400+ Base Icons of Zach McGowan in Black Sails.
While likes are appreciated, please do not reblog.
Feel free to edit these as needed – my PSD is already on them, so lighting and contrast may cause issues, as a heads up. Credit is not necessary, this was done mostly for myself and it occured to me @deathisachoice could profit from it too.
~
Hal wasn’t drawing back, and he wasn’t relenting, either. What he was doing was making this entire situation worse (which until now had, in general, been Flint’s job – and even he would never pull this shit). Their foreheads were still resting together; Hal’s breath was on his face, his voice a rumble in the little space between them, and despite the fact that he was clearly referring to Flint snapping his fucking neck, the unusual tension between them simply wasn’t going away.
His hands twitched. His body shifted under Gates, like he might be working himself up to start fighting again. That would have been the intelligent thing to do. At least, it would have been the intelligent thing to do in comparison to what Flint did do, which was decidedly up there on the list of stupid, impulsive decisions he’d made throughout his life.
Flint kissed him. It took only the slightest tilt of his head to allow it, which in Flint’s mind was only proof that Hal should never have been this fucking close to his face in the first place. It was the briefest press of lips, but it was decidedly more than a peck, which could have been played off as a jest. This–could most assuredly not be played off. But what the fuck did Hal think was going to happen?
Probably not this, Flint’s mind supplied helpfully, while he burned with adrenaline. Just about anything else, maybe.
He was already trying to come up with some kind of excuse in his mind as he withdrew, wide-eyed and whole body burning (and shaking, which he supposed was only natural after kissing a man you had no business kissing). With nowhere else to look, Flint simply glared like this was Gates’ fault, and tilted his chin up slightly without a word.
Perhaps he should not have provoked him.
In truth Hal couldn’t have said what possessed him to do it in the first place, but there was no denying the outcome was already leading to panic. He could feel the man shaking beneath him – and even if he couldn’t, the effort Flint’s face and neck were presently making to dress as one with his hair would have been a dead giveaway regardless.
So, this was a quandary if there ever was one. On the one hand, he still had Flint pinned ( and it had a whole new context thanks to that little bit of cheating on the captain’s end! ) and could certainly get on up out of here well before the damn spitfire registered he’d bolted for it. On the other hand –
Ah, fuck it. Whatever remained of his immortal soul already had it’s soul nailed to this fucking idiot anyway. What was another sin for the coffin?
“That was shit.” A rude critique, but it was true – barely a fucking peck, and hardly anything to brag about. Lifting up, Hal kept his grip and shifted so that he could get up and haul Flint with him. Once they both had their feet under them, Hal was good enough to give Flint his arms back – bu only so as to reach up and yank his lanky ass in for a proper kiss.
~
Flint gave an indignant noise of protest in the back of his throat as his arms were immobilized, Hal’s grip on them firm and inescapable. He tried to wrench them free, naturally: it was as futile as the rest of this endeavour, which only made this worse. Gates’ weight on him rose a ridiculous sensation in his stomach, a sort of fuzzy, flipping nervousness that Flint was determined to suppress by fighting.
That plan was put to rest the moment Gates leaned down. The alarm Flint felt was indescribable– he could think of only one reason anyone would put their face this close to his in a moment like this, and his thoughts turned to searing crimson and rushing seafoam in the wake of that idea.
Hal bumped their fucking foreheads together, because of course he did.
Flint was fairly certain his soul left his body in the heartbeat it took for it to register, but if nothing else, it was effective: he’d frozen, praying his face wasn’t as red as it felt, or that it could at least be blamed on the exertion of trying to get Gates off. Blinking up at him like a startled animal, the fight was utterly drained from his body. Heat crawled up his throat.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” His voice cracked on the last word, voice jumping in pitch even as his eyes narrowed and his jaw twitched, “I’d like my arms back.”
The struggling stopped, and for a moment everything seemed so still that it was almost wrong – it took Hal a moment to realize that the tension had nothing to do with the whispers that had quieted in the midst of all this wrestling, but rather everything to do with the somewhat precarious position he’d put the captain into.
Now, a good man might have – upon the realization of matters – been kind enough to withdraw now that all ends had been achieved. The fight was won, the resistance was gone, they could get up now and talk this out like civilized men and pretend they never noticed that things got a little strange.
Unfortunately, Hal Gates was not a good man. Maybe he had been once, but whatever he was now – it was as mischievous as the soul that had forged him.
“I’d say my minding relies rather heavily on what you mean to do with them should I give them back to you. all things considered.” In another circumstance that might have been a rather threatening remark, but considering he hadn’t deigned to cease his headbump it rather put a strange spin on things.
