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yeyinde · 6 months

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SEA FEVER | Sailor!John Price x Reader

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

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

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

—PRICE

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

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

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

But, unfortunately, not quick enough.

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

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

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

Until now, that is.

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

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

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

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

With a nod of thanks, he sets off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

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

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

But it's stifling all the same.

And cold.

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

The best description for this little place is dreary.

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

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

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

Then, of course, there's you.

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

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

Or maybe it's just exactly what it is:

Loneliness. Distraction.

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

Well.

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

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

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

And fuck—

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

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

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

It starts over a glass of whisky.

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

(Or so he's been told.)

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

"Not from around here, are you?"

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

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

"That so?"

You nod. "Yes, sir—"

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

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

(Especially when he shouldn't be.)

"Then what should I call you, stranger?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, he doesn't.

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

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

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

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

"Glad you've got my back."

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

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

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

"Well, aren't you charming."

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

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

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

"Just don't be a stranger."

He should have been.

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

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

And everything about you is dangerous.

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

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

You—

You make him yearn. You make him want.

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

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

Dangerous, indeed.

And despite everything warning him away, he goes back.

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

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

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

It's practical. A necessity.

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

No one. Except you, that is.

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

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

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

He needs a smoke. A stiff drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous if left unchecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. If you'll have me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To make a man like you so smitten."

And Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, ain't you funny."

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

"You love it."

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

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

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

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

So, he does what he does best:

"Not in your lifetime, love."

He runs.

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

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

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

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

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

Three weeks.

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

Well, then.

It's set.

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

Or you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You—

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

But even so—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But with you—

It's easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

Mean and drunk, his dad was.

And Price—

Well. Sometimes he feels himself getting there, too.

But this. This. It feels different.

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

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

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

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

But he doesn't think about that at all.

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

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

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

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

Always liked the way some things were meant to hurt.

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

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

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

The contrast is jarring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But a moment feels too long. Not long enough.

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

He isn't him. Not anymore.

(Hasn't been for a long time.)

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

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

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

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

He isn't a young lad. Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He feels—

Stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And—

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Handsome.

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

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

That he needs.

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

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

And he wants. Oh, how he wants—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This isn't—

Isn't him. It isn't you.

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

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

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

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

You don't finish.

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

And softer. Softer still—

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

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

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

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

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

But he can't—

(Knife to his chest, you walk away.

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

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

(All of his own making, of course.)

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

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

Both of you. Both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selfish. Mean. Cruel.

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

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

He can handle women like that. Prefers them.

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

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

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

He can't give that to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Listen t'me, you—"

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

"Hey—!"

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

"It's time for you to leave."

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

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

And you don't.

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

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

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

Things, apparently, are very different here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in the swell of you.

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

But John had no plans to go anywhere else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, John. I'm good."

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

(Because it's always been you.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Should be expected."

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

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

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

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

"—shouldn't bloody 'ave to—!"

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

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

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

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

"I will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It builds. Builds. And breaks—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to go there with you.

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

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

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

It's cacoëthes.

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

John makes the awful choice to kiss you.

It starts with a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until him, that is.

(Until you, as well.)

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

Want to know. Need to.

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

Desire.

Intrigue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come back to my house, John."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A place he wants to go with you.)

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

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

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

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

The man meets him by the harbour.

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

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

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

Right. Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day dwadles, sun fading into a stunning sunset.

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

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

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

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

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

It's a lie. Barefaced and ugly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Want to spend the night?"

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn't. You didn't ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm, it is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That has nothing on the ocean after dusk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You trail off, but he knows. He knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(All of it. Every part—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

—so he doesn't let you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you say: "oh."

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

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

Then: "oh."

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

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

He doesn't. He can't.

John lets it necrotise instead.

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

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

So, he says, "soon."

But you ask: "how soon?"

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

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

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

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

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

And now—

Nothing does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous. Perfect.

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

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

But—

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans into it. Buries himself deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Until you—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—love—"

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

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

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

(Sappy, tragic fool—)

"How long do I have to pack?"

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

But he doesn't doubt you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or a mockery of one, anyway.

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

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

"Love—"

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

"I'm sure," is all you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Permanent, if you'll let him.)

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

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

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

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

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

YOU—

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

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

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

The ocean loves you in the worst way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's fine, of course.

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

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

Burdened by the encompassing emptiness of time.

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

You're fine, you think.

Until him.

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

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

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

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

Because, really—

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

So, you stay.

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

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

It's good. Good—

—but this is better:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

Land.

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

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

A silly thought, in hindsight.

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

And really.

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

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

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

"It's home, y'know?"

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

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

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

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

"Fuckin'—Christ—"

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

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

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

"Can think of worse places to be."

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

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

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

#im so ready for bed after this #john price x reader #sailor price #kinda #like um ig hes retired #ish #captain john price x reader #price x reader #i set out to make this as unapolgetically maritimes as possible and failed #we have one (1) Newfie u can't understand and NO ONE at any point offers to go on a Timmies run for ice caps and double doubles #blasphemous #also ur from Nova Scotia (NOT HRM) but that really doesn't matter much tbh i just wanted the “this is supposed to be Lunenburg Lite” vibes #aka Chéticamp #but much more depressing

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annasinterests · 8 months

Text

don't look at me like that unless you mean it

run in the shadows ♫ damn your love, damn your lies

|| series masterlist || main masterlist ||

a/n: hey hey heyyyyy my loves! been a minute but i'm super pumped (and scared) to be putting out this chapter, at first i really struggled in deciding which direction i wanted it to go, but am pretty content with how it turned out! this is also my first time ever writing smut so i am apologizing in advance for.. everything . also, i imagine joel smelling like tommy bahama maritime deep blue and 1 million cologne by paco rabanne, so that's referenced in here cuz honestly they're just soooo 🥵🤤 alright, enough outta me- love y'all, enjoy! <3

a/n update: y'all i'm so dumb i put this out like an hour ago and was wondering why it was so dead and then i saw i didn't put FUCKING. TAGS. bruv.

word count: 6.1k (woo baby!)

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

warnings & tags: minors dni, implied hangover, reflection of bad decisions on readers part, cursing, denial is a river in egypt, mutual pining, smut!!!, fingering, lil sweet talk n' pet names, p in v, the slowburn is slowly burning folks — please tell me if i missed anything!

It wouldn’t be wrong to say that you were feeling some resentment towards the younger Miller for the recent days, and he certainly wasn’t making it any better by deliberately scheduling you two together on your first day back on.

Your name was scribbled in shitty writing next to his instead of.. well, you know who. You puffed out a frustrated sigh, biting your lip as you closed your eyes to quell the irritation that was already simmering during the early hour.

It was like a series of blows, one right after the other.

When you opened your eyes after Joel kissed you the other night, he was gone without a word. And if you hadn’t heard the click of his door closing again, you’d almost believe that the entire encounter was a product of your alcohol-laden imagination.

But it was real.

It was real in the way that it’d been the last thing you remembered before flopping into bed and the first regret you thought of the morning after. Throughout the hours that followed, the room seemed to stretch into eternity, spinning around you as you lay there, caught in a daze induced by alcohol, or maybe Joel, or perhaps the potent combination of both.

