#ownmyth.

[deliverthem]

continued from here. @ownmyth.

this is not the first time you’ve been becalmed, though you wouldn’t mind if it were your last. hunger has a way of eating through a man’s sanity. minor grievances become misdeeds worth taking aim for, old resentments rise to the top of mind like pond-scum. these things can mostly ge avoided, if one is careful. pirates are no different to command than navy men: you rule with an iron fist, squeezed so tight you cannot remember the shape your hand makes when unfurled. your men- they can resent it, they can thrash in your grip. their hatred, their frustration, their ire, you shoulder it without complaint. that’s all well and fine, so long as you are dragging them forward, always forward.

momentum is a precious thing. fickle. your momentum cannot die with the wind. and, should you make it past this, should the sails ever fill again, you will have to keep momentum by reminding your men of the necessity of war. you will need your quartermaster’s silver-tongue poised to smooth over your harshest edges, ready to placate and inspire. civilization threatens to smother every one of you and you have to be ready to remind them to fight for air.

silver falters and you step forward, his ribcage landing in your palm. he looks up, scarlet-lined eyes full of hatred, and you don’t know who it is aimed at. you don’t know that you care. you look down, past his raw shame and between your bodies, trying to accurately assess all the points in which the two of you are tethered. you don't say anything. silver is doling out his own punishment, harsher than anything you deem necessary, self-immolating for reasons you couldn't care less about. does a dog understand why it is being scolded, or does it only learn not to bite in front of you again?

you grunt with exertion, slinging silver's arm over your shoulder, and start the exhaustive walk to your bed. he’s warm, disturbingly so, like he's spent the past hour baking under the sun instead of hovering beside your desk. the journey is loud, your rasping inhales, the huff of his exhales at your ear, but despite this, you find yourself thinking only of the crackly, anguished sound of him asking to stay. when you reach your cot, you sink beside him on the mattress, breathless. you rest your elbows on your thighs, clasping your hands together.

sun filters across the cabin, touching salt-warped furniture and woven rugs and silver’s legs, both the flesh and the metal. something stirs in you. you think it must be anger. when you stand, your knees croak and groan. your whole body feels rickety, like the ship in the earliest hours of the morning.

"rest." you command, speaking without turning around to look at silver. a step forward. you’re closing in on one of the many paper-lined tables in the cabin. "the men are looking to follow you down whatever path you deem fit. it would be wise to know which way a road leads before you head down it."

[deliverthem]

continued from here. @ownmyth.

you roll your eyes, sigh through your nose. the muscles below your eyes twitch. you half-heartedly fight off a look of amusement, annoyance, both. he’s challenging you, even while you suck his cock. there very well may not be anything in this realm that can shut him up. though, you suppose you've stopped trying to. not when he's badgering you, not when he's blatantly lying to you, and never when he is like this: his voice rough and rolling, interrupted by tiny little gasps, half-swallowed moans. even now, he's so fucking cocksure.

in-between his legs, silver looms large above you. he's seemingly fully at ease in your chair, splayed out and pretty. more blood than any sane man could fathom has been spilled for this ship, this cabin, this chair. and here silver is, sat in your hard-earned throne, calling you captain while you rest on your knees. you twitch in your pants. his eyes are lidded, hazy, and his lips gleam with spit. you imagine yours do too. the buttons of your shirt are mostly undone, the flesh that covers your heart exposed. despite this, you’re burning up, flushed all the way from your ribs to the apples of your cheeks. to avoid deigning silver with a response, you raise a singular eyebrow and slowly lower your mouth back onto him.

silver’s hand lays against your head, smoothing across your skin. it’s a possessive touch, simultaneously grounding and ruinous, and you find yourself hunching over further. there isn’t much of a logistical difference between you giving and him taking, but it feels distinctive now. you want to feel as much of him as you can, feel alive and present and thrumming against his skin, but you're wary to push him past his limits. in lieu of grabbing at his thigh, you squeeze at the flesh of one of silver’s hips, a hand jammed beneath the waistline of his pants. the other hand, well-

you thumb at a prominent vein on the underside of silver, following the course up. the motion stops when you meet where his flesh is wet with your spit. your hand travels back down. you press the head of him against your tongue, then further, your lips eventually grazing your own fingers.

you hum. the weight pressed to your skull, the agreeable repetition of his thumb. your eyes have fallen closed, lost in the easy glide, but they open again when you realize you're missing out on watching silver unravel. you take in the pink on his cheeks, the heave of his chest, the mane of his hair. he slips from your mouth and let your lips carve up cruelly. "yeah," you draw, voice grating, scraping like rock against rock. "you’re going to come."

[deliverthem]

your eyes are only half-open; your head propped at an awkward angle against a stray barrel. the sun beats down upon you, unrepentant. every inch of you feels damp with sweat. you watch the mast, the sails, straining your eyes to catch movement you know isn't coming. distantly, you miss the sound of the wind in the sails, the whip of taut fabric in the breeze. you miss anything that could drown out the sound of your crew, their flowing pulses, the buzz of the living.

the allure of the living has never been stronger. deep seated anger co-mingles with hunger. you can't tell the feelings apart anymore. you're ravenous. your men are starving to death, this is a fact, but you envy it. for them, death is a promise. you may very well starve for the rest of eternity. the men will turn to corpse, to bones, to sand. time will pass on and on, until the very ship warps in on itself and collapses, and your prone body is cast to the bottom of the sea.

you stand with a sudden urgency. the mind has a tendency to get lost in possibility when there is nothing else to stimulate it. the walk across the deck is thick and cottony. you may as well be a spectre, a vision, with the way your men's stunted muttering comes to a halt when you veer too close. dreamily, you descend below the deck. the shade offers no relief. the heat is just as sweltering in the dark as it is in the direct sunlight. you prowl forward; your body moving with animal instinct.

it’s only when you see @ownmyth that you realize you sought him out. silver is hunched over a wooden counter, his back to you. you didn't really wish to see him. you're exhausted by the scheming, the constant wheedling. you're tired of being prodded, examined, appealed to. you had thought, after charlestown, you had been gifted a confidant as a quartermaster. then came the lies, the posturing, silver's incessant need to make an enemy of you, so that he has something to rally against. you had thought a lot of things, after charlestown.

you would leave, if it weren't for the smell. the room reeks of blood. your first thought is that the smell is originating from his leg, from the piss poor treatment he offers his open wound. when you catch a glimpse of what silver is actually doing, you feel undone. over a bowl, he's stripping an eel in long, measured strokes, bloody rivers running down his fist. every muscle in you tenses, freezes to stone. your stomach pangs with desperate hunger. saliva pools atop your tongue. isn't this fitting? blood is no longer your personal affliction. all of your men will have no choice but to partake. the horrible captain flint and his parasitic crew. "what is this?" you croak. your voice doesn't sound like your own. your voice hardly sounds like a human's at all.