~
He doesn’t know what the fuck he expected, but this most certainly wasn’t on the list. Retaliation had been inevitable; Flint had known that from the moment his anger snapped him into motion. A punch, or a shove, or a fucking slap, he might have expected. But Hal slamming him into the floor and keeping him there?
He stares at him, wheezing a little. There’s a brief struggle as soon as he can breathe again, Flint’s hips lifting and twisting as he tries to wriggle out from under the bastard to no avail. He shoves uselessly at Hal’s knees, glaring silently up at him. The back of his neck is burning. Sitting on him like this is one thing- does he have to just look at him like that, too? Smug bastard.
“That you’re fucking heavy, for one thing.” That Hal could probably break Flint in half, for another, but Flint’s fairly certain that’s always been true, even before Hal became–whatever he is now. Flint narrows his eyes, waiting until he’s sure he’s fully composed himself before reaching to grapple with the bastard again, throwing his whole damn body into the effort of getting Gates off of him. He very likely looks like a fish struggling out of water, hair all over the place and body contorting, but that’s an indignity he’ll take any day over just lying there under him in defeat.
Hal huffed at that, “Now you’re just being rude,” The admonishment was lost a moment as Flint took this opportunity to flail at him – but seeing as there was nothing actually in reach to smash him with the man was all but sailing upstream without a wind.
“You done?” He asked as he rode this out, only to have to lean back as Flint swiped at him like an angry cat. Well enough of that then.
Grabbing the flailing arms, he brought them together and locked them in his grip so that all Flint could really do was buck and wriggle – which admittedly probably was not the best look. Heaving a sigh, he shifted, locking their position again and leaning down suddenly to press his forehead to Flint’s while still maintaining his grip – considering using the shadows to bind the man if he had to but hoping that the very unexpected headbump might knock the fight out of him more effectively.
“Mm,” The sound is involuntary, and the way his hand moves to swat the captain aside is as instinctive as the slight and strange way he cocked his hips so that he could arch his side out of easy reach. “Fuck off, you twat,” Falls from his lips before he even looks and realizes who it is, and it is decidedly not who he thought it was.
Which, admittedly, was about ninety percent of the crew. He had a good enough rapport with most of them that he knew the better majority of the lot would try it – some were too serious, others too respectful, and still others – smart enough to know Gates didn’t like them enough to let them get away with it.
Still left a pretty large majority though.
“What’s gotten into you?” He could not help but wonder – playfulness wasn’t really a public thing with the captain. “You’re not sick are you,” A tease to make up for the other response, his hand reaching over as if to check the man’s forehead – further indicating Hal wasn’t actually pissed, just startled.
The response is immediate as he drops his shoulder and launches forward, returning the shove by barrelling the other man in the chest. The force he struck with was exactly enough, and he was able to haul the other man almost brutally to the ground. They crashed to the floor of the cabin, and Hal was quick to straddle the man’s waist and keep him pinned even as he sat up and crossed his arms, just looking at him from that position.
“So, what did we learn?”
“Little shit,” Hal laughed, having barely even caught the flash of Joji’s arm in time, and still he’d looked the wrong fucking way. His elbow flicked out toward the taller man’s side – a playful jab of retaliation. No harm done, and frankly with Flint in one of his moods it was damn nice to be able to just spend some time relaxing with the crew. Even if they were little shits!
Thomas jerked away sharply, rising to his feet and turning – ready to fight, ready to run – and it didn’t matter that there was nowhere to go on this fucking ship. He was ready to fly straight into the ocean’s embrace if he had to. Anything was better than this – hell – inside of himself.
For a time he simply stood there – staring at James through the sting in his eyes and dragging in breath that clawed at his throat and left him feeling more and more raw with each and every intake. He was torn in the worst imaginable fashion. He wanted to be alone, he didn’t want anyone to see him, let alone touch him. He wanted to scream, to rage, to hurt something, anything but himself..
Yet beyond all that – beyond that tempestuous, self-guarding fury – he wanted to lay his head down in a familiar lap, to feel hands combing through his hair and hear the songs that had calmed him ever since he was a boy. The songs that had rescued him time and again, from pain and anger and grief. The scent of perfume still lingering against a skirt that felt like home, and the awareness that the storms could be put to sleep. To know that it was safe to weep, until the clouds cleared, and the world was made whole as rest overtook him in the greatest peace he had ever known in his life.