Morning found you sprawled atop the bed covers in the same clothes from the night before with a headache pounding at your temples, making you claw for a pillow to shield your face from the harsh sunlight filtering through the blinds. Even long after Joel’s awakening and departure for his shift, you remained ensconced in bed. The stillness of the house had been interrupted by the resonating thuds of his footsteps on the creaky wooden floors as he executed his routine; shuffling in his room for a bit, then descending downstairs to clank around some glasses and dishes, and then the forceful closure of the front door, ushering in silence once more.

Hours passed before you eventually emerged from your room, trudging downstairs to scrounge up sustenance from whatever you could find. The meager offerings weren’t the two proper meals that the day should’ve already seen, but they sufficed as something.

To say you felt like trash was an understatement, it plagued your body and mind. Playing Samson against Joel had been a risky move, one that was initially successful but terribly backfired into a mess, your moral compass lost in the haze of it all. Despite you drunkenly flirting, kissing, and saying misleading things, sober you knew none of it held true. You wouldn’t actually give any man the chance, unless it was him. Nonetheless, your actions tarnished your conscience, for you knew it probably meant something to someone.

Joel had remained an enigma. He was the one you saw first, he started it. He had the chance to leave with that woman, yet he didn’t, even after her provoking comment that made it sound like he was interested in doing so. No, instead, he glared at you like an enemy. And then after all the pointless arguing, he fucking kissed you, and then left you.

So, yeah, the entirety of the day was spent feeling dirty and wallowing in the aftermath of your own destruction.

And today wasn’t going much better by any means. So far, at least.

Brisk in your steps, you walked to the stables and gathered up your gear for the day, dread wrapping its tendrils around every aspect of your impending shift. Leading your horse to the gate, you impatiently awaited the arrival of the rest of the patrol group. You occupied yourself by tending to your horse’s coat and securing every strap and cord visible, performing thorough inspections on your packs to ensure supplies and ample ammunition for all your weapons.

Little by little, people started to show up, which somehow only triggered you to be even more impatient. You threw glances that served enough as a greeting to those that turned up, finding it best to just keep to yourself. Your veneer of detachment wavered momentarily as Samson arrived and gave you a smile that felt more obligatory than genuine as it failed to reach his eyes, and you quickly averted your attention back to your horse, cheeks burning as snippets from the night looped through your mind at the most inconvenient moment.

You’d been resolutely keeping your eyes lowered, so much so that you failed to register Joel’s arrival alongside Tommy. Only when Tommy’s voice sliced through the small talk did you raise your head, finally paying attention.

“Alright now, y’all know the drill. Eyes up, be safe. Don’t take no unnecessary risks an’ watch each other’s backs.”

His raised a finger and flicked his wrist, prompting the guards to swing open the gate, “Let’s go.”

Swiftly mounting your horse, you joined the procession, observing as they paired up and set off. You had only seen the back of Joel’s figure as he rode off with his partner, holding your gaze on them for a beat longer before steering off to your assigned route, gently guiding the reins as the steed surged to catch up. While you were definitely still annoyed with Tommy, you still maintained a civil demeanor, offering him a subtle nod when he smiled at you.

The well-trodden path stretched before you, one you’d traversed countless times. Your horse seemed to intuitively know the way, leaving you to drift into a distant reverie. Your gaze roved into the distance, resting on nothing in particular– a void for your thoughts to nestle within as the ambient sounds consumed your consciousness. Words remained dormant; your lips scarcely parted, your eyes keen yet affixed to the intangible.

From the moment Tommy laid eyes on you, he sensed something was amiss. His glances shifted from fleeting to lingering as he realized your mind journeyed elsewhere while being right next to him. It was as if you operated on autopilot, a description that aptly captured how you looked and felt. Uncharacteristically unsure of how to connect, he found himself at a loss.

Either way, there was a consequence to this. Conversation was inevitable, the topic destined to surface sooner or later, and in all likelihood, it would culminate in you reproaching him for not minding his business.

“Sure is quiet out here today. Not even a single bird chirpin’.”

A mumbled agreement left your mouth in response. A couple of minutes drifted by before he ventured forth again.

“Y’know, the other night, I-”

Your attention snapped into focus, and you shot him a pointed look, “I don’t want to talk about the other night.”

“Well then you don’t have to talk, just listen, then.”

Annoyance prickled at your nerves. You motioned toward him, your hand landing flat on your thigh while the other clenched around the leather reins, nails digging into the material. You didn’t care for what he had to say, but you recognized your protests would only be a futile endeavor as he’d find a way to voice his thoughts regardless.

“Look, I’m sorry about Samson-”

“Oh yeah? The part where he was the secret set up or..?”

A hand raked through his hair at your interjection, knowing where your line of questioning was heading. “All of it, okay? I didn’t know that you and Joel-”

“There is no me and Joel!” Your words were intensely curt.

Tommy may have been drunk, but there was no denying what he saw in those unguarded moments when you believed the other wasn’t looking. More importantly, what he saw when you did see each other.

Even in his inebriated state, he sought to mend his error by removing Samson from the overall equation with some bullshit excuse, hoping that somehow, someway, a connection would’ve rekindled between you both. However, his brother had a different course in mind, storming home and grumbling under his breath, justifying his abrupt exit to himself with the lateness of the hour and his imminent work commitments the following morning.

Your horses maintained a steady pace, the silence between you pronounced.

“If you say so.” Your words barely had a chance to emerge before he seized the opening, raising a hand to signal he wasn’t done.

“Listen, I know you and Joel got a history– a long one at that– and while I ain’t privy to all the particulars, I’ve got enough sense to know there’s somethin’ goin’ on.”

You shook your head, “Tommy-”

“It ain’t no secret that my brother ain’t the feely type,” he interrupted with a soft chuckle, “hell, m’sure you know that already, but when it comes to you, he’s just..”

His voice trailed as he looked straight on, leaving you to hang on every last word as your heart hammered in your chest. He’s just what?

It was like Tommy had heard your thoughts when he met your gaze again.

“It’s you, or it’s nobody.”

The sentiment left his mouth with ease, like it was just that simple, and you struggled to believe him.

Your mind casted back to the other night– the unhurried, gentle yet unwavering contact you shared just outside his bedroom door. His soft lips pressed against yours in a moment that felt far too short. The slight prickle of his beard against your skin, his fingers nestled in all the right nooks and contours and calloused hands cradling your face with a blend of care and intimacy that only comes from years of knowing.

It’s you, or it’s nobody.

Shaking your head slightly, you dismissed the memory in favor of the present.

“It’s.. not like that.”

You knew your counter was implausible, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue arguing. And either he’d gotten out all he wanted to say, or he saw the profound effect his words had on you and decided it was enough, because he didn’t say anything else regarding it.

He cleared his throat in a manner that was clear he was changing the topic, “Once we get up here to the post, I gotta have you switch off with Eugene, alright?”

You arched a brow at him, “Why? Afraid to be my partner for a whole shift?”

“Oh, real funny.” He rolled his eyes before setting them on you again with a more serious undertone, “Maybe.”

