind for everyone, even despite the fresh victuals.
“What if you didn’t know a woman was aboard?”
You stumble on your way around the table, brandy coming dangerously close to sloshing out and all over Soap.
“Come off it, George,” Henry scoffs, “there’s no chance. She’d be found out straight away.”
“Aye, we’d be short on rations, for one.”
Timothy’s jest draws some laughs and meaningful glances at you.
Your grip tightens on the neck of the decanter.
The officers and apprentices rarely notice you at mealtimes, having become habituated to your attendance. (One of few moments you feel truly free from unrelenting scrutiny nowadays.) It’s only times like these when someone acknowledges your presence tableside. For once, you’re happy to be the butt of the joke if it means an end to this conversation, but it seems you’re not so lucky.
“Well, what if- she could be disguised as a man!”
The room is thrown into uproar. Are ye daft George…wouldnae have the cokum…she’d be topped for certain—the din muted as if your ears were stuffed with wool. The only sound you can hear is your own thundering heartbeat.
Do they know? Surely not. Your eyes dart around the room, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Is anyone looking at you? Is Ghost looking at you? You have to calm down, tamp down the bile that rises in your throat, wrangle your tumultuous thoughts, relax your expression, breathe-
“Harris. Harris- Jack what are you-?”
All eyes snap to you, and down, to where the brandy you’re pouring into Alejandro’s cup has overflowed- overflowing still. You quickly jerk your hand back with a horrified curse and profuse apologies.
“I’ll go- I’ll clean this up.”
Dashing on to the main deck, you pause for a few shaky breaths. A hush falls again when you return to the dining room with a clean cloth, skirting meekly past Ghost on his way out to oversee the overnight crew.
Humiliation rolls off you in waves. You don’t dare look up to see anyone’s expression, focusing instead on cleaning your mess.
Mercifully, Alejandro breaks the silence.
“It is perhaps not as unusual as you may think. Did you not hear of James Barry?”
The attention in the room shifts toward the man beside you.
“Who?”
“James Barry, born Margaret Anne Bulkley. A celebrated surgeon in the British Army until he passed, que en paz descanse.”
“Surely not, sir!”
“And yet, it is true. I am surprised you do not know him. He was an Inspector General in your own empire.”
“But- nobody found out? She’d grow no beard!”
“Some men don’t,” Ale laughs.
You assume he’s referring to you, and resist the urge to draw more attention to it by touching your chin. Your lack of beard is a frequent subject of jests amongst the crew. Good-natured though it is, it’s something of a sore point.
“Perhaps she could disguise her appearance like Miss Bulkley did, but a woman would never be able to endure a life at sea!" Henry insists.
“That so?” Gaz says cackling, “tell that to Mary Read or Anne Bonny or Akew or the slew of women pirates!”
“What motive would any woman have for such a deception?”
“She’d be punished if she were found, I reckon.”
“Maybe the man she’s set to marry is stinkin’.”
“Naw, she’d be lookin’ for adventure on the high seas! I know I couldnae sit still as a lad,” Soap declares.
“Still can’t,” Gaz mutters.
You bring Alejandro a new cup of brandy once the spill is fully cleaned. Your gaffe seemingly already forgotten, nobody pays you any mind as you move about the dining room apprehensively, clearing plates and refilling beverages. You steal a glance at Captain Price while topping up his cup, and find him staring off, deep in thought.
It’s common for the captain to remain silent during meals, preoccupied with one or another of the constant decisions he must make to keep the Cutty along her course. Tonight, that disinterest may be your saving grace.
With no desire to loiter about any longer, you briskly take your leave for the night.
Just your luck, though, to be waylaid by none other than Thomas Nichols on your way to dinner with Rudy.
“Smells bloody good, eh Harris?”
“Can’t come up with anything new?” you retort.
At least he’s by himself tonight, wafting a bowl of food under your nose, repeating the same taunt you’ve heard half a dozen times now.
You try your best to avoid them, but he and his cronies, Nathan and Mort, take every opportunity to antagonize you behind the officers’ backs, knocking food out of your hands, pushing or tripping you, even faking injury. You’ve been reprimanded many times at this point, and it’s clear that Ghost and the captain are close to fed-up.
