don't care much for the sea, while we're on the subject.

I DON'T WANT TO BE A PIRATE.

[ownmyth]

i'm walking backward into my own myth. i was trying to walk out.

'LONG JOHN SILVER'  of  BLACK  SAILS  by  DRU.  private.  selective.  mutuals  only. doc here.

not spoiler free.

[deliverthem]

there's a knock of metal against wood that you take great care not to turn towards. instead, you return to your desk, stand where silver had been before his leg gave out. at the angle he'd been at, even you struggle to orient to reading your maps. you wonder how long he had been listening to you, if at all, and how much of the day had been spent trying to stay upright. he still feels the need to play soldier, to stand at attention at your desk. you shake your head, slipping into a frown with ease. he crew thinks him incapable of wrongdoing. you have let him get away with far more insolence than any other member of your crew. why does he still feel the need to put on an act?

distrust is an awful foundation to a partnership. the water was poisoned by gates' distrust of you. it's what makes your men act against themselves by turning against you. harboring resentment against your quartermaster is choosing to play a game with a losing hand. still, you know there is more to the story he concocted for you. misplaced trust is what got miranda killed. it's what allowed your life in london to be torn apart. you know silver is playing you and you cannot afford to forget that.

this time, you let yourself look in his direction, deathly curious to find out what face he's put on. as always, he is doing the exact opposite of what you anticipate. you'd expected him to fully lay down, but you suppose you aren't surprised by his need to maintain composure, even after being bullied into your sheets. you'd expected to turn and meet his eye. it seems that whenever you look to him, he's already looking at you. this time though, silver's eyes are closed. gratitude looks painful spread across his skin. it looks like exhaustion and starvation and sunstroke. you momentarily find it impossible to tear your eyes away from the sight of silver in your bed, his hair swept out of his face, his skin pale. you can't remember if you've ever been thanked for barking out orders. you can't remember the last time you'd told ordered someone to do something because you cared for their health.

anything you say would only be another excuse for silver to keep himself awake, so you make a noncommittal noise and continue about your day. you hobble to the other side of the desk and breathe out hard when you fall into your chair. getting silver to your bed took more energy than you should've expelled. you use two fingers to prop your forehead up, your arm hiding him from your periphery as you slump over your desk. everything in you wants to keep looking back towards silver. everything in you could use a drink.

your hand hovers over a divider, intent on going back to taking measurements, but your focus is shot. without silvers constant interjections and endless questioning, you could put your mind to plotting the course for when the wind does return. there are so many plans to make, problems to anticipate. yet, you find yourself drifting back to the dry rasp of silver's breath so close to your ear. the phantom of his weight stays pressed against you. you can still hear him breathing across the room. the warmth of your cabin in the afternoon is like a blanket. time feels slowed, as thick as honey. there is no sound in the room except your slow inhales, silver's exhales. your eyes slip closed.

[ownmyth]

you wake to an unfamiliar sight — unfamiliar from this angle, at least. once you realize you’re in flint’s bed, you allow yourself to relax where uncertainty had made you tense. your starved-skinny arms ache, thin muscle taut from where you’d reflexively clenched your fists tight. your neck aches, too, from sleeping seated upright. your leg —

it’s twice now you’ve awoke in his quarters, disoriented. thinking about the first time, after charles town, makes your jaw tighten. of flint haloed in the light, his sharp edges made almost soft in your eyes (an after-effect of the opium, you assume).

if you’d kept your share of the urca gold, you’d be gone by now. free. you certainly wouldn’t be waking up here again.

shadows slant over the opposite wall of the cabin. how long had you slept? how long had he?

with his eyes closed, captain flint almost looks human. sleep gentles his features, giving a different face to the man you know. like looking through a piece of sea glass, slightly distorted. mrs. barlow had given flint a similar semblance of — what? humanity? — when you’d seen them standing side by side. you would have assumed, had you put thought to it before now, that the capacity for any such illusions in him had died with her.

his chest rises and falls, subtly hypnotic. you find yourself watching — tilting your head, even, to observe and you’re punished with needle sharp pains through your stiff neck and shoulders. the pain brings you back to yourself.

you need to leave. preferably before he wakes up.

the iron leg is on the floor where you left it, rolled out of arms-length. you strain to reach for it and fire lances down the fucking stump, so sharp and sudden that it halts your progress, makes you curse aloud.

too loud. you’d needed to work twice as hard, ten times, to re-master yourself after the injury, and still not enough. you shift on the cot and try again, desperately stretching your fingers as far as they'll go for the damned thing.

[ownmyth]

@deliverthem: sender teaches receiver self-defense, hands firm on their hips as they adjust their stance.

flint's rough-hewn hands are warm where they steady your waist. flesh, not sainted marble. this isn't the first time his hands have been on you. it feels like the first, though. perhaps it's the first time he's touched you without violence: no knife to your throat against the wrecks; or without necessity, allowing you to lean on him as the crew was taken to the maroon camp. he doesn't say anything now. almost -- pauses, as if waiting for something.

for what? perhaps he expects you to anger at his touch; at whatever assumption you think he might make about the capabilities of a one-legged man. you half-expect it of yourself, but to your surprise it is easy to stay your tongue. here on this cliff, you find yourself not wishing to hurt this squirming, exposed, newborn thing between you both that has not yet seen daylight.

trust me. how many times have you said this to him? is this -- flint's grip on your waist, flint's sword in your hand -- is this him asking for the same sort of trust? and if so, how can you do anything but acquiesce?

after his story, that night when you'd buried the cache, you'd thought nothing about flint could surprise you any longer. and again, he proves you wrong. (you cannot allow yourself to think on the carefulness of his coarse sailor's hands against the jut of your hipbones).

there is a strange newness to allowing his hands on you in this way; to allowing the idea that were you to fall, there'd be a chance he'd catch you before you hit the ground. it is terrifying, in its nascent infancy. you aim for a joke.

"what do you think, captain? are my ballroom-dancing days behind me?"