A smile appeared on your face for the first time today, though it was small, and he immediately grinned, taking pride in the small victory.

“No– Eugene’s got a lead on that one group, needa’ talk to him about it.”

Fuck.

Your small smile dropped slightly, masking it as an acknowledging reaction. Those documents demanded your attention as soon as possible.

“Fair enough.” You conceded, a hint of your customary demeanor returning to your voice.

The rest of the time getting to Mountain View Lodge passed relatively quickly. The rest of your patrol with Tommy was marked by a lull in conversation, as if a point of equilibrium had been reached after your earlier confrontation. Tethering your horse to its usual discreet and out-of-view spot, you both entered the lodge.

The interior sprawled expansively, its focal point a series of broad windows along a wall– a perfect vantage point for overseeing the valley below, which saw its fair share of infected and raiders. But when it was quiet, it transformed into an ideal haven for relaxation outside of Jackson, its timeworn leather booths circled around fireplaces that proved a comforting companion during the harsh winter months.

Eugene’s greeting garnered a nod and smile from you, and once he and Tommy dove into their own conversation, you dismissed it as unimportant background noise. Directing your attention to the log book, you flipped through its pages and skimmed the entries; straightforward accounts of patrols, punctuated occasionally by Joel or Tommy’s scrawls, often laced with lighthearted banter or aimed at other patrol members, most frequently Mike.

Hooking your thumb under the straps of your pack and sauntering over to the window, you gazed out at the ever-captivating landscape. The prospect of watching over the area for the remainder of the shift didn’t sound too bad. No need to engage in conversation, no pressure to keep an eye on anyone but yourself, and one big ole’ place all to yourself.

“Hey Joel, Tommy’s here, I’m about to head out!”

You spun around to face the two men. Eugene looked in the direction which he called out to, while Tommy’s attention seemed magnetically drawn to the floor, a practiced evasion that didn’t go unnoticed by you. His tendency to omit information from you had become an increasingly noticeable pattern.

Your initially piercing gaze softened into something resembling discomfort as Joel rounded the corner, his eyes locking onto yours. His brisk stride slowed, his posture straightening, and his mouth gaped though no words came out. His eyes remained fixed on you, an unanticipated presence that caught him off guard as much as it did you. His gaze lingered a beat longer before tearing away to address the others in the room who were silently observing the wordless interaction between you both.

Tommy had, once again, displayed his shrewdness; his strategic move to involve a third party designed to preempt your opposition. His plan worked as intended, leaving you limited to a dismissive wave as he and Eugene left, a collective wish for safety in the air. Notably, you caught Tommy’s apologetic smile directed at Joel.

The moment they were out the door, you slung your bag into the open booth and sank down heavily beside it, your back turned to Joel. You paid no mind to his heavy footsteps as you picked through your bag to extract a rag and withdrew your pistol from its holster, rubbing the cloth along the barrel to rid it of dirt and grime and using your fingernails for precision. This would only take so long, and you had a long fucking shift to get through.

The hours passed and not a word was shared. You found yourself cleaning your guns and knife twice over, the repetitive task barely doing anything to take your mind off the only other person in the room. You hadn’t moved from the booth, and he remained rooted wherever he’d taken position, the exact location unknown since you didn’t even look at him. An ache burned into your neck and lower back, and you could feel the blood clotting in your legs from the prolonged sitting. Between the pain, humidity, and his presence, the room felt suffocating, and you needed to get out.

“I’m gonna go take a lap.” Your voice monotone as you stowed your gear into their rightful places, leaving your pack in the booth as you stood and strode towards the door.

“Ain’t much out there.” Joel’s gaze tracked your movements, though you sidestepped looking directly at him, gliding past his seated form.

“Should be a quick one, then.” You countered.

“You know the rules, no roaming– especially alone.” His voice bore a note of warning.

You brushed his caution aside, your steps carrying you closer to the door. “You can keep an eye on me from up here, it’ll be–”

A large hand enclosed around your arm, effectively halting your stride. Your narked expression mirrored his own as you pivoted to face him, his hold firmly asserting itself.

“M’not gonna repeat myself.” His drawl low.

“Then don’t.” You threw the attitude right back in his face, yanking your arm free from his grasp and spinning around to grab the door handle. It had barely opened an inch before he slammed it shut with his palm, gluing his hand to the spot and standing over you.

“Move, Joel.”

“There ain’t no need to go-”

“Oh, fuck off, would you? Gonna fucking trap me in here with you and not say anything to me the whole goddamn time?” Your agitation flared as you stalked off, scanning around for any other opening to leave from– contemplating even heading upstairs just to put the distance between you two.

“Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?” He goaded as his hand slid down the door and took a few steps in your direction.

“Yeah, like last time? Cause that worked like a real fuckin’ treat.” You scoffed, incredulity lacing your tone. You expected him to shake his head or be dismissive, but he just looked at you intently.

“I-”

“You kissed me, and then left me out to dry!” Your anger evolved into a sardonic grin, his guilt evident as he lowered his eyes. “So, unless that was your way of breaking my heart, then..”

Your voice died on the last word, reiterating the plea you shouted from the other side of the door that night before it happened, your hands falling heavy on your thighs after their emphatic gestures. Where your train of thought was going, you weren’t quite sure, but a palpable ache stirred in your chest and seeped through your entire being as his silence loomed, fearing that you just hit the nail on its head.

Maybe if you walked quick enough, you could slip out the door.

In a split-second decision, you decided to take the chance, the handle just in your reach before his hand wrapped around your arm again.

“Leave me al-”

He caged your body against the door with his own, his hands planted on each side of your head as his large frame towered over you, ducking his head down to capture your lips with own.

When he pulled back, his brown eyes were wide and lust-blown in supplication. His chest heaved with unsteady breaths, a telltale sign that he was teetering on the edge of control and moments away from losing it all. Your eyes raked over every facet that rendered him complete; every wrinkle, scar, and freckle that covered his skin that were once observed from a distance, now before you in sharp focus and transformed into a mosaic of perfection. His plump lips bore a fervent shade of pink, an irresistible invitation to meld your mouth against his once more. An intoxicating scent enveloped your senses, a harmonious dance of notes and undertones of woods and herbs, woven together with astonishing finesse that unveiled a new layer with every passing second.

You closed the distance with desperation to feel him everywhere, kisses becoming more aggressive and invasive, tongues swiping over lips and against each other in begging for more permission. Your fingers tangled in his hair to bring his face impossibly closer to yours, noses pressing into cheeks, and his hands trailing down to your ass and giving you a firm squeeze. You moaned into his mouth when his hard-on brushed your thigh through both your jeans, rolling your hips into him.

Your action pulled a pleasurable groan from his throat, making him cup your thighs and hoist you up to move you elsewhere, your legs wrapping around him instinctively. He placed you both behind the bar and sat you on the counter, moving his mouth down your neck to suck spots and soothe them with his tongue. His hands splayed across your thighs, fingers mere centimeters away from your burning core that you needed him to touch.

