Tag: intolerablexsacrifice

It is not good that he is alone.

intolerablexsacrifice‌:

@oceanfoamed​ (from here)

Flint had never wanted so badly to be fucking hit before. He’d done his fair share of seeking violence in the past- but that had been about his rage, and the need to inflict it on something, the need to fight and win and keep going. This–this was nothing like that. This was striking at a lion’s teeth in the hopes that it might maul him for sport, and raging when it found him unworthy of the effort.

At Vane’s suggestion, Flint spat, voice cracking: “Fuck you.” He was bristling, uncharacteristically still despite how prepared to lunge he had looked only moments before Vane had spoken- the very idea of seeing Thomas again, of Thomas seeing him like this, was enough to freeze him to the spot. “I don’t fucking want him here.”

The lie was plain as day. It could not have been more clear that Flint would have given anything–burned Nassau to the ground, anything–to have Thomas here. Rather- to have Thomas want to be here.

But not like this. And maybe that was justification for it, really, on top of everything else- maybe Flint’s utter inability to function without him was only proof that Thomas deserved more than this. Some shell of a monster that had long since ceased to be a person at all. 

He felt his eyes sting, and struck out like an angered cat at a bowl on the table beside him- it clattered into the opposite wall and smashed while Flint retreated further into the room. He tried, and only halfway succeeded, to keep his breathing in check. At least he wasn’t in tears, yet. 

If Vane had any fucking sense, he’d leave after this and stop coming back, because it was clear to Flint that he was never going to recover from this. Any progress that was made could be set back by the slightest thing, to the point where it felt fucking useless to keep pretending there was any path forward. Vane had to give up eventually; Silver, too, once it became clear that Flint was simply no longer worth the time. 

“Can’t be fixed with a fight.” Flint’s voice was barely audible. He seemed to be talking to the room, rather than to Vane, all the fight drained from him. “But you wouldn’t fucking understand that, would you.”

Flint’s voice sometimes did things that made Vane wonder if maybe he’d been struck in the throat a few times himself, jumping around like a boy’s did. For all that though, it seemed he had struck a chord – the fight in Flint turned defensive immediately, and rather than facing a man ready to strike it was more like an animal that recognized itself as cornered enough to need puffing up in the hopes the predator would back down, rethink itself in the face of something so big. 

Just like that animal though, there was nothing behind this but posturing and loud noise. It was empty bullshit meant to distract from the desperate truth – he was falling apart, and Hamilton’s refusal to be part of it was very much the reason why. The threat of him was too close to home – he was the thing Flint could not face, and the power in that might have been intoxicating in the right hands. 

As it was, Vane kept himself out of reach and simply observed again, determining if this was something he could mitigate down or if he ought to send someone else up here to talk Flint out of his latest downward spiral. He wondered how the man didn’t get exhausted by this, but kept it to himself – which proved wise, considering he almost missed the statement that came after a bowl had been shattered against the wall.

“Bold of you to assume I understand any of this shit,” He pointed out flatly. Nevermind this in particular – the whole situation was a bit over his head in a lot of respects. He understood the gist of it, sure – he wasn’t stupid. What escaped him, mostly, was the intensity of all these emotional motivations. He had his own intentions, his own aims and goals in life – and he was dedicated to them, certainly – but they weren’t there because of one person. 

He’d put his hopes in someone before – that much was true. Trying to apply that to this though, it didn’t translate. He had always known he was being used – and in turn, he had been aware of the benefits in allowing himself to be used. So long as those benefits outweighed the inconveniences, there had been very little he would not do in order to ensure that person’s success – but he’d backed the wrong dog in that fight, and when he realized it – when he had finally accepted that he had put himself behind a losing venture, he had been able to pull back and move forward. Able, in fact, to put that dog in it’s place and remind it who was boss. Love had never been a factor – and it was an element he had no idea how to contend with. 

Resting his hands on the back of a chair, he leaned into it and eyed Flint thoughtfully. If he could just get up there was so much he could fucking do – but how to make a dog fight when it was convinced its legs were broken?