[tuckahue]

it has made me  t r a n s p a r e n t  to you

[ownmyth]

@deliverthem: [ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.

the two of you are tucked away from the brilliant streetlights of an american city that had been in its infancy, if that, when you were born. it's still the nineties -- you think. the new millennium.

centuries ago, you'd have feared this closeness. feared it with him. not so ago, you'd buried him in an unmarked grave to cheat death. your death, madi's death. christ. you'd succeeded at one of those goals, but not in the way you'd intended.

he mouths at your bottom lip, nipping hard enough to break skin, spill the stolen blood that floods your veins between your mouths. YOU'LL RUIN ME, he says. haven't you already? haven't you both ruined each other beyond repair, lifetimes ago? like paint on a ruined canvas, or rot on a wound. there's no separating you now.

this time, you're the one sealing flint's gesture of devotion with an open mouthed kiss, taking his jaw in your hand to keep him tilted toward you. you hook the first two fingers of your other hand into the waist of his trousers, pulling him forward. he tastes of blood. he tastes familiar.

when you pull away from him, you smile, mean and in dripping red. you pat his cheek once -- a strike in slow motion. "i missed you too, baby."

[deliverthem]

silver pulls you closer, hips first, and you go willingly, pressing into his messy kiss like you’re starved for it. violent whims lick at you: you want to bite and nip across the length of his skin, worm your tongue in before the wounds can heal, take the pieces of him he won’t freely give. instead, you settle for weighing silver’s blood on your tongue, savoring, remembering.

there are times you can almost imagine you’ve forgotten him, finally let him slide into the recesses of your memory like blood sliding against your palate. silver has a preternatural sense for when he’s slipped from your mind— always showing up just when you’ve stopped looking for him in every room. you hate him a little more every day, bitterness always growing right alongside that endless affection you harbor for him. comorbidities.

"you’ve looked better," you lie as he breaks the kiss, already getting your hand around the leather swathed scruff of his neck. in the black of night, his eyes are unnaturally shining and his mouth is blood drenched. your monstrous creation, still every bit the conniving swashbuckler of nassau legend. he smells of leather and cologne. you can’t tell if it’s the expensive sort or the shitty bottles bought in gas stations. he wears it well all the same.

there’s a predictability to this, to the two of you, easily anticipated like a well-crafted song. you’ll crash together, meld to one another’s side, and slowly suffocate under the weight of it all. then, you’ll pull apart for air, for months or years or decades, until one of you craves it all over again. history repeating. he is forever burying you, you forever damning him.

"what do you want now?" your voice exasperated, accusatory, even as you dig your fingernails lovingly into his nape. what is it this time? does he need new falsified passports? gotten bored with the latest scheme? run out of money? you wish you could really make out the color of his eyes, the first shock of sky after you’d crawled out of your own grave. "my coffers are already empty."

[ownmyth]

it’s fun, watching him play at irritation. shrugging it on like an old costume that no longer fits; those weeks in the belly of a creaking ship while you struggled to cook and tried your best to prove yourself worth notice. worth keeping alive. you’d seen his fangs bare, his monstrous nature, and your first thought had been, i can use this.

he told you once on a cliff-top that to know a man’s past is to know his future. in that case, he is your past, more than anything else: life and death and agonizing resurrection at his hands. (and flint said, let there be light. and there was light.)

and what does that say about your future, except that it will always be tied to flint’s, he an anchor round your neck, you a noose round his? centuries have passed; those rocky cliffs could be sand now for all you know. and the only person who’s come close to seeing the raw abomination of your soul in all its horror, the only one that ever will, is him.

it would be so much fucking easier if you hated him. you couldn’t: not when you realized his war would get madi killed, not when he betrayed you to hide the cache. the closest you’d ever got to hating him was after you thought you’d killed him, digging a shallow grave in damp soil, shaking with exhaustion and fury and grief that he’d made you do this.

you certainly hadn’t thought he’d claw his way back out.

“i don’t need your money,” you scoff. resist the pull of curiosity: what has he been doing these long years, without you, without a crew, without nassau? you mean to tell him you’re doing quite well for yourself, actually. you say instead, “i dined on a stock broker a little while ago. he had the most striking head of hair, i’m remembering.”

you hadn’t chosen your victim for that reason, of course. a base and childish notion. but your eyes track flint’s face, those coordinates you’d learned to read so well once, even if you aren’t sure what reaction you’re hoping for or why. “not the exact same color as yours, of course, but in the right light…”

not so long ago, you’d hurt this poor broker in all the myriad ways you’d wanted to hurt flint. you’d drawn out his death by days, gained little satisfaction from the encounter beside the usual, and felt vaguely disgusted with yourself afterwards. a fucking waste of time.

your smile is all mixed signals, warning and welcome. his hand tangles possessively in the hair at the nape of your neck. you want to push him away. you want to force him closer. you settle for, “where are you sequestering yourself these days?” if he means to relegate you to playing the persistent fly buzzing at his ear, you’ll contort yourself into the appropriate shape. least you can do, really. “tell me you’ve at least managed to obtain a mattress.”

[ownmyth]

the way he snarls, invades your space, should make you cower. or at least find a semi-graceful way to slip back from that poisonous stare. these are the instincts that have kept you alive. instead, satisfaction rolls through you, accompanied by a strange feeling not unlike the way you felt watching flint bludgeon a man to death with his bare hands. maybe it is a natural response at this tenuous thread of power you seem to hold over him at the moment, your knowledge of his true nature. or maybe it is merely the dangerous allure of curiosity. either way, you know too well the risks of finding yourself too comfortable, too confident in your upper hand.

flint weighs and skins you with his stare, and your nervous smile is a reflex action, one that spills fresh blood in your mouth. you lick your lips again. you've seen him covered in blood so many times; very little justifies your confidence that a mere split lip will tempt him in the way you fear (hope?). then again, perhaps it is merely a matter of control. when there is blood in the water, sharks are not discerning. you are beginning to realize that flint is a man constantly at war with his savage hungers. but what kind of man has that sort of willpower? what kind of man has that inhuman a drive?

you've never seen the captain at a loss for words before. this is the closest he's come to it, right now, right here, and you watch the rage kindle in his eyes as banking coals. for some reason it makes you want to draw near, a child huddling by a candle flame, and you think of the tales you've heard on the ship of sirens and their beguiling songs, meant to enchant the minds of sailors until they run themselves aground. you'd chosen flint's side over the crew's more than once now, and each time because the rational thinking showed that he was the agent who would most likely lead you to an outcome where you got your share of the gold, enough to walk away. but now you wonder if this -- something, these unnatural urges that seem to haunt your mind when he is near, hasn't affected your rational thinking as well.

some lesser cousin of fear races lightning down your spine, and you've always been susceptible to the thrill of an opportunity. "i wouldn't say scrutiny, captain," you keep your tone light, soothing, genial. the tone you'd used just earlier today in an attempt to dissuade a beating. "it's merely a part of my job, making sure the men are happy..." and now you drop your gaze to his mouth, deliberate. "and well-fed."

it isn't that you think he'll entertain your offer. certainly not today. but he needs to get used to the idea that he can depend upon you, to keep his secret, to have his counsel. if all it takes in the bargain is some of your blood at some point in the future, that's hardly a bad deal, all things considered. you'll need to prove yourself -- you're more than the ship's cook, more than just another one of the men, his pawns -- once he takes his position back from dufresne. (unbidden, you wonder: will he use his wit and rhetoric to appeal to the crew, to reclaim his place, or will he smash dufresne's head in like he'd done the other man, singleton? you picture flint in an animal frenzy, tearing into the arrogant mutineer's throat with those needle teeth you'd seen so briefly, and that -- that feeling bubbles up in you again.)