His fingers dug into the hips of your jeans as you were pressed chest-to-chest, hands still lost in his hair. Your mouths were hot on another again, teeth clanking and saliva trailing wherever his mouth was on you, “Joel, I-”

Your short sentence was cut even shorter by his thumb brushing just above your sensitive spot, making your body shutter from the sudden contact, a reaction he became acutely aware of. A smirk spread on his face when he pressed his thumb against your jeans and you rocked forward immediately.

Gently, he dragged up and down along the seam, pressing kisses to your jaw up to your ear as you squirmed under his touch, teasing you with his voice, “Y’like that, huh?”

You moaned at every touch, all of it more than you could have ever expected. It’d been years since being even remotely physical with someone, and now you had Joel, the last person you ever imagined to be with, all over you. It felt like a dream, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

His fingers undid your jeans and he pulled them down enough to get access to where you both wanted him, swiping his thumb over the dampness of your panties and letting out a shaky breath at just how wet you were for him. He wrapped a strong arm around your waist and slid you closer as he leaned you backwards with hot kisses, sneakily diverting your attention while he pulled your panties to the side and sunk a finger into you, your sounds of pleasure muffled against his mouth and your hands gripping his shoulders.

You writhed until you were on the edge, pressing your body into him and his one arm stabilizing you while the other was between your legs, pumping one finger, then two. Shamelessly, you rocked into his hand, bucking your hips when his thumb rubbed circles against your clit and letting out soft gasps.

“That’s it, c’mon– use me, use my fingers,” he coaxed as he watched you ascend to seventh heaven with your eyes screwed shut and your mouth agape, “cum for me, darlin’.”

You rocked faster into his hand as he did a blissful combination of pumping, curling, and rubbing, feeling the fiery tightness in your stomach about to snap. You dug your fingers into his back as you clung around him, his arm holding you steady as he finger-fucked you. Burying your face in his neck, you were met with the warm and rich aromatic spices that flooded your sense of smell again, making your lungs and head feel lighter; rosemary and juniper mingling seamlessly with hints of musk and leather. He felt and watched as you came undone by his doing, your body constricting and your pussy tightening around his fingers, wishing he could see your face as you came. He muttered sweet praises as you rode out your high, but you were barely able to hear them from the white noise that exploded in your ears.

You whimpered at his fingers leaving you, opening your eyes just in time as he brought you down and faced you the other way. A lazy grin spread across your face as you heard the sound of his belt coming off, knowing what was next.

He pressed his pelvis against your backside, his warmth a heavenly feeling on your bare skin. His head brushed at your bundle of nerves as he guided himself along your folds, slicking himself with your heat, the contact making you putty in his hands.

“F-fuck,” the hot, soft skin of his cock on your pussy drove you up a wall, “n-need to see it– see you.”

He nuzzled his nose just behind your ear, “One of us s’gotta keep watch.”

Fuck if he thought that you would be the one watching, how could you possibly focus on anything else but him right now?

And as if anyone or anything would be around. But if they did, man did they have a sight to stumble upon.

He lined himself up and cupped the base of your neck, using it to hold you in place and as leverage to sink into you. You both let out mangled moans as he pushed in, his grip tightening on the back of your neck as he went deeper. Breathy gasps and muddled curses left your mouth as your pussy stretched to his girth, overstimulated by his sheer size and how fucking good he felt inside you.

“God– You’re so- agh-” he grunted, “so fuckin’ tight.”

He pressed himself into your back and buried his face into your shoulder as he bottomed out, his mind spinning from simply sheathing his cock into you. His hands fell to your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the plushness of them. And once he started off in agonizingly slow thrusts, you soon recognized it as a sweet pleasure that you’d never felt before, the sensation incredibly gratifying and making your nerves pleasantly hyperesthetic. It made you weak in the knees, yet you pressed your ass against him to greedily beg for more.

He gradually picked up the pace, flesh smacking against flesh. You arched your back to give him better access, his body attuned to yours and adjusting accordingly. With every thrust, you jolted forward with airy breaths leaving you slackened jaw, feeling high off his touch, but you wanted more. Being that you were standing and he was behind you, it gave you barely any power to move how you wanted to, the pace and power solely in his hands.

“F-faster, Joel.” You managed to stammer out.

He purposely slowed down, craning his head to press lips against your ear, “What’s that, darlin?”

You whined at the stillness, trying to keep the motion going but miserably failing. His low chuckle made you want to cry, your whole body flushing in a frazzled hot sweat from the game he was trying to play.

“Use ‘em words, tell me what y’need.” He could get you to come from speaking to you like that, period. You whined even more when he teased his head in and out of your hole. “C’mon sweetheart–”

“You! Need you! Fa-” You cried out as he buried himself deep in you to the point his cock was vibrating from straining so hard, making you clench down on him and hearing a satisfied grunt from behind you.

“Good girl.”

He had you mewling as he drilled into you, fucking you into oblivion with his nasty acts. The sound of your skin wetly smacking had been the loudest in the room, followed by your blended grunts and gasps, his ragged breaths the most delicious sound you’d ever heard. Your heat was dripping down your thigh and pooling at the base of his cock, a divine sight that further fueled his sin. He snaked one hand down to your clit and rubbed fast circles, the tightness in your stomach rapidly coiling up again and forcing you to grip the edge of the counter.

“Such a good girl f’me.. to me.”

The sound of his praises and the squelching of fluids was quickly bringing you to your second high. You lacked the ability to turn over your shoulder to look at him, “Joel, I’m gonna-ah!– Gonna-”

Your mouth hung open as you threw your head back, his thrusts growing erratic and free hand hurrying up and under your bra to take your hardened nipple into his thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. In a matter of seconds, you were crumbling under his touch all over again by all the different and pleasurable sensations, your vision blurring and hot white ripping through your body. Your voice was lost in Joel’s, his pumps sloppy but still snapping hard into you.

“Fuck, darlin’, so fuckin’ pretty like this,” his head buried into your neck and shoulders, “got you– hah– got you all over my cock, givin’ you what he couldn’t.” Even through riding out your high a second time, your eyes widened at the subtle confession of jealousy. “Mine– always been–”

Quickly, he pulled out and spent himself away from you, leaning into your body and wrapping an arm around your waist as he shuddered through his orgasm with husky grunts. Your head hung as you braced yourself against the counter to act as a pillar for him, the adrenaline draining from your body as clarity took the place of it. He tucked himself away before retracting entirely from you to lean against the opposing counter, but not without pulling your panties and jeans up in a lazily swift motion first.

The room settled into a hushed stillness, interrupted by the labored breaths that punctuated the space as you both sought to regain your composure. You could feel your shirt sticking to your back, surely a trail of dappled sweat soaked through and down your spine that Joel could see as your back was still turned to him. The lack of light in the room indicated that nightfall was on your heels, meaning that it was past due the time you should’ve left to start back to Jackson, but you couldn’t find it in you to care about that right now.

Just two days ago, he kissed you and left without any kind of closure. And now, he’d just fucked you, twice.

With a gentle touch, he pivoted you around by your hip until you faced him, looking at each other with half-lidded eyes, yet it seemed that he had already bounced back quicker than you had. Even without proper lighting, the sheen of sweat visibly glistened on his forehead, tiny droplets matting down strands of hair around the frame of his face.