“I don’t get what being out here does for you – out of sight, falling to pieces – it just makes you look weak. Nobody gives a shit about broken men. We all got our shit – Hamilton included – so what makes yours so damn important that he should come to you? If your problem is that he doesn’t want you – maybe give him something to want. Make yourself indispensable – or get over it.”   

The ocean’s embrace.

intolerablexsacrifice‌:

@oceanfoamed (from here)

There was no way of knowing which demon was tormenting Thomas at the moment, not when he barely knew any of their names- but in the end, knowing what was wrong mattered far less to him in the moment than being able to do something about it. Flint waited, patiently, as Thomas drew in ragged breaths like each one was its own agony. Either he would lash out, at which point Flint might put him to work for the sake of a distraction from his thoughts- or he would not, and James, then, could take over.

In the end, Thomas reached for him. Flint’s expression softened, and James stepped closer, allowing those hands to curl around his wrists without complaint.

“Love,” he murmured, and lifted his hands to brush away the tears on Thomas’ cheeks. He did not use such terms of endearment often, and never had: there was rarely a need for them when he could make something as simple as a name sound like worship. “I’m not busy.”

In truth, there were things he ought to be minding. But there was very little that could not be put aside for this man, and he was confident that nothing would go drastically askew in the time they might take to lie together awhile. “Come on.”

He took Thomas’ hand in his own, leading him out of the dark, uncaring of curious eyes they might pass by on the way to his cabin. Once they were safely secluded, James paused. It was second nature to him to lock the door in moments like these, but Thomas…

“Do you want this locked?”

James came for him, and the feel of the man’s wrists in his grip truly did feel more like he was anchoring himself than his lover. Their hands rose together when James decided to brush his tears away, and Thomas held on a moment longer despite the fact it was a somewhat awkward position on his end. The endearment settled something in him – the rarity of such a term making it meaningful enough to catch on to and hold as he was assured. 

His hands lowered, about to settle at his sides listlessly when James took one up to lead him, confidently drawing him by it to the cabin they had come to share, an unexpected home and sanctuary for a man who up until a couple of years ago when he had left the plantation with James, had only been on a ship but once – to be delivered to that very same plantation. 

Gratitude flooded him as James took charge, knowing in that moment that he needed this leadership, for he was very much at a loss within himself. Yet what truly pushed him over the edge he balanced so precariously upon was James checking if he would be comfortable with the door locked. It struck against his core, the awareness that the door did not have to be locked, for even if they were found in one another’s arms none on this ship would judge – or have room to do so. 

“I am so tired of locked doors,” It fell from him almost without his own volition, but the words were true. He did not see a locked door as safety so much as imprisonment now – and he did not want to feel trapped here, in this space he shared with James. Not even for a moment, not even for a metaphor. 

Taking charge himself, Thomas led James now – still holding his hand from before – and drew him to the bed they now shared. A far cry from the old one, but better together than alone. He settled in and waited until James had settled, before leaning in and damning his height as he tucked himself beneath James’ chin and gave himself over, the strain in his shoulders draining away as a true sense of security returned to him as a result of it.  

Exaggerated Rumors

@intolerablexsacrifice continued from [x]

The moment he had caught sight of the redhead at the tavern Thomas had felt his stomach twist. The idea that James might come here, that after all that happened he might have come to Nassau was heartwarming as it was absolutely devastating. He couldn’t even tell if he wanted the man to be James, or if he would rather his lover and wife had found a peaceful life in the colonies. All he knew was, he could not leave the question of it unanswered.

He could tell, however, that the man was not particularly keen on being approached. Thomas had hoped to make this a quick venture – just a stop by to assuage his curiosity and put the terrible idea aside – but the man had been determined to make that as difficult as possible. By the time Thomas finally caught up to him, he rather felt he deserved something good to come of it – but even still, he could not decide what outcome of this could in fact be determined as a good one.

