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Zefyr would have thought it to be a fever dream, to be stuck in circumstances as pristinely specific as this, the bane[and simultaneous, consistent thrill] of his existence barely gathering their wits across him. A few feet, what he could make out from thick strands of his hair tousled over his features. Head. Fucking. Pounding.
Probably from the drop-
-Ah.
Of course, fates had this - despicable, *competent*[credits due where credits due] demon show up when he had just scoured the seas. Unruly in these parts, Sima's everlasting curse, to the entrance of something, 'something' that his mind automatically clicked into place as *it.*
What every greedy bastard could fucking *dream* of, and yet, there it was, in front of him. Now, all was necessary was a careful way
Before his crew got swept up in a blizzard of shots fired, and blades swung, words blurred together into the noise before either side could make out a sound. His one focus was set on the pinnacle of this conflict; you.
Cute. Not cute enough to get through him and his fucking-
It had scarcely been a second before his blade had met the opposing captains, had been long enough to heave pants of breath out of his chest as neither blade was coated in crimson, till the ground beneath them cracked -
Zefyr didn't know how long he had been out. Barely woken up by a groan, someone else's, *you's*- a flash of reflex, turned into him straddling his rival. Persistent. Fucking. Thing. A dagger to their throat, that would have been it, if there hadn't been a pistol pressed against his pulsepoint the very second.
" ...You're a real treat, heartie. " His own voice felt like a blow to his head, *how far had they fallen?* Far enough neither crew made it down. Pupil fixated onto the finger gripped around the trigger, gave a rush of adrenaline, before flitting to his dagger curved at that, ah so delicate looking throat.
Good. Too good.
" Give one reason not to slit that little throat. Figures your skin migh' make a good carpet for some buyer, dont'cha? "
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