“Should get goin’.” He didn’t look at you as he delicately zipped up and buttoned your jeans, a task you were gathering the energy to accomplish on your own.

You nodded, silently acknowledging him, but more stunned by the act. Without further exchange, he retreated from you to grab his bag and headed outside.

Again, you were left alone with no kind of explanation of what the hell just happened, albeit in a much bigger, quieter, and darker space this time.

Your head was fucked. On and off. Hot and cold. Moments of potential followed by abrupt deflation.

What is happening?

Through the expanse of windows, the moon’s emergence over a distant peak caught your eye, a silent reminder of the advancing hour, urging you to gather your own things to get a move on.

You were definitely late now.

The walk home from the stables was quiet aside from the buzzing of insects. Walking in tandem, you barely looked in the other’s direction, though your thoughts were screaming about him. Every house you passed had their lights out and curtains drawn, a clear sign of the curfew set in place that you both were breaking right now, and how suspicious it’d look to anyone if they caught you. If you were lucky, Tommy would sweep it under the rug– maybe– but a greater concern lay in Maria finding out.

The glow of your own house’s lights struck you only upon crossing the threshold, a worried Ellie instantly appearing in the foyer– another person you forgot to consider answering to for your poor punctuality.

“Where have you guys been?”

You never thought you’d be on the receiving end of this situation, an unforseen shift that left you feeling unusually juvenile.

“We-uh..”

“..Had some stuff-”

“Had to go and-”

“Took care of it.”

Your faltering excuses had Ellie looking more confused than ever, her brows furrowing and scrunching in rapid succession as she attempted to parse both your disjointed words. It probably didn’t help that you were both disheveled and sticky with sweat while you muttered out words, though you could’ve played that off for the heat.

“Got caught up with some infected,” Joel looked over at you for the first time since the lodge, and you noticed the faintest blush gracing his cheeks, “threw us off on the way back, that’s all.”

You held your breath as Ellie continued to look at you funny even as you nodded to Joel’s lie. She was still skeptical, but ultimately let it go. “Well, I’m glad you guys made it back safe,” she eased her stance, “I was about to go knocking at Uncle Tommy’s.”

What a shitshow that would’ve been.

“Sorry to keep you waitin’, kiddo,” Joel crouched down, deftly undoing the laces of his boots and slipping them off, “why don’t you go get some rest now?”

“Read my mind.” A yawn accompanied her acknowledgement of the suggestion. She shifted her weight back on her heel, briefly looking you both up and down, “I’d give you guys a hug, but you seem kinda..”

“Goodnight, kiddo!”

“Go to bed already!”

Chuckles rippled through the room in the light moment, relief settling over you that your appearance was received how you were hoping it was. A small, contented smile remained on your lips even after she left, always having the ability to leave the room just a little bit brighter than before.

You reached down to grab your boots only to find them gone as if they vanished into thin air, then noticing how they swayed in Joel’s grasp as he placed them in the cubby-hole in the laundry room. You stared at him, the act registering more than just the simple one it was– no, there was something underneath it.

Because first it was your jeans and underwear, and now it was your shoes.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, staring down at the first step and then towards you. He looked.. exhausted.. to say the least. Like he was thinking about everything and nothing all at once. Silence wrapped around the room, a palpable avoidance of it, though so much needed to be said.

“Did you wanna..”

Your eyebrows slightly raised. Is he about to..?

“Take a shower before bed?”

Oh. Right. Because you share a bathroom, and he probably wants to take one.

“Uh- yeah,” you blinked out of thought, “probably be good to do.”

He pursed his lips and gave an awkward nod as you brushed past him, skipping every other step to grab clothes from your room and rushed to clean yourself so that you weren’t imposing too much on his sleep.

It would’ve taken you less time if you hadn’t had such a mess to clean up between your legs, making a mental note to maybe have something on you next time, if there even was a next time.

While you dried your hair, you bunched up your dirty clothes into the shirt you’d worn, having planned to drop it in your own laundry basket. But when you saw his sitting in the space behind the door, something compelled you to drop yours in. He probably wouldn’t have noticed once he threw his clothes on top of yours, and it all had to get cleaned anyway, right?

When you opened the door, a lamp had been turned on and Joel sat in the chair closest to his turntable, though no music played. How long he’d been sitting there, you didn’t know, but after all, it was his room.

You leaned against the doorway while running your thumb over the towel in your hands, “Hope I didn’t take too long.”

He shook his head, but it was infused with a genuine sincereness, like you could’ve been in there for an hour and he wouldn’t have minded.

Things felt.. different, now.

Your attention shifted to an album positioned atop his pile and a small white square in his hands, and if you squinted, you were almost certain that it was the one you were thinking of. You gently inquired about the item you were sure to have seen before, “What’s that?”

His eyes peered up at you, registering a hint of surprise, “Uh.. picture Ellie took ‘while ago.”

“You keep a lot in there?” Joel’s movements stilled as he slid the polaroid back into the album sleeve.

Shit, too much.

“No, just this one.” He answered with candor as he placed the sleeve with the rest, “Haven’t found the right frame for it, yet.”

Now, you knew that it was definitely Joel in the picture, because why else would he have kept it? You now also garnered two more pieces of information: It was taken by Ellie, and it had to have been taken in Jackson. It was likely that he had divulged more than he probably wanted or intended to, so you didn’t press any further.

“Well,” you steered the conversation away from the subject, “thanks for letting me get a shower in.”

He nodded with his gaze trained on the floor as he turned to rummage through his drawers for clothes, taking it as your cue to finally get out. With meek steps, you crossed the room, getting one foot out the door before he called your name softly, catching yourself on the frame to look back at him.

“Just.. wanted to say goodnight.”

He seemed to wrestle with his emotions, and though his eyes struggled meeting yours directly, the attempt to connect was clear. The tension that held your expression in what felt like all day finally softened, but a familiar ache rested deep within you.

You wanted.. sleep, for one, but also answers– or was it closure?

Who even fucking knew? Because you surely didn’t, and Joel probably didn’t either. And trying to figure it all out in the span of the current moment was pointless, especially while you were still lingering in his doorway.

Whatever was happening, it wasn’t easy, and it was far from being over.

“Goodnight, Joel.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #annasmasterlist #annawrites

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fenharel-enaste · 1 year

Text

Smiles among Scrolls || Elendil x fem!Reader

Rating: +18

Summary: You're an apprentice in the Hall of Lore and and new visitor catches your eye... and you his.

Content: Mutual pining, idiots in love, lots of feelings, unprotected sex (don't do this pls), p in v sex, fingering, smutty smut.

Word count: 5.2k

Requested by: @thetempleofthemasaigoddess (I'm so sorry for the long delay omg)

Tagging: @starlady66 , @grinkitty, @wint3r-h3art

It's also on AO3!

You had only been an apprentice at the Hall of Lore for a few months. On a daily basis, you took care of simple tasks, such as organising texts and helping visitors to find what they needed. But what you enjoyed most was studying and learning about the new (and not so new) writings that came in. The day you were accepted to study with the masters and begin a career full of learning was undoubtedly one of the most exciting days of your life.

But you hadn't expected to find much else there besides knowledge.