He was faced, finally, with a close examination of the man’s features. That ridiculous hair and beard aside – those mismatched green eyes could not possibly belong to any other man. He knew this face – intimately, he knew this man – and he could see in the cavernous silence between them that the other man knew him in turn. 

Lips formed over a familiar name, and for one wild and impossible moment Thomas considered hauling the man by his shirt and kissing him senseless just to prove them both real to the other. He didn’t know what manner of man James had made of himself to survive here, however – and he would not shatter that reputation to ease his own heart. 

“James,” Just saying his name felt like enough, and a dangerously emotional smile curved upon his lips, “I thought that might be you.”

“ so are we going to kiss or not? ” [ mcgraw @ thomas, getting Uppity And Snappy Because He’s Nervous RIP jesus christ ]

{ Kissy Starters } 

“Not with that attitude,” Thomas assured flatly, barely even deigning to look over – and with his tone what it was, he doubted he needed to click disapprovingly to underscore the point any – but that didn’t stop him from doing so. 

Stepping further away from the man to further illustrate his displeasure, Thomas made his way to the drawing room door – which he then locked, albeit almost silently but for the snap of the latch as it settled into its housing. Turning, he approached James again and laid a soothing hand upon his arm, “Tell me – does that approach work for you, with women? Or are you just that out of practice my dear lieutenant?” 

olive: is your muse prone to feeling envious of others? if yes, what is it that they typically feel envious over? [ for Jane >:3 ]

{ In Depth Prompts }

What in the world could this woman possibly have to be envious of anyone for? She is – generally speaking – on top of the world and manipulating her reality into something she feels is ideal. There is opposition of course, but she manages it well and is genuinely quite happy with much of what she has going on in her life – so that does beg the question of why she would envy anyone.

There is only one true gap in her life – and that is the one left behind by her brother’s absence in it. Cutler was the reason she never envied anyone – when she was once so melancholy and miserable, he was a source of light and joy. He loved her – and in so doing, was the one person she would do anything for. He fulfilled the role she most needed filled. Someone to love and care for, yes – but just as importantly, someone who loved her back. 

Losing him destroyed her in so many ways. She vowed her way back to him – but things always got in the way. Which ultimately – leaves her envious of sisters whose brothers love them, of happy siblings. Including her own children, who love each other dearly, and love her dearly, spark that ugly sensation of coveting something she herself could not obtain. 

It isn’t something she likes to think about. To be envious of ones own children is – hardly something to be proud of, after all.

✏ : What are their creative outlets? [ for t.ham <3 ]

{ In Depth Prompts }

Letter writing was a very important element of daily life and was an essential skill for many of the upper class, particularly those who moved in political spheres. Thomas considered letters to be an artform, an act of prolonged discourse he took especial delight in. 

Crafting the perfect rejoiners, formulating iron clad arguments and seeing them form in the cutting contrast of ink on paper was an absolute delight to him and one of his favorite elements of maintaining relationships. He also took a particular thrill in the crafting of codes, and the cleverness necessary to deliver compliments that were in truth criticisms. 

This was something he deeply enjoyed and it took a great deal of thinking – though there were also times when he certainly abused the system, or proved himself ridiculous through it. 

Imagine, paying a man to carry a letter by horseback, sealed solemnly by the Hamilton crest, and knowing that the sight of it will stir forth all the emotions of a prior argument, the anticipation of a night spent turning over the words and crafting the best disassembly. 

Knowing that the recipient will have expectations, that they will be prepared for something of substance and will be stirred by their emotions on their previous dealings – and having all this forethought to send forth nothing more than a single, solitary word, accompanied by his full signature and titles taking up the majority of the page – and you will have, my dear, the HEIGHT of Thomas Hamilton’s humor and pettiness as a lord. 

⊗ : What is something that causes them to question themself? [ for weatherby! ]

{ In Depth Prompts }

image

Did you mean “everything relating to raising a daughter by himself” because boy howdy friend, let me tell you a thing. Weatherby is consistently second guessing himself on what is “best” for Elizabeth. He knows what he wants for her as a father – but without Theodosia to counterbalance him he doesn’t know what she needs as a daughter. 