[deliverthem]

he smiles and the urge to strike him increases tenfold. you taste it in the air, the familiar tang. saliva builds in your mouth. if silver would just stop smiling, stretching out the thin skin, he would stop bleeding. he won’t, though, and you suspect he can’t. silver chases after information in the way desperate men chase after a drink—- senselessly, at great personal expense —- and you’ve seen that smile gain him access to libraries worth of private information. as he tries to show you the rounded, blunt ends of his teeth, you find it fitting that his own blood is staining that grin pink. still, he smells of salt and meat and iron. senselessly, you hunger.

it’s a comfort to know you could have your way with him. crash his skull against the deck and lap at what leaks out, rip your teeth into the skin of his neck and drain him dry. it would take so little effort from you. he wouldn’t have the time to react. the crew would be helpless to stop the rampage, the carnage. you could take them all on, you’d likely win.

instead, your mouth curls at his insinuation, throat working to swallow. he cannot be so stupid as to think that hunger is a trite matter to you. no. this is more brazen puppeteering from silver. he’s pulling at loose threads to see what within you unravels. he means to make your nature a bargaining point, a weakness upon which to be negotiated. he has conjured you into an animal, a creature of base instinct and violent whim. an animal is easy to herd, easier to understand. rational thinking, reason— that is a much more difficult thing to anticipate.

if you are to be something less than human, then so be it. but you are no animal. you will never again be reduced to merely a foot soldier and you certainly will not be maneuvered by the likes of silver. there is no longer anyone that can mold you into anything else than the shape you are making yourself. you take a step backwards and fold your arms over your chest. you needn’t speak, your face conveys your displeasure without your tongue getting involved.

silver looks at you like there’s a prize to be taken, if he can only crack through your defenses. all across the globe men seek to move against you: on nassau, on english shores, on this very deck. silver is distracting you from what matters. a beach full of spanish soldiers, gleaming coins laying on pale sands. good practice says the majority of the soldiers will stay back to protect the gold. a small company seeking reinforcements will already be underway. these are the important things, this is where your head should be. how your men — fickle bastards that they are— can think of anything else but the urca gold is beyond you. hal gates had been so brilliant at illuminating the baffling thought processes of your riotous crew.

there are many more important things at stake than your own personal hunger. the tide of need recedes and you with it, head rearing back. your authority has been stripped from you. the whole of your chain of command has fallen apart. time and energy will have to be spent rounding up the mutinous lot of pirates who’ve conspired against you. you’ll have to commandeer your own bloody ship and your only aid will be silver, a man so slippery you can’t fathom putting any weight on him. he’s got too much against you already. this ego of his is a problem you haven’t figured out how to handle: stoke the flame or smother it? if it burns too bright, fire will catch. he’ll get the idea in his head that he means anything, anything beyond his current use. still, silver has an impressive knack for worming his way into situations he has no good reason to be in. he’s done this from under your nose. twice. if he can use that talent to help reinstate your captaincy, he may very well be worth the storm of a headache brewing behind your eyes. you appraise him slowly, carefully, with more levity than just seconds ago.

"just what is it that you think you’re doing, right now?"

[ownmyth]

something shifts behind the captain’s eyes, though you can’t determine why. you should be able to read him better by now; your life had depended on it, after all, before the mutiny. you find your eyes tracing the movement of his throat as he swallows.

someone like flint can be consumed with thoughts of blood and glory: you, on the other hand, have to be a bit more practical. surviving to the next day, the next opportunity. hunger is a bitch of a mistress, and you’ve known her well. know more than most the way that she can blur the delineation between man and beast.

still, the hint of suspicion in his tone, the appraisal in his gaze, it ruffles you somewhat. you want to shake him, a little. remind him that it was you who helped him after the death of mr. gates; you who lit the fuse to begin the fight for the urca; you who pulled him from the sea and then dove back in to help him take a spanish warship. this level of distrust, after all that, seems unwarranted.

“i merely intend to remind you that our interests are aligned,” you say, dropping the soothing tone for something a half-fragment more honest. “and as long as that is true, you have nothing to worry about from me. you know what it is i’m after. there’s no reason to believe that any recent…revelations…” gates dead on the floor of the cabin, flint baring lengthened canines in a monstrous, ungodly snarl, the cold and animal certainty down your spine in that moment that this could be the end of you, “would change anything between us.”

and then, because he hasn’t struck you yet, you sidle closer and lower your voice. “i’ve no idea how your — condition — is managed, captain. but should you request it, i’d find a way to be of service.” it hardly matters whether you believe your offer of help to be genuine: what matters is whether flint does. he must see you as an ally first, for you to take him in hand as you have begun to do with the crew.

that is what you are thinking of: your final prize, the urca gold and the freedom that comes with it. not of how flint’s canines would feel in your neck (venomous, like a viper’s bite? drug-like and paralyzing, like some spiders? or maybe only painful; ravaging flesh as would a feral hound). not of the way his eyes had tracked the crimson drying on your skin, or the moment when he had looked so wantonly hungry. you lick the blood off your own teeth. the abyss has called to you before, but never in so lovely a tune.

[ohisms]

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄    (a  series  of  nonverbal  prompts .   mature  themes  present ,   ‘ my ’  muse  belongs  to  the  one who  posted  the  meme  -  send   “ + REVERSE ”   to  reverse  the  prompts .)

→     𝐈 .    GENERAL

❛   hush .   raise  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse . ❛   sit .   gesture  for  my  muse  to  sit  down . ❛   door .   hold  a  door  open  for  my  muse . ❛   tap .   tap  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention . ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . ❛   cook .   present  my  muse  with  home - cooked  food . ❛   brush .   work  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   read .   silently  read  a  book  alongside  my  muse . ❛   hand .   hold  out  a  hand  for  my  muse  to  take . ❛   dressed .   help  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing . ❛   note .   give  my  muse  a  note  saying :   [ content ] . ❛   amplify .   turn  up  the  music  in  the  car .