You would never forget the day you first saw him. Elendil was his name. And you could swear you had never seen a more attractive man in your life.

You were organising the books and scrolls of the library when you heard a deep, soft voice behind you.

“Excuse me, my lady.” A voice that almost gave you goose bumps from the very first moment. You turned to see the face of the person who was speaking to you. And you were met with such a breathtaking visage and gaze that you felt your heart had stopped beating for a moment. He was unbelievably tall and handsome.

“I...” His gaze roamed over your face for a few seconds before he looked away and cleared his throat to speak. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady. My name is Elendil, I’m a captain of the sea guard. I was wondering you had any charts of the former maritime trade routes south of Númenor. I could use some from thirty or forty years ago. Would it be possible?”

He spoke that last question looking back at you again, this time with a polite, sweet smile on his face. You felt so nervous you almost dropped the scrolls you held in your arms, but you pulled yourself together when you realised the unknown visitor was waiting for an answer.

“Uhh yes! Yes, I think so. Please wait here, my lord, while I search for it.”

You turned away from him more abruptly than you normally would. What was wrong with you? He was just a person. He was just a person. You hurried to the shelves where you knew all the maritime charts from the Second Age were kept, neatly arranged by geographic area and date.

You returned to Elendil as soon as you found what you were looking for and offered it to him with a slight bow of your head, as you had been taught to do. "Thank you, my lady, you are most kind,” he said returning the gesture as he received the documents with a grateful smile.

Elendil. That's what he said his name was. And you couldn't get it out of your mind for the days that followed, wondering if you'd ever see him again.

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A week had passed when it seemed the Valar had finally answered your prayers. You were assisting a visitor when you saw the captain who had just entered the library.

His eyes wandered around the room until they met yours, he nodded his head as a greeting as he gave you that same smile you hadn’t been able to get out of your head all week. You returned it shyly, for longer than you thought it seemed, because you realised too late that you had stopped listening to the woman in front of you.

After apologising and handing her the documents she had requested, you approached Elendil, who was intently admiring one of the ancient canvases on the wall. You found him even more attractive than the last time, if that was possible.

“Sorry to keep you waiting sir, how could I help you?” You tried to sound as professional as you could, but you felt a slight quiver in your voice betraying you.

“It gladdens me greatly to see you again, my lady.” You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks at his words. “Do you remember those charts I requested from you last time? I'm afraid I need to have another look at them, I seem to have made a mistake in my notes...”

“Of course, my lord, at once.” You had to force yourself to look away from his ocean blue eyes and turn around to look for the maps once more.

When you handed them to him this time, your fingers touched briefly and you couldn't help but look away. You started to turn away so he wouldn't notice your blush, pretending to be in a hurry to get back to work, but you were interrupted by his velvety voice. "Wait." For a second, you thought you saw pleading in his eyes. “Would it be inappropriate of me to ask your name?”

Why...? No other visitor had ever asked you that. The only questions they had were about where to find the documents they needed or if you could help them translate something. It caught you by surprise. “My name?”

“Yes, I... you do not have to respond. I would simply like to know since I’ll have to come here quite often for a while. Matters of the sea guard. And...” He hesitated and smiled shyly before speaking further. “And I would very much like to know the name of the so kind lady who might be so helpful to me in the coming days.”

You were speechless at his request. He was simply asking your name, but the way he did it felt... like the best compliment you had ever received. Your reply emerged from your lips timidly.

“That’s a lovely name, my lady. It will for sure be one hard to forget,” he said before slowly walking away from you to the same table he used last time. And you returned to your work, or tried to, as you found it impossible to take your eyes off that dashing man as he closely studied his maps. At times, you had the impression that he was looking at you as well, but you were aware that these were just no more than naive delusions.

----------------------------------

Days, weeks went by, and Elendil was coming more and more regularly, since his research was taking longer than he expected. Not that you were complaining, for that was what kept him coming back so often.

You were surprised when one day he invited you to join him to keep him company while he studied his elaborate charts, but you were happy to oblige. And the same happened the next day and the next, until it became a routine for both of you. You would sit across the table from him and talk for hours.

The captain would ask you questions about your days at the Hall of Lore with genuine curiosity on his face; what you found most interesting about that place, anecdotes about the rarest books you'd ever been requested. And also about your life; where you grew up, what had led you to become an apprentice there, what you did in your leisure time...

You learned a lot about him too. He told you he grew in western Númenor, things were very different from the capital there. He had three wonderful children, and he shared with you what he loved most about each of them, and also what got on his nerves.

One day, he even told you about his investigation. The sea guard had been hunting for some time now a band of pirates who were becoming a problem for trade in the city. They were supposed, or so the rumours said, to be using old trade routes for their smuggling operations, but these routes had changed significantly over the years. There were too many possible options. And these were also said to change every few days, so that one week's research work might be of no use for the next.

Every day you woke up hoping to see him there, sometimes you would even learn about those sea routes he mentioned in order to help him. Or maybe you did it just to have a conversation with him. You loved listening to him talk about the stories he had experienced at sea, you could see passion in his eyes when you would ask him about them and you couldn't stop smiling the whole time.

You got to know each other better as the weeks went by. Although there were days when the number of visitors made it difficult to spend too much time with Elendil. But, as always, you were unable to take your eyes off him. This time, you were fully aware that he stared back at you sometimes, and you smiled at each other knowingly.

The attraction you felt the first few days was still there and you couldn't help but blushing every moment and getting flustered every time he was around. But you knew that attraction was evolving into something else too, and you couldn't stop thinking about it. He was charming, kind, attentive, handsome... perfect. On days when he wasn't there, you spent hours daydreaming about him and the different scenarios that could happen.

There were times when you even wondered if he might feel the same way, but you convinced yourself that these were nothing more than fantasies. One day he would complete his work there and he'd have no reason to see you again. You had to remind yourself of that to avoid the suffering later on.

But to hear his voice, his bad jokes and the sound of his laughter... at least you could have that for the moment.

----------------------------------

It was an autumn afternoon when it began to rain heavily outside the Hall of Lore. You loved the view of the dark sea and sky from the safety of the ancient library as the torrential rain poured down. It was clear it would be a fairly quiet day, as no one in their right mind would go to that place so far from civilisation in such conditions; and it was to be assumed that Elendil wouldn’t show up that day either.

You and the other few lore keepers who lived there finished your chores early and were allowed to take the rest of the day off. You decided to spend it at the same desk where you had grown so used to your conversations with Elendil several days a week. You read about the fascinating stories that inspired you to become an apprentice almost a year ago now.

The sound and smell of the rain and the howling wind always helped you to relax during your reading time, and today you felt your eyelids getting heavy. You were about to fall asleep when you heard a soft, familiar voice call your name.

You were dreaming about him again. You smiled at the thought.

But, after a few seconds, you noticed the sound came from outside your mind. You jolted at the realisation and looked up towards where the voice was coming from.

There he was.

“Oh forgive me, I wasn’t aware you all were resting. Should I come back another time?” He looked genuinely concerned about having disturbing you somehow.