He missed her – he had missed her ever since that incident, and the mutual agreement not to seek one another’s company. To protect themselves and what was left – and he had found hollow echoes since. Miranda’s soothing hands, the lap of a lover, the songs of paid entertainers – there had always been bits and pieces in place to tame the storms, but none had amounted to what he needed.
There had been something close, on the plantation. How he had found her, and how she had known what he needed he could not say. He’d found solace, and another reason to be grateful for that cage, to be glad of it. There was much to be said about learning to love a prison, and none of it could be understood by the man in front of him, who had spent so long hating the world in the name of a ghost forged by lies and the will to believe them, despite knowing their source had never known truth once, let alone the capacity to speak it.
Taking in another sharp, aching breath, Thomas accepted that what he wanted and what he could have would always be two seperate things. No rage, no grief, no pain could change that. He would, as he has always done, have to adapt. To alter himself, and compromise, again and again, for even an echo of what he needed would always, and ever, have to be enough.
Stepping forward, he reached out and clasped James by the wrists – though who he meant to anchor in that moment, was anyone’s guess.
“Can we – lay down, for a time?” His voice was quiet, if only to mask how raw it was. “Or are you – are you busy?”
@trucidavit continued from [x]
The smile that flit across his lips was entirely unintentional – and he knew it would only provoke her further, no matter how swiftly he managed to suppress it. It was there – as clear as her rage with him – that it was an impotent emotion. There was nothing she could do to stop him – nothing she could say that would change this outcome. It was over – and her absolute refusal to accept that she could not hurt him for refusing to stay in this house was just further proof that they were no longer compatible.
It was perhaps for the best that Miranda did not voice her opinions in regard to his mother – for his will not to strike back would surely wither, and he would feel obligated to point out the bitter truth that the only one who had fought for him as opposed to their own damaged pride was in fact his mother! She was the reason he was not in Bedlam, she was the reason he still remembered his own name, and by God, it was she who had pushed Alfred out of society to make it at all possible for Miranda and James to even access him in the first place, but oh yes – let it be believed that the ones who only took action after they believed him dead were the fucking righteous in this affair!
As it was, all Miranda had to offer was an attack on him – a will to blame him for all of it – and a display of her own pride in the power that she now wielded over James. He saw no reason not to let her if it meant she would cease mourning a man she had buried well before he was dead. Let her have her rage, let her burn him down until there was nothing left, and perhaps by some remaining grace she would move on. His role in these tales was over – and that was the fact of it all. Whether she liked it or not.
He stepped forward without a word – he had nothing to say to her, nothing he could say that would not be biting or cruel, and she was right about his pride. Ten years at war with the idea he could even have such a thing, that he could make any decision for himself, had him quite frankly thrilled with the power of making this call. Yet for all that, his posture was neither defiant nor threatening – there was a readiness in case she lashed out physically, but beyond that he seemed to be maintaining an effort to keep himself smaller so as not to tower or loom as he simply made to walk past her.
He would dismiss himself, and if she fought that effort, what came next would be of her own making.
“Damn it all James – if I wanted to be fucking placated I would not have sent my wife to manage meaningless errands! Unless you wish to join her the next time I have to deal with this I strongly suggest you make yourself useful. I’ve enough on my plate as it is without you two fluttering about insisting that I calm down. Do you seriously think that is in any way a productive method of managing me?”
Even as he snapped, Thomas knew he wasn’t angry with James. Christ, this was why he sent Miranda off the moment he saw the fucking crest on these damnable missives. Why he had thought for a moment he could contain himself better with his lover than he did his wife, he could not fathom. If anything this was far worse – Miranda, at least, was used to the tempestuous nature of Hamilton tempers, but James –
Closing his eyes, Thomas gripped the back of the sofa viciously, leaning into it as he bowed his head – displaying defeat, and surrender in the other man’s direction if for no other reason than to assure James that all temper aside, his rage was not, in fact, directed at him.
“Forgive me,” The words seemed to sigh from him, and he glanced up grimly to meet the other’s gaze. “I am in no proper space to be good company to anyone, it would seem. That was ill done of me – and for the sake of ensuring it does not repeat itself, I would like for you to go. Miranda should be —- somewhere down in the market, I can’t recall what I asked her to do, and chances are she’s wandered off to do her own thing anyway. If you catch her perhaps the two of you can do something.”
Straightening, he resisted the urge to rake his hand back and drag the wig from his scalp, just for distraction and the need to feel something other than the itch of powder. “If you do not see her – please, can you call on her tomorrow for me? I – believe it best if I take my leave of the house for a few days.”
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