Edward Teach ;

🪐 — edward teach​ ;

he waits for hatred or disgust to crawl into stede’s words.   waits and waits for it to hit him straight to the chest,  like a fatal wound delivered with inescapable good aim.  it’s no less than what he deserves.  but nothing of it comes, not in the slightest  —  the only thing he hears is wretched sadness.  and regret,  too.  so much of it edward nearly chokes,  chest tightening painfully at each intake of breath.  he can’t breathe right,  like something is pulling him underwater and he can never gulp down enough air before he goes down again.  right hand curls,  desperate to hold onto something,  anything,  and it doesn’t stop when it only finds the flesh of his palm,  it doesn’t stop when skin tears and he starts to bleed  (   better his blood than the sight of stede’s own   ).  it grounds him,  at least a little.  not nearly enough.  what he needs is what he can never have:  stede.  stede touching him,  his arms keeping him afloat like he did in his dreams. 

❛  i killed the writer boy.  toss’d him overboard.  ❜   and that can’t possibly be stede’s fault now,  can it?  no,  that is on his hands alone.    ❛  so why shouldn’t you—  what else can you be here for?  ❜   now that anger doesn’t fuel him anymore his voice sounds weak,  on the verge of breaking.  he is so tired of pretending to be dealing with this any better than he is.  it doesn’t take long now  —  a sob wrenches itself free from his throat,  and it’s like a dam finally bursting open.  edward doesn’t have the strength to hold back tears any longer,  so he lets them fall down his cheeks in messy rivulets,  streaked with black,  his head still hung low. 

         IT’S THE MENTION OF LUCIUS that makes stede feel suddenly ill, his stomach rolling unpleasantly like a ship in a storm. the scribe hadn’t been left on that god-forsaken spit of sand with the rest of the crew, but nor had jim or frenchie,  &  yet only the later two had been waiting safely aboard the revenge upon his return.  & stede flinches at the thought that the boy had died all thanks to him,  all because he hadn’t been there to keep him safe. the regret overwhelms him for a moment, makes him nauseous. perhaps lucius’s ghost would appear to haunt him now, waterlogged  &  deathly pale with seaweed in his hair. but the broken sob that escapes from ed’s lips returns stede’s attentions to the present — he will have to assuage his guilt about the boy later, somehow.                                                                      edward’s face is downturned, its expression hidden by his long loose hair. but the flickering candlelight glistens against wet tear-lines that track through the black paint ringing his eyes  &  trail down his cheeks.  &  stede can’t stop himself any longer, the instinct to comfort his beloved when he is in pain far stronger than the need for self-preservation. he takes half a step closer, a hand gradually extending until his fingertips make contact with edward’s leather-clad shoulder.  ❝ oh, ed. i do wish you hadn’t done that — after all, it was me you should’ve been angry with, not him. ❞ when he doesn’t instantly lose his hand for its impudence, stede allows it to slide slowly up the shoulder. it moves only a meager degree at a time until the fingertips catch on ed’s long hair, gently brushing a few fallen strands back so that he can see more of his face. it is contorted in pain, streaked with tears  &  black paint, but he’s still beautiful. ❝ but that’s not why i . . .  i came back for you. because — ❞  his voice is breathy  &  breaking as he chokes back the heavy lump in his throat, still fighting to keep his own tears from falling.  ❝ because i love you, ed. ❞

🪐 —open prompt  sent by  @artereis​  / podrick               ❛  i  hope  that  you’re  okay . ❜

                    SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN ELATED. everything her family had worked for since the day she’d been born was finally within their grasp. after two failed attempts at making a strategically beneficial match for her, at last margaery had secured a betrothal to the eldest son of the royal family. she would be queen; it was her grandmother’s dream realized. but in spite of her family’s undeniable victory, there was a heavy weight that had settled in her stomach, a sense of dread that only grew more  &  more intense as her wedding date approached.  &  when podrick was standing before her, it became almost overwhelming. her breath caught in her throat  &  margaery began to despair  —  how could she marry another when her very heart felt as though it was trying to burst from her chest whenever podrick was nearby ?                                                                              but it was not her choice to make; this was her duty to her family. her head held high in resolve, her lips curl into a well-practiced smile, though in her chest her heart is split open  &  aching. ❝ of course. it’s my honor to be of service to my family  &  to the kingdom. ❞  it wasn’t truly an answer to his question,  &  margaery hopes that it goes unnoticed —  or does she want him to notice the false note in her voice, that somehow he will hear the truth behind her carefully measured words ? even she cannot say for what she hopes.

🪐 — james barnes​ ;

even his name is ripped open, torn apart until it becomes something tangible, something they can sink teeth into and tear to shreds until it no longer feels like his. his own self is lost between memories that are and are not his, an endless cacophony of voices that slip between his bones until they echo in the hollows, convince him of a haunting tied to his cartilage. she takes his hand like he were nothing more than a man, like they didn’t give him a name and twist him into a horror story. if she somehow doesn’t know the truth of his existence, if that’s why he’s allowed so close to her, allowed someone who doesn’t alternate between fear and pity, then selfishly he wants to keep it that way. mesmerised gaze watches the soft trace of her fingers over his, allows her the freedom to move it this way and that way, trying not to focus on the clawing in his chest at the first touches, the realisation of how long it’s been since he’s been allowed this. 

there’s a new dryness in his throat, a thickness as he swallows his voice back, fights hard to not have a reaction that might seem strange, that might give away something of the truth of him. he doesn’t like the hiding, doesn’t like lying when she has been nothing but kind, but there’s a lightness around her and he doesn’t want to do anything to lose that, not when it makes him feel like he can breathe again, like there’s a hope for someone believing he’s still a good man. so he sits there and lets her play with his fingers, wonders for a moment what it might have been like if she’d taken his hand between hers, has to stop that thought when he realises he might have liked her to, might have wanted a moment when he felt like anyone else in the world.