“No! No, it’s no bother at all, of course. What do you need to-...?” Your words vanished into thin air when you realised that he was drenched. The rain was still falling heavily outside. “Wait, did you really ride all the way here from Armenelos with this storm?”

He chuckled at your surprised tone. “It’d be definitely worse if I was sailing out there, believe me, I know.”

“I see...” You then noticed the water drops falling to the ground from the hooded cloak that covered him, he must be soaked to the bone. “May I take your cloak at least?”

He nodded and reached for his clasp to take it off. Normally you wait for visitors to hand it to you once they've removed it, but you walked over to him and placed your hands on his shoulders to help him. It was a completely impulsive act. You felt his body tense slightly at the contact. You feared you might have crossed the line with him. “I’m sorry,” you muttered with a trembling voice.

“There’s no need to apologize, my lady. You are so kind. As always.” He was staring at you intensely but so sweetly from above. You sometimes forgot how tall and imposing he truly was. And you were very, much closer than ever before. You could feel his breath on your cheek. And he made no attempt to pull away, he just kept looking at you in that way that made your legs weak.

You wanted, needed to kiss him right at that moment, it was the only thing on your mind. You needed all your willpower to come to your senses and break away from him. You couldn't bear the thought of crossing a boundary of his twice in the same day. But the thought of him rejecting you was even more unbearable.

You folded the cloak in your arms and began to turn towards a nearby hanger... and you felt a grip in your arm, impeding your movement. You turned your head to see Elendil staring at you even more intensely than before. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but only a sigh escaped his lips along with a soft 'thank you' before he slowly let go of your arm.

What on Arda was that?

After a few seconds of bewilderment and placing the cloak on the hanger, you managed to ask him what he needed today.

“Yes, we... we received a new rumour this time. It may be the reason why we haven’t found the smugglers yet.” He paused, sorting out the ideas in his head. “We know for sure they only use old maritime routes, which we’ve been relentlessly investigating. But we’ve only considered the ones used in this Age so far.”

You could see what he was trying to tell you. “And you need information about the ones used in the First Age.” He nodded at your response with resolution on his face. You knew he was unlikely to find answers in those charts, but the man was persistent.

You explained to him that you had very few maps from that time, most of them were lost long ago in wars or had worn out over time. Besides, they were from a time before Númenor, only the Eldar sailed those waters back then, so there were very few copies on the isle. The very few preserved there were in a secluded chamber, protected from sunlight, humidity and inexperienced hands. Still, he insisted.

You led him down a dark corridor to an even darker chamber, for there was no window in order to protect the delicate archives from the changing climate. It was lit only by a few candles, and consisted of very narrow aisles of bookshelves, separated only by small desks between them. There was little room to move freely between them.

You slipped between two shelves full of ancient books and scrolls and handed Elendil the candle you were holding in order to better examine the documents. The limited space required you to stand close together. Dangerously close, you thought. Nervousness washed over you again, and you struggled to stay focused on your task.

You both remained silent as you searched through the scrolls, only the sound of the rain outside echoing off the walls of the room.

“Could you lower the candle? I need to see more closely on this shelf.” There was no reaction from him. “Elendil?” You looked up and found him staring blankly, thoughtfully. But he was startled by your voice.

“Forgive me. I was distracted.” He had been acting strangely ever since you approached him to take his cloak off. You felt him tense and unfocused. Perhaps he had become aware of your thoughts, that you had been on the verge of kissing him. Maybe he felt uncomfortable... you'd rather not dwell on it at the moment.

“I’ll be honest, Elendil, I don't think you'll find what you need here. Only the Eldar have ever used these routes and it's unlikely pirates would have access to that information. By the Valar, it seems that not even we have access to it.”

“I see... I thought it was worth a try, even so.” You perceived a hint of sadness in his voice, which was surprising for you. You could understand if he was disappointed, even frustrated at failing to complete his mission... but saddened?

“I'm sorry I can't do anything more for you. Especially knowing that you came all this way in this storm just for this.”

“It’s alright, you have done so much for me, I have no words to express how much I appreciate your help. Besides, I told you I’ve been in worse storms than this,” he said, giving you that sweet smile you'd seen so many times before, but avoiding looking you in the eye.

“I know, but was it that necessary coming today? You've been working on it for months, why didn’t you wait unt-”

“Because of you,” he interrupted, muttering his words.

Because of... what? You were completely frozen, you were unable to think or react. Your heart started pounding. Maybe it was your imagination and you only heard what you wanted to hear. "What...?" You could barely utter a sound.

“I wanted to see you,” he said it louder this time, punctuating each word clearly. There was no doubt.

“You... you’ve come here today... to see me?” You felt your heartbeat in your ears now, heat rising to your cheeks.

“No. Everyday. I’ve come here everyday to see you.” Your head started to spin. You must have fallen asleep earlier while reading and this was just a dream, like the many dreams you'd had before in which he confessed his love for you. But each word he spoke convinced you more and more of how real it was.

“My first instinct was right. We found the pirates within two weeks from the first time we met. Each day from then, you’re the only reason I’ve been coming here all the way from Armenelos.”

You wanted to speak, to tell him what you had felt for him since the first time you saw him. But you couldn't find the words, you couldn't pronounce them, you could barely remember how to breathe at that moment. All you could hear was his beautiful voice saying those sweet words to you.

“I wanted to learn more about you from the first time I saw you. That's why I kept coming here from time to time and, before I knew it, I was dreaming about you. And then seeing you was the first thing I would think of when I woke up everyday. You made me feel like a foolish, lovesick young boy again.”

He moved even closer to you, if that was possible in the restricted space you had, and took your hand in his. It was warm in comparison to the coldness of the chamber that day. You wanted him to never let it go.

“There were days when you were so busy that you barely had time to talk to me, but it didn't make it any less worthwhile to come here. I was content just to look at your face and be with you for just a brief few minutes. I was captivated by you.”

You couldn’t help it any longer, the warm touch of his hand on yours, his face, even more ravishing than ever by the candlelight he was holding. You could see the agonising wait for your answer in his eyes. Courage finally took over and you slowly brought your hand up to his face, tenderly brushing his beard, and then his lips.

And you pressed your lips against his.

He seemed taken aback, as if he wasn't expecting such a response from you. You felt the tension in his body being released before kissing you back. He placed the candle carefully on the desk next to you, which he had to do blindly, as he didn't want to leave your lips at any time.

He then brings both hands to your waist and pushes you slowly until your back collides with the shelves behind you. Your head spins as Elendil begins to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth, caressing yours so expertly. He slides one of his hands up from your waist to the back of your head, pulling you even tighter against his mouth. Your hands cannot leave his face and his hair, which you tug gently, eliciting a soft moan from his lips.

“I’ve been dreaming about this for so long... longer than I should admit. How would I know I’m not dreaming as well this time?” Elendil murmurs between kisses before cupping your face in his hands and staring into your eyes, brushing aside a strand of your hair. “Would it be too bold of me to say that I love you?”

Your heart skips a beat at his words and you feel tears forming in your eyes. You were so in love with that man. “I love you too, Elendil. You have no idea how long I’ve been loving you, praying to the Valar to see you everyday.” You had never felt more liberated than at this moment, knowing you could finally say aloud the words you had always said in silence.