→     𝐈𝐈 .    ANGST

❛   patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . ❛   night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . ❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. ❛   hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital . ❛   revelation .   show  my  muse  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope . ❛   downfall .   find  my  muse  collapsed  on  the  ground . ❛   console .   comfort  my  muse  as  they  cry . ❛   nurse .   give  my  muse  company  in  the  hospital .

→     𝐈𝐈𝐈 .    AFFECTIONATE

❛   wink .   wink  at  my  muse .  ❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] . ❛   caress .   gently  caress  my  muse’s  face . ❛   tousle .   mess  playfully  with  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   chest .   place  your  head  on  my  muse’s  chest .    ❛   comb .   comb  fingers  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   grasp .   run  to  my  muse  &  jump  into  their  arms . ❛   lean .   lean  on  my  muse’s  shoulder . ❛   tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ forehead  /  cheek  /  nose ] . ❛   abrupt .   kiss  my  muse  out  of  the  blue . ❛   chaste .   chastely  kiss  my  muse . ❛   good morning .   kiss  my  muse  the  morning  after . ❛   volumes .   gaze  at  my  muse  in  a  way  that  silently  says  ‘i love you’ .

→     𝐈𝐕  .    VIOLENT

❛   strike .   [ slap / punch ]  my muse in the face . ❛   gun .   wield  a  gun  at  my  muse . ❛   twist .   twist  my  muse’s  arm  behind  their  back . ❛   throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   parch .   burn  my  muse  with  a  hot  object . ❛   take down .   forcefully  bring  my  muse  to  the  ground . ❛   gouge .   wield  a  sharp  object  at  my  muse . ❛  shunt .   shove  my  muse  backwards . ❛  stickup .   yell  at  my  muse  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air. ❛  shoot .   [ fatally  /  non-fatally ]   shoot  my  muse . ❛  stab .   stab  my  muse with a  [ knife / other object ].

→     𝐕 .    NSFW

❛   surprise .   send  an  unexpected  nsfw  image  to  my  muse . ❛   pin .   push  my  muse  against  a  [ wall,  table,  other ] . ❛   go down .   go  down  on  my  muse . ❛   choke .   intimately  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   belt loops .   pull  my  muse  closer  by  their  belt loops . ❛   skinny dipping .   go  skinny  dipping  with  my  muse . ❛   rip .   tear  a  piece  of  clothing  from  my  muse’s  body . ❛   mark .   leave  a  mark  on  my  muse’s  body  [ specify where ] .

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 . ( a collection of dialogue prompts based on varying types of demands &. requests . adjust phrasing as necessary . this prompt WILL likely be updated in the future . )

don't say a word .

don't leave me here .

meet me at our spot tonight .

follow me and stay close .

don't beg , it's pathetic .

can you ( tie / zip ) this for me ?

stop lying to me . tell me what you did .

put that down , you don't know what it ( is / does ) .

get out of my sight .

stop pretending you know what's going on .

find a first-aid kit . quickly !

don't get yourself killed .

leave them to me , just go .

just admit that you love me .

just admit that you hate me .

come here , let me look at you .

( name ) , don't make me do this .

drop your ( weapon ) .

stay here and wait for my signal .

don't just sit there , move .

take this and run , don't let anyone have it .

pretend you're my ( partner / girlfriend / boyfriend ) .

don't look , you'll give us away .

don't say another word .

stop pretending like you care .

go make sure the coast is clear .

take this with you . it's a good luck charm .

don't tell anyone about this .

if anybody asks about today , lie .

stop looking at me like that .

tell me you love me .

just kiss me , already .

keep your eyes on the road .

stop crying and calm down .

come with me . there's so much we could do .

wear the ( dress / tie / item ) i gave you tonight .

show me how you like to be touched .

hold my hand .

kiss me , make it look real .

look at me . how many fingers am i holding up ?

will you marry me ?

just slow down for a minute . what's going on ?

take a deep breath , you need to calm down .

get out of here , ( name ) !

draw your weapon .

go rest . i'm not asking .

take a step back .

give me a straight answer .

be polite to our guests .

look me in the eye and say that again .

put your feelings aside for a moment .

keep close to me .

here , let me see that .

look up at the sky .

get out of here , i don't want to see you right now .

stand up , this isn't over yet .

close your eyes and count to ten .

smile for the camera !

keep your head down .

( name ) , let me past .

listen carefully to what i'm about to say .

don't just stare , come in .

stop laughing , this isn't funny .

take this and hide it .

don't make a sound .

put your hands up .

quit causing problems everywhere you go .

just admit that you don't know what you're doing .

stop right there , i mean it .

don't say that name aloud .

just trust me , okay ?

stop acting so childish .

call the police . now .

tell me you love me , even if it's not real .

take a good hard look .

stop the car , ( name ) .

don't make eye contact .

stay out of trouble .

just do it already , we've waited long enough .

hold me tight , and never let me go .

finish what you started .

tell me what you know .

just stay away from me .

turn around . slowly .

don't be scared .

put it down before somebody gets hurt .

stop pretending , i'm tired of the pretending .

grab me my ( item ) , will you ?

don't make assumptions .

put this over it to stop the bleeding .

get to safety !

wipe that look off your face .

secure the area .

keep an eye on them .

look at yourself in the mirror .

run . run and don't stop .

eat . you haven't touched your food in days .

[notmorbid]

ghosts.

dialogue prompts from ghosts: edith wharton's gothic tales.

i shall never leave.

no one is allowed to visit the house.

death is everywhere, isn't it?

you never did have your wits about you.

i'm not as old as you might suppose.

i'd like to settle down somewhere in the country.

so you decided on the _____, after all.

where does that door go to, behind the curtain?

there are a great many things in old houses that nobody knows about.

if we wait long enough, someone will turn up.

this whole place is a tomb.

i almost envy your fate.

there's no harm in giving people a little encouragement when they need it.

no matter what happens, i've got to risk my punishment.

as long as i've never repented, there's no use telling a priest, is there?

a sin unrevealed is a sin uncommitted.

there's nothing too good for you, in my opinion.

when you try to help too many people at once, the devil sometimes takes note of it.

there's quotas nowadays for everything, doing good included.

tell me, and it will help you.

i've always had a way of seeing things.

all i ask is to be left alone.

money's an armor, and there's few cracks in it.

some things don't have to be told.

it's the sorrowing that's made me old before my time.

your room's as cold as death.

i was mad ever to doubt you.

how did you manage to get it?

you must tell me how i can repay you.

there's a side of ____ you don't see.

you know how i hate to be uncomfortable.

i need to restore my faith in human nature.

i've never felt more normal.

i really believed there was a chance for ____.

you are too beautifully brave.

i think you'd better not be an ass.

what's the matter? why don't you answer?

a quiet place ought to be the very thing for you.

if you go careful, you'll be alright.

aren't you afraid of feeling lonely?

it makes me sick, what ladies must endure and hold their tongues about.

i was never quite easy in my mind.

i don't mind the country.

come out and let me see you. don't just stand there and lurk.

some dreadful thing hangs over you.