“Careful, or the old man might find out you haven’t stopped stealing,” he crows, flashing a palmful of raisins at you before stuffing them past his yellowed teeth. Turns out, your suspicions about him were entirely justified. Fat lot of good that knowledge does you, though.
He chews with exaggerated gusto, delighting in your visible frustration. How does he steal the raisins? When does he even find the opportunity in the first place? You still haven’t figured it out.
It seems he can be clever. On occasion.
“Thieving git.”
“What’d you say?” he snarls, lumbering toward you, puffed up to his full—not inconsiderable—height.
“Problem ‘ere?”
You’re both startled by the sudden appearance of Ghost from around the corner. He keeps living up to his moniker—silent as the grave, and twice as terrifying.
“No sir,” Thomas answers instantly.
“Tha’ righ’ Harris?”
Both of them turn, casting a threatening eye at you, though for different reasons. You wrestle with whether to tell the truth or not. You have to tell someone about Thomas at least, but without evidence… Ghost will doubtlessly think you’re lying, or trying to cast the blame on someone else for your failures.
“Ghost! Ye numpty, ye havnae-” Soap barrels out from the officers’ cabins, halting abruptly at the tense standoff between the three of you. “Wait, what’s happenin’?
In a moment of resolve, you decide to go the route of denial. For now. At least until you can gather enough evidence to actually put this to rest.
“Nothing, sir,” you say to Soap, and to Ghost you finally answer, “there’s no problem, sir.”
“Aye, well then,” Soap brightens, “Ghost, ye comin’?”
Ghost squints dubiously at you and Thomas, clearly loathe to abandon his interrogation, but Soap’s coaxing eventually wears him down. You scamper off as soon as you’re dismissed.
++++
May 16—Noon, West Hook bore east 2 miles. Winds, variable, faint airs and squalls. At daylight found ship inside of Six Islands. Must have been strong easterly current. Numerous coral shoals. Wylo and Thyatira in same position.
17—Lat. 1° 39’ S., long. 107° 18’ E. Winds, variable, faint airs and hot sultry weather. Nine vessels in company. Signalled barque Crested Wave, Cardiff to Shanghai, 108 days.
18—Lat 0° 2’N., long. 106° 58’E. Course N. 8°W. Distance 104 miles. Winds, variable and south, faint airs, calms and hot sultry weather. Signalled ship Fiery Cross, London to Hongkong. (Cutty Sark had made 10 days on the Fiery Cross.) Noon, St. Barbe Island E. By N. 3/4°N., 16 miles.
The tropical airs do you no favors.
No matter the hour, torrential downpour or blazing sun, it feels like being engulfed by the fierce breath of a hot oven.
What’s worse, it’s a Herculean effort to keep your head down both literally and figuratively when most everyone roams around maddeningly bare-chested.
Like a magnet, every time he’s on deck, you feel him pulling at your awareness. By the dozenth time, you must finally concede that he is…appealing.
Neither your punishments nor his cruelties in Crimea have been forgotten, but there’s little harm in a well-kept attraction, so long as your gaze doesn’t linger overlong. A friendly appreciation and nothing more, much like you’ve come to appreciate the mellow tones of Gaz’s voice, Soap’s exuberance, or Ale’s lopsided grin.
(Everyone needs their little vices to help endure the hot latitudes.)
Surely many people would feel the same. He’s the veritable archetype of a mariner: hat perched in a spirited manner atop his head; perspiration plastering the dense hair to his body; arms like the trunks of the young palms ashore; silvered scars embossing his skin, gleaming over a mosaic of bronzes—lighter on his face and chest, darker on his forearms, and darkest yet on his hands.
The most infuriating days are the ones where it’s marginally cooler, when he wears his shirt unbuttoned, hairy chest peeking out coyly, a coppered beacon that draws your notice. Those nights you find yourself hardly able to sleep a wink.
You stomp down on the guilty affinity with the women at Anjer, who had eyed the men with intention, and the more shameful camaraderie that binds you to the men and their vulgar notions.
You’re no better than any of them.
Worse, you’re a hypocrite.
++++
The Cutty mostly stayed with light airs, but with Samisana Island in sight, the wind came strong from the northeast, bearing down with a fresh head gale.