Elendil sighed with relief and all he could do was smile. “Yes, this must definitely be a dream...” And he brought his lips back to yours.

You didn't know how long you stayed like this, nearly out of breath, but you couldn't have enough of him and his taste, a taste you'd spent too long imagining what it would be like. And now you both wanted to make up for all that lost time, kissing each other once for every time you'd wanted to do so since your eyes met for the first time, even if it meant not separating your lips until the next morning.

Your kisses and soft moans were the only sounds in the lonely chamber, hidden by the pouring rain outside, which seemed louder than before. After a while you found yourself panting and grinding eagerly against the captain while he bit and left wet kisses on your neck and cleavage. You began to inconciously tug on his clothes in desperation. You needed to see him. All of him.

“Elendil... please, I need you.” You had never felt this aroused by anyone before, you didn't recognise yourself in your behaviour, and yet, everything you did felt more like you than ever before.

Elendil wasted no time and pulled away from you just enough to remove the upper part of his clothes. Before he could have even finished, you already had your hands in his trousers, hastily trying to unbutton them, and the captain laughed at your eagerness.

“Glad to know I'm not the most impatient one here,” he said playfully, bringing his hands to your dress and unfastening it to expose your breasts to him. After lustfully staring at them for a moment, he cupped them in his large, rough hands and squeezed them gently, bringing his mouth to them and sucking, circling your so sensitive nipples with his warm tongue and caressing and tugging on them with his fingers. You have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from moaning too loudly It's unlikely anyone would walk in there, but that would change if someone heard what was going on in that chamber.

The captain's caresses and mouth on your breasts made you feel your underwear quickly dampen and you brought your hands back to his trousers to finish unbuttoning them and free his member. You felt it hard and throbbing in your hand when you grabbed it. It was... definitely thicker than you expected. It made you feel a tingle between your legs, and you began to move your hips involuntarily towards it as you stroked it slowly.

“Fuck, love,” Elendil shuddered at the contact and ceased playing with your breasts to completely remove your dress along with your underwear. He took your hands and wrapped your arms around his neck. You whined as he pulled your hand away from his length, you wanted to please him so badly.

“I know you want it, pretty one, but I have to make you ready for me first.” And you soon realised why he had made you cling to him when he grabbed one of your thighs and lifted it, placing your leg against his hip. He then reached between your legs with his other hand and gently brushed your clit and folds before sliding a finger into your soaking entrance.

“Oh fu-” you blurted out too loudly and Elendil silenced you with his mouth on yours. “Shhh, it’s alright, love. But remember we have to remain quiet.” You nodded your head in obedience and he resumed his strokes inside you. You were so wet he found you prepared for a second finger, which slid in easily, and he continued kissing you deeply to muffle your moans as he worked his fingers inside you, stretching open your tight walls for what was to come. It felt so good it was hard to keep your balance if it wasn't for your arms around his neck and the shelves the captain had you pinned against.

Your moans in his mouth were driving him insane, so he instinctively pressed his hard cock against your hips and began to rub it against you. “I’ve wanted this for so long, my dear. Tell me, have you ever imagined me doing this to you?” he inquired in your ear in a low voice and in an even lower register than you'd ever heard him before. It made you shiver.

“Yes! Yes, so many times...” And you told him about the times you had pleasured yourself in sleepless nights, covering your mouth with your hand so you wouldn't wake the other apprentices, thinking about the things you wanted him to do to you. Or those times when you excused yourself and disappeared during his visits; you told him exactly what you were doing.

It was becoming increasingly difficult for you to speak, for as you related your fantasies to him, his fingers gained speed inside you. You were a panting mess after a few minutes.

Your words seemed to have an effect on him, as he groaned with arousal and withdrew his fingers from you to lift you off the floor and onto the small desk beside you. “I need to take you know, sweetheart, do you want it?” he asked, teasing you with his throbbing cock.

“Yes, please! Please!” You were soaking wet, so ready for him.

“Look at me.” He lifted your face with one hand while he brought the other to the small of your back. You were leering at each other's eyes as Elendil slid his cock slowly through your entrance. You struggled not to whine too loudly, his size made you feel some discomfort, but that just turned you on even more; it felt incredibly good.

“It’s alright, love. I have you.” He drove himself as deep as he could and allowed you to get used to his size before slowly but steadily thrusting himself deep inside you. You ran your hands all over his tonned chest, leaving kisses and little bites everywhere you could, taking them higher and higher until you reached his neck. Elendil shuddered at the touch of your lips in that sensitive spot and pulled you even tighter against him, cherishing every inch of your body with his warm hands. You wrapped your legs around his hips, encouraging him to fuck you even deeper. It felt like you were never close enough, even though there was hardly any space between the two of you.

You can't stop caressing, kissing and biting each other to muffle your whimpers and groans. Your whole body was on fire despite the cold temperature of the room. “Say my name, my love. I need to hear you say it,” he whispered in your ear as he increased the pace of his pounding, hitting exactly where you needed him the most. You felt so full of him and you knew you weren't going to last much longer, and you could see he was close as well. But you wanted even more of him...

“Elendil... captain, harder... please...” you begged desperately. The way you said his name, the title you used on him, your watering pleading eyes looking at his... he couldn’t hold himself any longer.

“As you wish, my lady,” he groaned and grabbed your ass tightly to hold you in place as he began to brutally ram into you. You had to hold on to his strong arms and shoulders to keep your balance, clinging on so tightly you'd probably leave marks, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to enjoy the effect he was having on you, forcing you to use all your willpower to keep your loud cries from coming out of your mouth.

“Next time, pretty one, I’ll make sure to take you somewhere where I can hear your lovely cries. And believe me, I will hear them...” His promise made the pressure in your belly grow stronger, you were so, so close, and your captain knew it by the tears that began to fall from your eyes. It only took a few more thrusts in your so sensitive spot to bring you over the edge. It was amazingly intense; your orgasms you had over the past few months imagining he was the one giving them to you were nothing in comparison. He kept his relentless rhythm even then, wanting to prolong your climax as long as possible, balls slapping hard against you as your body was hit by waves after waves of pleasure.

Even before your orgasm faded at all, you heard Elendil's grunts of pleasure against your shoulder as he slowed the pace of his thrusts, though not the depth. His hands gripped your ass even tighter than before as he rode his orgasm.

Your hands remained tangled in his hair until his movements ceased completely. You were both spent and sated, with sweat all over your bodies, shivering a slightly from the intensity of what had happened. Elendil didn't want to remove his length from you just yet, he wanted to stay that close to you for a bit longer.

You spent the next few minutes like that, showering each other in kisses and whispering sweet nothings and words of love.

“I’ve been such a fool for not telling you sooner,” you admitted. “We could have done this a long time ago if it hadn't been for my fear of you rejecting me.”

Elendil took the hand you had against his cheek and pressed his lips against it. “I’m afraid I have been even more foolish, my stars. Asking you day after day for all those charts... with you around I wasn’t even paying attention to them at all.” You both laughed in disbelief at how ridiculous this whole situation had been.

“Just so you know, my love; I would’ve had to be the most insane man on earth to reject you.”

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