There are so many areas he simply does not understand. The nuances of femininity elude him, and while he naturally has women on staff to aid Elizabeth in understanding those, he knows there are things a young girl ought to be able to go to her mother for, rather than a nurse or governess or, heavens, one of the maids! He tries to be there for her in every capacity – and because of this, there have certainly been moments in which she has come to her father for advice and been met with – what can only be described as a look of sheer, existential terror. 

He does his best, but he does worry he doesn’t do enough or that what he is doing is – inappropriate, or not what she needs. Short of marrying again to provide a mother to turn to ( an outcome he refuses to consider ) Weatherby has resorted on many occasions to tea with his daughter’s governess and doing what he can to learn all he can about what mothers want for their daughters, so that in some way, he can try and figure out what Theodosia might think is best as well, whenever he must make any sort of decision in regards to their daughter’s welfare. 

Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

@intolerablexsacrifice plotted !!

Something nagged at him – something more insistent than guilt or even frustration. He was intimately familiar with the sensation that he had forgotten something important, and knew better than to chase it. It would come or it wouldn’t, but if he tried to grasp onto whatever his mind was trying to tell him, it would inevitably become impossible to obtain until days after it was actually relevant. 

So he kept speaking, insisting that they would not kill Flint, merely depose of him. That he would personally see to it Flint and the Barlow woman were secured in the wake of it, sent off with their pardons. It was an ideal solution, the best option available in light of the brewing mutiny and the fact Flint was losing all track of how to exist without a fight. There were men who would kill to be pardoned, to be offered the chance to live the quiet life this hell robbed them of. 

Still, that nagging, hassling sensation – 

Wait. He had it – or rather, it had him. Flint was a man who killed to appease the fact he would never be sorry for what he was robbed of, only that he didn’t fight to keep it then. To threaten him with exile was crueller than the promise of mutiny – if only he had thought of that sooner!

“No – I suppose that won’t work for you at all, will it?” He deflated – as much as he hated this situation, he also had no intention of making an enemy of Flint. The situation was fucked, but he had spent too long beside this bastard not to want to see him off well. “So we’re back at an impasse then.” 

There was only one thing for it – if he couldn’t exile Flint – 

“I resign. When this is over – how you get out of it is your business. As for me – I’ll find my way elsewhere.”   

Some habits never die.

intolerablexsacrifice‌:

@oceanfoamed (from here)

The click of the tongue made his eyes snap up, meeting Thomas’ in the dark. He thought himself rejected at first, and twitched as if to withdraw- but stopped as the covers were flipped back, and Thomas addressed him with a tone that James recognised as decidedly displeased. That alone was incentive enough to break his silence.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and meant it. It was a valid complaint, after all- Flint, too, knew that particular brand of justified paranoia. But James slipped in beside him, burrowing in close- there was no pretense, no suppression of the desire to be as close as physically possible (though naturally, this was not always the case- Flint, too, frequently needed space). He draped an arm across Thomas’ chest, looking up at his face in the darkness, the curve of his jaw. Gazing at him, as he sometimes did, as if Thomas was the only thing he wanted to look at from this moment onwards. Smiling slightly, James added, only half-joking: “Sometimes I forget you can’t read my mind.”

The niggling sense of frustration that continued to linger drifted away both in wake of the apology ( for it indicated to Thomas that the man understood the sentiment enough to be genuinely contrite ) and in the face of the easy way in which his lover tucked against him despite the cold invitation. 

It was in moments like this – when James treated him normally and yet somehow still managed to remind him of all the time they had lost, and all of the love that had driven them into their reunion – that Thomas found there was no room in him to be angry. The worst of those storms had passed – and now, they had only the smaller things to weather, things any couple needed to face when getting used to being a couple. 

Huffing softly, Thomas settled his arm around James and drew him in, pressing a kiss to the man’s fiery hair before returning his attention to his book and asking, in a much softer tone that betrayed the fondness welling within him, “Would you like to read with me, or shall I read to you tonight?”