#tgh commissions

[thegoldenharp]

the golden harp: hands

thank you so much to @toytle​ for these wonderful commissions, i can’t stop looking at them!

[thegoldenharp]

derya sadak, captain of the luscinia ~ @gncrezan!

[thegoldenharp]

lorcan crowe, captain of the golden harp ~ @gncrezan!

~

“what about this one?”

at first, you think that he has not heard you, teal eyes closed as you run your fingers along his torso. there is a long, jagged scar on his rib cage, and you trace your fingers along it, skirting around his heart.

“wrestled a shark.”

lie. you tell him as such and he smiles approvingly, before cracking one eye open.

“harpoon misfire.” he concedes – altogether less glamorous, and altogether more believable.

your fingers trace down the centre line of his chest, skating over dark, wiry hair and small tattoos which tell various stories – the voyage he took around the horn; the small tattoo to honour his trip to australia, harrying dutch trading ships; the almost mythical heist in saint-jean-de-luz that is only spoken of in hushed, breathless whispers by the crew members, which left the skin at his hip puckered from a burn scar severe enough to rival his forearms.

(he still hasn’t given you that one. you doubt now whether he ever will.)

“they won’t be the last.” there's a smirk fixed to his lips, but his eyes are almost sad when he looks at you – a grim warning, and each one of these warnings feels like he is giving you a chance to get out while you can.

“i shall be a fine nursemaid, i should think.” you answer the warning with a confidence you don’t quite feel, and feel rather than see his smile soften.

“i shall endeavour to ease your burden.”

[thegoldenharp]

grace o’rourke, captain of the blue raven ~ @gncrezan!

~

the loot is mostly loaded onto the ship, and all that is left to do now is board the ship and be free, and yet—

and yet they are playing a waltz in the ballroom, one of your favourite from home, and you cannot quite tear yourself away.

she notices. because she always does.

“do you like it?” her voice is rough, as it often is with you, like she has had to force the words out past choking brambles, and it is scratched and blemished but so real that you keep pinching yourself.

“hmm? oh,” and you shrug because what else can you do? steal the orchestra?

she would, if you asked it of her. you know that—have known it for a while, now.

and for the first time, you think you might return the favour. the thought lingers, ricochets around your brain until you can barely hear her clear her throat and push away from the balustrade, before she—

she—

she holds out her hand to you, calloused and worn and good, and smiles slightly.

“may i have this dan—”

“yes!” your answer is over-loud and far too quick, though it is worth it for the way the tension leeches from her shoulders.

“that is, i accept your invitation.” grace has never been a good liar, though to her credit she just manages to bite her lip before letting a chuckle slip at your attempted recovery.

no matter how clumsy your acceptance, in her arms you think you are flying.

[thegoldenharp]

the other ~ @gncrezan!

~

“are you coming?”

for a long while after your question, nothing happens. then, after a few more moments of tense silence, they poke their head around the cave mouth with a scowl.

“i don’t want to.”

(you have been cajoling and tempting and pleading for days – they should feel the sun on them again, they deserve to feel warmth like they used to know, and you want to share it with them. and finally yesterday, you cracked it – they had promised you half an hour, and you intended to collect.)

“but you promised.” a wheedling tone enters your voice as you draw nearer to them, and you can already feel their resolve start to crumble.

(you had felt their envy, you see, when they felt the sun on your cheeks and the wind in your hair and the sea spray on your skin, rather than their own darkness, cloying like tar.)

“it’s hot.” the petulance is back, their lush lower lip jutting out, and you chance getting close enough to kiss it. almost immediately the petulance fades, and a small smile spreads out over their lips.

“just for a little while, then.” and when they turn their face up expectantly for a kiss, you cannot help but indulge them.

[thegoldenharp]

gray fairfax, sailing master of the golden harp ~ @gncrezan!

~

“…what are you doing?”

gray's tone is…questioning at best, and you think that they may well be questioning your sanity as well as your position, ensconced in bedsheets and laying on plush cushions.

“relaxing.” you smile brightly at them, and as always, their reservations melt before your eyes like ice under spring sunlight.

they purse their lips and pick at the hem of their waistcoat and—

and you realise with a start that they’re nervous.

you sit up a little straighter, propped up on your elbows, so you can at least try to look them in the eye. “do you want to—”

“if you insist.” gray's lips are still pursed, though their shoulders sag with relief as they sink onto their knees to duck under the sheet draped haphazardly over the nearby bunks. you wait for them to decide how close they want to move, and smile a little when they move closer, so that your sides are flush.

(they’re warm. warm enough that you instinctively shift a little closer, and you affect not to notice the hitch in their breathing.)

“so…what now?” they shift a little restlessly next to you, and you smile fondly up at them, before laying back on the cushions.

“now, we rest.”

“hmm.” they sound sceptical, but settle back against the cushions readily enough, blond hair splayed about them like a halo.

(they are angelic, in their own way – you agree with their former suitors on that, at least, though you haven’t (yet) written them poetry to tell them so. at this point, you kind of hope they know.)