[deliverthem]

silver’s voice is pitchy, rocky, the gasp of it crawling down your spine. beneath your hands, the man comes apart, his lips fall open and his body shudders and he’s making a mess. on you, at your behest. you keen, a heaving, desperate thing, at silver’s efficiency in following your orders, even now, even while you’re pious on your knees. through heavy eyes you watch him, fascinated, reverent as he battles his way through the haze of pleasure. in the extreme light of your cabin, silver is vivid and contrasting, the black of his hair swirling against the pink of his forehead, otherworldly and tantalizingly human. a caravaggio, in the flesh.

he can’t stay silent long enough to catch his breath, nor to let you catch yours. you tongue over your bottom lip, slow, assessing. hunching over him is doing a number on your spine. you extricate the hand that had been wrapped around him and let the other slide from his hip to his knee. thoughtlessly, your thumb glides over the hair at your chin to your lips, slipping into your mouth to taste at his spend.

you unfold from him, the movement straining the fabric at your hips, pressure on your cock making you want to jerk forward. it’s a moment of cyclical need, push-pull, ouroboros. you bite it off at the head, press the hand still shining with spit into your groin. there: easy, maddening pressure, like staunching a wound. your jaw sings from good use, your head swims like you’ve had to much to drink.

"in her majesty’s service." you say, because it is truth enough, because you think it will punch a laugh out of silver and you find you like the way his breath hitches when you knock him off his rhythm. silver is looking at you like you’re insurmountable, a myth, a tale to unravel, instead of the obstinate and aging iconoclast you are. here, you want him to know you as james flint, the man, not legend. it’s a vapid, fleeting thought- to want to be unmade and glimpsed at. you work through it, rationalize it away. there is so little of you silver hasn’t already experienced first hand.

you squeeze around his knee, your own creaking as you shift upwards. you cast long shadows across his torso as you move, drawn to the vibrant red of his lips like sailors of legend are drawn to siren songs.

"thought that’d finally shut you up." it’s a wonder you can see any of him, with how lidded your eyes are, but you’re sidling closer and closer, a hairsbreadth from kissing silver. you want to press against him, slip beneath his tongue, show him how you taste of his spend. find out if he tastes foreign or if he just tastes like you, intrinsically, as though the two of you were once cut from the same cloth. the seat of chair and your crotch are at just the right angle and again, there’s that consuming pressure that makes you want to rut your hips like a wild animal. instead, you blink, eyebrows twitching, following the instinct to seek out that striking, haunting blue. you finger at one of his curls without looking at it, gently working the coil around your index. "though, i suppose, a man has to be wrong every once in awhile."

[ownmyth]

your heartbeat hasn't yet slowed, so it takes a moment longer for you to register flint's words. in her majesty's service. you exhale sharply, a huff of amusement. "right." was that a joke? you aren't sure which unnerves you more in this moment: your captain considering you a close enough ally to make a joke or the farfetched idea that he's telling the truth. (you shouldn't be bothered by this. isn't this what you wanted? his ear, his trust his aid in achieving your goals? and now you have it in your grasp, and all that bothers you is that his trust was willingly given instead of stolen?)

instead of returning to himself -- the version of him that you're familiar with, the stoic captain of legend, the terror of the west indies -- flint shifts closer to you. a foreign temptation, a convincing illusion of intimacy for the less discerning. his stare seems, in the moment, to render you transparent, and you find yourself struggling not to squirm, rendered down to a fish on a line in those eyes.

you search for the magic words to end this thing that stretches before you, a terrifying array of possibilities. you find yourself looking at flint's salt-chapped mouth (he's so close, too close, it's not your fault, how could you look at anything else --) and your pulse hammers in your throat like cannon fire.

instead, you rasp, "are you going to kiss me, captain?" and don't know why you've said it. your mouth is dry, your face surely still flushed from orgasm. you aren't sure what intonation you meant for it: mocking, teasing, something, anything to indicate a jest. but your silver tongue falters, and in its place something uncomfortably sincere crawls from your lips. something near-wanton. damn him. damn you both. (you don't remember the last time you were -- kissed. never by a man, surely, and never in circumstances such as these, where every move and gesture is another pawn placed on an incomprehensible chessboard.)

you feel the faintest tug as he gently twists your curl round his finger, and you want to know what it would feel like were he trying to hurt, to take a fistful of your hair and truly pull. it's a momentary insanity, for an insane moment in time. it must flash across your face, the disgusting weakness of it all, and still, he doesn't look away. he won't. you'd craved and feared his attention in equal measure, since he'd smiled meanly at you across eleanor guthrie's desk (we might be friends by then, you'd said) or before that, since he'd held a knife to your throat and demanded the schedule you'd burned. well, you have his focus now. you're near-drowning in it.

[ownmyth]

@deliverthem: [ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.

the two of you are tucked away from the brilliant streetlights of an american city that had been in its infancy, if that, when you were born. it's still the nineties -- you think. the new millennium.

centuries ago, you'd have feared this closeness. feared it with him. not so ago, you'd buried him in an unmarked grave to cheat death. your death, madi's death. christ. you'd succeeded at one of those goals, but not in the way you'd intended.

he mouths at your bottom lip, nipping hard enough to break skin, spill the stolen blood that floods your veins between your mouths. YOU'LL RUIN ME, he says. haven't you already? haven't you both ruined each other beyond repair, lifetimes ago? like paint on a ruined canvas, or rot on a wound. there's no separating you now.

this time, you're the one sealing flint's gesture of devotion with an open mouthed kiss, taking his jaw in your hand to keep him tilted toward you. you hook the first two fingers of your other hand into the waist of his trousers, pulling him forward. he tastes of blood. he tastes familiar.

when you pull away from him, you smile, mean and in dripping red. you pat his cheek once -- a strike in slow motion. "i missed you too, baby."