A cheer goes up when the topmen sight the north end of Formosa. Opposite the strait is Foochow, where the Wylo is docking for her cargo of tea. You carry on still further north.
By the time you next awaken for dawn watch, the Cutty has arrived at the mouth of the Yangtze. Gaz draws your attention to the sea here, where the waters are the tint of pea soup. “On account of the mud flowing out from the Yangtze,” he explains, and you recall the name Yellow Sea from the captain’s maps.
The buzz of excitement among everyone on board is palpable, and looking toward the seemingly-endless expanse of land before you, you cannot help but feel an upwelling of combined excitement and fear.
At long last, you’ve arrived. After months at sea, in mere hours, you’ll finally take your first step into Shanghai—a place you’ve only read about in the newspapers. What will it be like?
Historical notes:
Bum boats are small boats that approach large ships to sell goods (and often prostitutes).
Thank you to ao3 user lilitrania for pointing me toward James Barry! It was such fun to read about him and include him in this chapter. In reality, I’m not sure how many of these characters would have actually known this at the time since James Barry passed in 1865 shortly before this fic is set, and while some people who knew him claimed they knew he was not a man, other people said they saw no evidence of that. BUT. It was too cool not to include here!
Literally everyone has facial hair, idk what to tell these dumb little apprentices. Maybe they will learn!
Mary Read and Anne Bonny were notorious English pirates from the early 1700s. They served under John Rackham attacking merchant ships in the Caribbean. Ng Akew (known under a bunch of other names as well) was a woman from Canton (now romanized as Guangdong) sold to an American opium captain in 1842 and conducted her own successful opium trading business.
The selections from the ship’s log are taken almost verbatim from the actual ship’s log of the Cutty Sark. (If you plug the latitudes and longitudes into Google Maps, you’ll see exactly where they are at that moment, just make sure to add -/+ properly for the hemispheres. This is !extremely! exciting to me!)
Historical locations (many of the locations named in this chapter were under colonial control at the time, Dutch mostly, and therefore are known by Dutch and English names to our characters):
Anjer = now Anyar, Indonesia. In 1883 (not long after this fic is set!), it was destroyed by a tsunami caused by the eruption of Krakatoa. It has since been rebuilt.
Prince’s Island = now Panaitan, Indonesia
St. Barbe Island = now Pengiki Besar Island, Indonesia
Formosa = Portuguese-given name of Taiwan (Ilha Formosa), though in the late-1800s it was being contested between the Qing dynasty and Japanese empire
Foochow = now officially romanized as Fuzhou
Arthur if he was older or something, tho I feel like he doesn't look as old as I meant to make him, and them expression lines and whatnot kinda disappeared after I put the posterise effect so MEHHHHHH
I've been kinda "obsessed" drawing older guys. I feel like my brain skipped all of the 20s and all of the 30s and 40s all the way to the 50s and now I just want the slowest of lives and the simplest of things.
I already got the bloody chronic pain, I might as I well just embrace the old man that lives inside me and get myself an old TV set to watch me stupid football games while I pet my lazy dogs. Which is what I do partially when I'm not freaking out about everything else I have to do.
Anyway we're back at it, I'm obsessed with art againnnnnnnn lessssgoooooo
Synopsis: With your father unjustly imprisoned, you are forced to find a way to make bail, and fast. Disguising yourself as a ship’s steward seemed like the perfect plan until the captain begins to get suspicious.
Series tags & warnings (will update as series progresses): secret identity, 1800s British Empire, maritime bullshit, you’re Mulan-ing it in the 19th century so expect some depictions of misogyny and racism, 60% actual history and 70% made up shit, flogging, wounds and wound care, eventual violence/smut/angst
Notes: This series is a labor of love, both of one Captain John Price, and of doing way too much research. You'll find historical notes at the end of each chapter.
restarted my bg3 run from a few years back and i’m having a time :^) here’s my bard tav (ves) and he’s here for a fun time and to make everyone he meets join his whimsy band
Been terrorized off and on by my last updated date for Under false colors, but today I finally finished drafting the next chapter!!!!!! LET'S ALL CLAP AND CHEER