      —        ❛   don’t think anyone’s going to be interested in pictures of me. ❜       it’s a lie really. there are far too many reasons people might want anything connected with him, and he’s never sure which one of them is worse, which one of them makes him feel most out of place in his own body. he doesn’t want to let her down though, likes the way the light lingers on her cheeks when she smiles at him properly, finds himself craving her approval whenever he can get it.      ❛   you can, if you want to. just … only for your eyes, okay?   ❜

                 SHE DOESN’T CLAIM TO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM.  in fact, when she thinks about it, there’s actually very little that birdie does know about him. james is a tightly closed book most of the time, his memories  &  missions always fraught with painful things he either will not or cannot discuss with her. but while she knows that it all weighs heavily on him, none of it really matters to her — especially not when they are seated together on the sofa, an old record scratching softly in the background, alpine dozing at their feet. casual  &  comfortable together, as if they’ve always been like this. part of her hopes they always will. after so long on her own, it’s just nice to have someone she trusts around.                                           &  birdie does trust him, in spite of how little time they’ve actually had together. it’s not a question of james’ abilities; no, she knows what the hands she gently traces are able to do — she’s not in denial about that. but with her, he’s always been so cautious  &  gentle, so kind  &  caring. how could she not feel safe with him when he lets her tuck under his arm  &  trace her fingertips over his hand ?              when james gives his conditional permission, birdie comes alight, bouncing to her feet with the excitement, his hand still held loosely in her own. ❝ of course, i promise, they wouldn’t be for anyone else. just me. cross my heart, ❞  she chirps, her free hand tracing a large x over her chest to illustrate.  ❝ just let me get my sketchbook. ❞  &  it’s only when she turns away that she releases his hand, practically skipping across the room to her bag  &  tugging the notebook  &  her little tin of drawing pencils out. she’s smiling widely when she makes her way back to his side, seating herself back on the couch with her feet tucked close to her hips, knees raised up in front of her chest. ❝ you know, i’ve actually been wanting to do this ever since i saw you sitting at my bench that day, ❞ she says with a giggle, opening her book to a blank page  &  propping it on her folded legs.

🪐 — edward teach​ ;

a low hum vibrates along his throat.   he doesn’t doubt his first mate’s words even for a second,  even in this state.  he trust izzy to take care of things when the weather gets a little rough and his head ducks down under,  surface barely in sight.  he trusts him to handle the crew,  and keep an eye out for trouble  —  coming from both outside and inside,  since they both know mutinies don’t just fall on your stupid head out of nowhere.  there are always signs,  people muttering about some inane thing or the other easily turns into dangerous little whispers.  edward should know.  it’s exactly how he became captain in the first place,  all those years ago  (   good riddance benjamin,  have fun in hell   ).  but it’s not that bad yet  —  izzy would tell him,  if it were.  he would put a stop to it with as much efficiency as he does anything else.  shit.  he really would,  wouldn’t he?  the absolute certainly hits him like a tidal wave,  for some reason. 

perhaps it’s just that,  or the subtle shift in tone,  which finally prompts him to move.  izzy deserves a little better than being dismissed without a glance,  after all.  so edward opens his eyes,  takes his hand away from his forehead and..  he is forgetting something,  isn’t he?  but what?  he’s not thinking very straight.  oh.  he moves up too fast and of course his stupid knee locks up,  pain shooting through it.  his legs almost buckle as he stumbles,  barely managing to grip the back of the chair in time.   ❛  oh,  fuck off.  ❜   voice strains around a half muffled groan,  still he manages to wheeze out something close to a laugh.  the first one in days.  ❛  how’s the weather?  think it might rain soon.  ❜   one thing that knee is ever good for,  at least:  it usually troubles him more when the sky is about to turn ugly and dark. 

          HE HAS TO FORCE HIMSELF not to go to his captain’s side when he stumbles, not to reach out a comforting hand. that is not how things are done. not for them. life is pain,  &  they survive only out of a refusal to show weakness in the face of it.  &  yet izzy still has to choke down the desire to do whatever he can manage to soothe not edward’s aches. his own pain is easy to weather, but to see his captain flinch  &  grimace as his old injury locks his knee is all but insufferable. ( after all, it had been his inability to stand by  &  bear witness as the english tortured edward that had caused izzy to leave his old life behind  &  follow him instead all those years ago. )  yet he still manages a gruff attempt at humor about it as he steadies himself with a firm grip on the back of his chair,  &  izzy allows himself a brief smile, pride flaring hot in his chest.                                           ❝ it might do, tomorrow, ❞ he agrees with a curt nod. in truth, blackbeard was far better at predicting the minutiae of the weather — yet another reason he was sorely missed abovedeck. but izzy knows that this particular prediction likely comes more from the stubborn enduring weakness in his knee than from atmospheric observations.  &  while he knows too well that tenderness is not permitted between men like them, he also knows that no one is watching them here.  &  perhaps it’s only an excuse for him to draw closer, but it is izzy’s job to serve his captain’s needs, after all. ❝ is your brace alright, boss ? does it need to be tightened ? ❞  he asks, his tone uncharacteristically gentle as he takes a tentative step forward. he hasn’t been called but still he comes, drawn to edward as a moth to flame, no regard for the potential to be burned. ❝ let me help you. ❞

                                luck hasn’t exactly been on my side.

Ethan serving regal Vampire realness (again)