[ownmyth]

@deliverthem: I LOVE YOU. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR?

"fuck you!" unasked for, unwanted, the oath bursts from your mouth anyway, like spitting blood. "fuck you, why would you --?"

flint looks haggard, near-skeletal among the mist and the trees of the island, but you know better than to be fooled. you see the blood on his sword, on his clothes. there are no others left alive who'd underestimated his competence. or his cruelty.

you knew that this moment would come. the inevitable parting of ways, where flint's hunger for his war would drive you and madi into that endless storm. where you'd outlive your usefulness as his tool, his right hand, and you'd end up in the ground for it. like gates, like mrs. barlow, like thomas hamilton. there had been a time when -- no. there had been a time you'd believed that you and he were truly partners. that there was nothing that could come between you, not the english in nassau, nor billy's pitiful attempts at manipulation. that since you'd revealed your scheme to him in that longboat, flint had finally come to see you as an equal. to listen to you, even.

surely that's what mr. gates had believed too, while flint's hands were closing around his neck.

you'd stared into those dark depths, and he'd looked back, and he'd seen something -- how empty you are, how base, your wretched, rotten heart. something. and now, cunning and desperate, he thinks to fashion this insight into a weapon to use, proclaiming love to prepare you for the killing blow? you aren't that naive.

"i see you," you say, too loudly. your words ring in the stale air of the forest. "i see what you're trying to do." the hand holding your sword has begun to shake uncontrollably, and your eyes burn. "if you think i'll stand here and listen to more of your lies, your false fucking promises ---" anger, hate, something else blocks your throat like a rising tide. you swallow harshly. "there really is no lie you won't tell to achieve your ends."

[deliverthem]

you scrape it up from your stomach lining, dread sour in your mouth, and you let your tongue mold the words into something smoother, digestible. i love you. it's a phrase you've only ever used sparingly, instead opting to hide it away in actions like one might tuck a precious letter between the pages of a book. before, you have acted because you could not will yourself say it. today, you say it because you cannot bear to act. the sword in your hand aches to wilt downwards, the blade longing to kiss the ground in surrender, and it is only through muscle memory that you keep it upright.

"a lie?" you shake your head, slack with confusion, mounting bitterness. you feel cracked open, unmade. emotion unfold like a play upon your face. all of which you are is open for silver to prod at, to pilfer through. fuck you is his response. the depth of his anger is rattling, though for the life of you, you don’t know why. it’s not like you didn’t know that it simmered beneath his skin. you suppose you hadn’t thought the full force of it would be turned upon you. "to what end? what reason do i have for that?" you need not finish the thought, explain yourself further. he does not have to feel it the same. you care only that this day does not end without silver knowing love for him festers like rot in you.

your rage builds, desperation too. he knows better than to think there is anything other than ruin down this path. his fear fogs his mind, makes him think there can be any advantage in surrender. he knows what comes of playing by their rules: where that put thomas, where that put miranda. the end is finally within reach and he threatens to blunder it all.

"we are on the precipice of having all of which we have worked towards." again, you shake your head ‘no,’ watch him with eyes lidded by misery. for so long, you have felt death nipping at your heels, heard it howling at your doorstep. the only fear that now accompanies the thought of death's blow is this: the monarchy continuing on, breathing even when you are not, the boot of civilization pressing further into man's neck. the end cannot only be yours, it must be england’s too. "giants slain. thousands freed... we will sail back to nassau and find liberation. we will carry madi— and that chest— in tow."

christ, you don’t know how you got back here. having to explain this all. it burns to have to paint this picture again, to point him towards an answer he should be able to find in his sleep. still, you will be the steady, stable ground beneath his feet until he can find his sea legs again. you will salvage this, gather up bits and pieces of comfort like broken glass, until you have collected enough scraps to make rebuild what has been broken. he does not have to believe, not in this mission, only in you. you can still stay the course.

silver’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, his blade shaking like the sword is an extension of his limbs. "this-" your voice dips, broken and awful in your throat. the forest is deadly still around you. you’re reminded of hal, his body crushing you into the wall of your cabin, rigid and sturdy as stone, and then, so unbearably limp. "this is not something you will want to live with."

[ownmyth]

a desperate man will say anything. you know this better than most. what lies you’ve woven, what pretenses you’ve cast, for the sake of your own survival. and here is the biggest lie of all: long john silver, pirate king.

your eyes are open now: the fantasy of some equal collaboration between you and flint and madi, leaders of some new world, exposed for what it is. there will be no other side of flint’s war, no after. there will only be bloodshed, and death, and fighting for the sake of fighting. why? to force his story to matter? to make the death of his love — his real love, thomas hamilton, not this shambling pretense for you — mean something?

at this point, flint only knows love for his war. for the thing he’s nurtured and tended to, the ugliness within you both, the darkness you had felt when you’d thought madi dead. the darkness you wish never to feel again, and even now it crawls to you, in flint’s eyes, in the thought of madi chained in the hold of the governor’s ship. she is your wife; you sacrifice whatever you have to for her. but you can have nothing of your own, no love in this place. even the word becomes tainted in the captain’s murderous mouth, as flint continues to turn you and her both to his cause on puppet-strings. no longer.

“what reason do you have for this?” for loving me, you do not say, cannot force the words through your lips. “i am your quartermaster; your favored tool. an instrument that you play to bring about this fucking nightmare you desire. you think me so desperate that pretending otherwise will lead me where you want me to go?” you’ve started, and now you cannot stop. you’d thought yourself flint’s equal once, stupidly. what humiliation it is to learn the truth of how pitiful he finds you. “you don’t care if madi dies! you don’t care if any of us die. perhaps that’s the outcome you hope for: civilization burning and nassau with it, and only you left alive among the ashes with no more witnesses to your fucking misery.”

there is always a way out. you’d said that to him once. but he doesn’t want a way out, isn’t like madi, won’t accept one unless forced to. even now, near-shaking with rage and horror and humiliation at the mercilessness of his lie, you desperately do not want to force him. somewhere off the coast of skeleton island, madi waits for you to barter the location of the chest for her release. somewhere, there is a plantation in savannah with the way out. “you don’t care what i want.”

[theedorksinlove]

1x01 // 2x02

[deliverthem]

your expression is flat, porcelain smooth. the fight to remain detached is significant, muscles rolling like the sea beneath your skin. blood flows from his lip, spreading across his hand, rivers of iron atop tanned, warm skin. under the sun, silver's blood is obscenely red, as vibrant and inviting as fruit in a still life. you clench your fists.

it’s as though charydbis herself opened a pit in your stomach, a great whirlpool of need. hunger churns cataclysmically through your guts. historically, the urge is a slow, dull drip, not unlike the consistent splash of water below deck when it rains. some days, it’s a minor torture, no worse than any of your other demons. some days, keeping a handle on your base instinct requires an iron grip, requiring every ounce of your military precision, and still it can feel like grasping at sand. you grip that crawling, desperate hunger in the palm of your hand, and viscious anger spills out. drips through, slides down the valley between thumb and forefinger to the meat of a palm.

you're following the path silver's blood is making, now, a tantalizing crimson river. you have years of experience with your crew’s poorly treated flesh wounds and the thick smell of hemorrhaging deckhands. a small split in a lip should have no affect on you.

perhaps, it is because you are so bloody angry. a deposal, a mutiny—- a mutiny against you? you, who leads the lot of them, bucking and screaming, to a future beyond a poor man’s death? you, who has reached the upper ranks so many times that climbing the rungs feel like perfunctory, superficial act? you, who will rip their power from them, again, and wield them as weapon. you are the death blow to the men who made you, you are the scourge of the society that birthed you. you are their captain because no one else is willing to stoop so low.

or, perhaps, you are riotously hungry because silver knows of you, the lurking monster beyond the man. he knows to face you like a stalked deer knows to tense a seconds before the bullet is shot, knows like prey instinctively knows to keep watch on a predator. perhaps, it is because of what he saw that day. hal crushed against you, broken, silver above you, unctuous, both men unerringly human. and you, so far from it.

there’s legends of what civilized society does to men like you. you’ve heard story of pyres built sky high, a crucifix as an anchor around one’s neck, flames consuming the flesh that consumes flesh. you know what they did to thomas, sentenced him to death after death after death below the sea. the look silver gives you feels inflammatory, incriminating. there isn’t judgement on his features, but a mirror does not judge, only reflects. he can’t possibly fully understand the full extent of what your crime is, yet, he doles out sentencing, probs at your weaknesses. his own blood spills onto his tongue as he goads you. you’d quite like to hit him.

day after day, silver slithers his way further into the crew. he endures his beatings with patience, tends to lick his wounds without the company of the other men. he’s quite good at winning people over when they aren’t looking, a guerrilla attack on their better senses. you are not so easily swayed. after all, you are barely a man. and here he is, laving his tongue over his split lip.

"pardon?" you grit, but it comes out like try me. with the crew milling about, your hostility is clipped, blunted. the men will not take kindly to your angry voice carrying across the deck. not now. not yet.

you start a sentence, abort it with a huff. you could easily spot out the pulsing of every heart aboard this vessel, the same way you can choose to let in the sound of the walrus cutting through the waves. before you, silver’s heart thumps and wails, life thundering through his veins. you know the sound of the living in a distant way, a hymn from childhood, but you remember the way being truly alive felt with startling clarity. your head cocks to the side, animalistic, and then you’re shifting closer, taking great care to look into the man’s eyes. "i can assure you, mr. silver, it is not my wellbeing that should currently be under scrutiny."

[ownmyth]

the way he snarls, invades your space, should make you cower. or at least find a semi-graceful way to slip back from that poisonous stare. these are the instincts that have kept you alive. instead, satisfaction rolls through you, accompanied by a strange feeling not unlike the way you felt watching flint bludgeon a man to death with his bare hands. maybe it is a natural response at this tenuous thread of power you seem to hold over him at the moment, your knowledge of his true nature. or maybe it is merely the dangerous allure of curiosity. either way, you know too well the risks of finding yourself too comfortable, too confident in your upper hand.

flint weighs and skins you with his stare, and your nervous smile is a reflex action, one that spills fresh blood in your mouth. you lick your lips again. you've seen him covered in blood so many times; very little justifies your confidence that a mere split lip will tempt him in the way you fear (hope?). then again, perhaps it is merely a matter of control. when there is blood in the water, sharks are not discerning. you are beginning to realize that flint is a man constantly at war with his savage hungers. but what kind of man has that sort of willpower? what kind of man has that inhuman a drive?

you've never seen the captain at a loss for words before. this is the closest he's come to it, right now, right here, and you watch the rage kindle in his eyes as banking coals. for some reason it makes you want to draw near, a child huddling by a candle flame, and you think of the tales you've heard on the ship of sirens and their beguiling songs, meant to enchant the minds of sailors until they run themselves aground. you'd chosen flint's side over the crew's more than once now, and each time because the rational thinking showed that he was the agent who would most likely lead you to an outcome where you got your share of the gold, enough to walk away. but now you wonder if this -- something, these unnatural urges that seem to haunt your mind when he is near, hasn't affected your rational thinking as well.

some lesser cousin of fear races lightning down your spine, and you've always been susceptible to the thrill of an opportunity. "i wouldn't say scrutiny, captain," you keep your tone light, soothing, genial. the tone you'd used just earlier today in an attempt to dissuade a beating. "it's merely a part of my job, making sure the men are happy..." and now you drop your gaze to his mouth, deliberate. "and well-fed."

it isn't that you think he'll entertain your offer. certainly not today. but he needs to get used to the idea that he can depend upon you, to keep his secret, to have his counsel. if all it takes in the bargain is some of your blood at some point in the future, that's hardly a bad deal, all things considered. you'll need to prove yourself -- you're more than the ship's cook, more than just another one of the men, his pawns -- once he takes his position back from dufresne. (unbidden, you wonder: will he use his wit and rhetoric to appeal to the crew, to reclaim his place, or will he smash dufresne's head in like he'd done the other man, singleton? you picture flint in an animal frenzy, tearing into the arrogant mutineer's throat with those needle teeth you'd seen so briefly, and that -- that feeling bubbles up in you again.)

[ownmyth]

your head still swims with the remnants of whatever howell had given you — rum? opium? likely some nauseating combination. but you’re awake, and you have your wits about you now, so that’s a point in your favor. you give in to the urge to glance down at the blanket covering your lap, and are filled with fresh revulsion at the missing limb. what the fuck is wrong with you? if you’d let them kill the crew, vane’s men would have sailed you back to nassau a rich man, with all the gold you and max had stood to gain. now, you’ll never see so much as a single piece of eight, as it has become readily apparent that you’re going to die here.

you’ve been sure of this for the time you’ve spent in the makeshift bedding someone had set up for you on flint’s window-seat. you know his secret, after all — making you a liability. and unlike before, you can hardly attempt to bargain yourself as a useful tool. you’d seen it with randall: who the fuck has use for an one-legged man? a merciful captain might have landed you back on nassau a beggar. flint is… well. you don’t have the words for what flint is. your instincts tell you to run, but just like any animal caught in a trap, struggling will only succeed in hurting yourself, and you’ve about all the pain you can handle, thanks.

no, you’re useless to anyone but flint, now. under the blanket, what remains of your leg is bloody and bandaged. you’d thought yourself so clever, earlier: testing his limits, seeing if he could stand the scent of your blood without baring his fangs. you know a monster when you see one, and now, sequestered away from the crew, there’s no reason for this one to deny his appetite.

you watch flint. he’s reading, his back to you. what the fuck is he waiting for? can he hear the way your heart pounds, throwing itself against the cage of your chest? is he enjoying it, this slow realization of a death you can’t talk yourself out of? maybe he knew you were lying about having no role in the theft of the urca — maybe you said something in your sleep, weak and stupid, and gave it away. maybe he hasn’t forgiven you for the theft of the schedule, for making him dependent on your knowledge. maybe he just hates you for your weakness.

“i may not have been a cook for very long,” you break the silence with, your tone falsely bright. “but i am aware that leaving a meal out too long can spoil it. i assume the same is true of human blood, captain.” it is sickening, somewhat, to think of yourself as only this: blood and meat, some of you already so easily discarded with a surgeon’s axe. the low thrill of flint needing you, wanting something from you, has burnt to ash, leaving only this. (maybe he won’t even bite you. maybe you disgust him like this, crippled, feeble, stinking of a surgeon’s drug. you’ll die either way, you’re sure, by his blade or his bite, so why does the idea of that final rejection sting like shattered bone?) you shift slightly, attempting to turn further and better gage his mood. exhale sharply when, despite your best efforts, it jostles your — it jostles the stump. the fresh pain makes your tone shorter than intended, as you say, “what exactly are you waiting for?”

@deliverthem, plotted.

[deliverthem]

silver’s bottom lip gleams, his eyes blown out black, and want sinks into you like a dagger. your stomach caves in and you feel lightheaded, a foundational piece knocked loose within your chest. he’s still fucking talking, and you’ve heard him spitting and cursing before, coating his tongue in the vernacular of the crew, but it’s never had any real intention behind it. not till now.

his voice is more cemented in your head than half the crew. in the numerous, but fleeting, fantasies you’ve had about silencing john silver, this hadn’t come up. not for lack of imagination, more an excess of practicality. pleasure is never at the forefront of your mind. it is often buried under a mountain of more imperative obligations, more profound considerations. it suits you best to rest all of your men as pawns and nothing more. they can remain disloyal and aggravating means to a crucial end, you can remain aloof and inhuman. of course it is silver, sly silver, conniving silver, who easily awakens a roaring beast of arousal within you.

you wrap your hand around silver’s tanned wrist, grip stern and unforgiving. it’s a death rattle, your ego gasping for the final word. you’re smiling a shark smile still, voice dipping with a mean, mirthful humor. "this," you say, gaze trailing from the wicked fullness of silver’s bottom lip, down to the hollow of his collarbone, to the steadily growing arousal at your groin. "this earns you no favors."

as suddenly as you grasped him, you let go. a few deliberate motions and the knot to your trousers comes undone, exposed without ceremony. beyond your wooden, heavy encounters with miranda, you haven’t been so revealed to someone in nearly a decade. a life spent among seamen has made you impervious to nudity, experience in these matters has previously made you unabashed in your lust. you feel yourself flush anyways. silver’s stare feels leaden. scalding. you feel frozen in this moment, the two of you stagnant, permanent features, carved into reality like statues, embossed into the flimsy fabric of time.

"go on, then, mr. silver." your voice sounds odd. "i’ve yet to see you do any real work around here."

[ownmyth]

you watch his eyes, and as you do, you have the feeling that something has shifted beneath the two of you, something you don’t just yet understand.

just like an actor in a stage-play, flint says his expected lines — a denial, an attempt at shutting down any idea of debt on his part. in his voice, his touch: the inevitable threat. none of this dissuades you; your intent is not so petty and mercurial that you’d expect a favor for a favor. no, this is about gaining flint’s attention, one day his ear. about proving your worth. (and still: he smiles at you, mean and dangerous as anything that lurks beneath these waters, and you feel the rush of it like waves breaking.)

your mouth curls up in some secret grin: genuine mirth, perhaps, at his dry wit? satisfaction, more likely, at how he’s taken to your ruse. you’ve never found yourself attracted to other men, and that has hardly changed now, for merely this, but you still feel something coiling low in your gut at the artificial coldness that enters his voice, his little jibe. captain flint may be a gifted liar, but you can recognize the unconcerned mask that he fumbles to slip on; you’ve worn it yourself now and again.

he’s freckled everywhere, and for some reason the sight makes your mouth water. you’d never actually done… this before, but how difficult could it be? that’s what you’d thought before you entered flint’s cabin — now you eye him and anticipate a jaw-ache the next day. oh, well.

he probably likes having the last word, a proper orator like flint, so you allow him this small victory, dragging your gaze from the barest hint of flush on his sun weathered skin, to his cock, which you eye with the determined slant of a new mark. how difficult could it be, really, to make a man come? particularly a man so clearly repressed as this one? even men who have no interest in other men enjoy the power of the act, the control they think they’re owed.

(when you sneak a glance at him now, flint’s face has returned to unreadable stone. if it weren’t for the color high on his cheekbones, he could be in any other scenario, considering anything else. his plans for the crew, the gold; his schemes to retain power. but he’s not. he’s thinking of you, and that knowledge feels almost too powerful in your chest, like you’ve swallowed the sun.)

hesitation would mean admitting defeat, so you take him in your mouth so fast that you choke a little. your hands brace themselves on his thighs, breathing through your nose as you adjust. the anxious thought comes: if the crew were to see you now, if word got out — but it won’t. flint has far more to lose than you do. and soon you’ll be gone: you’ll have your share of the urca gold. enough riches to start anew and never be bothered by the sea again. soon your time on the walrus — this include, flint included — will be but a distant memory.

[ownmyth]

AND WHEN THE URCA'S OURS, WHAT'S TO STOP ME FROM KILLING YOU ANYWAY?

WELL, THAT'S A FEW WEEKS FROM NOW, ISN'T IT? WE MIGHT BE FRIENDS BY THEN.