Tag: living may not mean a happy ending ( verse )

[theypissedonme @ Thomas, That Verse] “I was sure we were both going to be killed. Congratulations on not dying.”

{ If this was a meme I lost it. }

“Pure luck, I’m sure of it,” Thomas agreed breezily, even as he collapsed rather gracefully alongside the quartermaster, hand still glued to the hilt of his cutlass – whether from sheer adrenaline or a questionable tincture of dirt, sweat and blood, he could not say. 

Despite the state of his blade, and the unfortunate mess of the majority of his shirt and upper breeches ( not to mention whatever his boots had squelched through earlier ) Thomas felt revived, and even laughed a little as he let the sun catch against his skin where he rested. “That’ll be one for your stories, eh Jack?”

@theypissedonme

[theypissedonme] “Welcome to the shitshow, grab a comfortable seat, find me in the front row.” [ @ t.ham, in That Verse ]

{ Little Dark Age }

“That bad, is it?” Thomas inquired, strangely charmed by the other man’s dismissive demeanor. He would be lying if he claimed to hold no nervousness about joining the crew of the Ranger, but there was also no denying that he felt a great wealth of gratitude toward Rackham for showing him that there was another option available – another way that he might be able to live and breathe until he could find what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be. 

He doubted he could ever explain it – or that Rackham would ever care to hear it – but it was there just the same as he took a seat alongside the man and observed the ‘shitshow’ as they sailed steadily closer to her shores. “Any advice on what comes next?” He wondered, genuinely curious about what the other might have to think on the subject – and what, exactly, it meant to be a member of this crew while at port. 

@theypissedonme

💨 catch my muse in a lie | Joji to Thomas

{ Random Act Prompts } 

Thomas’ expression spoke rather clearly to how pleased he was about this situation, but despite the openness in which he wore his frustration, the silence that carried on between the two men was a high indication that he was as of yet still calculating a means out of the entire business. 

“What do you want from me?” He settled on flatly, unwilling to budge an inch on this topic – nor desiring to have anyone else brought into it. He was functioning fine and would surely be able to stomach food again in a day or two, once the nausea and memories had worn themselves through and the needs of his body outweighed the demands of his mind to avoid food at all costs. 

“My portion of whatever it is we are chasing is yours, if that is what it takes for you to maintain your customary silence.” 

“It’s cold outside” | Billy to Thomas

{ The Meme }

“Ah – thank you Billy,” Thomas did not hesitate to pull the blanket tighter around his shoulders once it settled, a wealth of gratitude swelling within him. His time amid the fields in Havana had taught him well not to voice complaint, least of all over things no man could control, such as the weather. It had been bitterly cold for some time, and he doubted he was the only man to think so – that Billy was kind enough to see his discomfort and act to alleviate it despite his silence spoke volumes to the other man’s good nature. “Does the weather not bother you?” He wondered, certain that Billy’s attire was no more suited to this chill than his own.

“It’s cold outside” | Joji to Thomas

{ The Meme }

There was no sound before Thomas found himself draped with a blanket – nothing to forewarn him of what was coming. He stiffened a moment, looking around until he caught sight of the culprit – and the silence was understood so immediately, he could not help but smile as he drew the article tighter around himself with a sense of gratitude swiftly overriding the nervous irritation that had bubbled up to begin with. 

“Thank you,” He hesitated only a moment, then, “Will you be warm enough?” He supposed the man would, but courtesy could only be throttled so far. 

🥪 Set a plate/tray/bowl of food down for my muse | TF’s Joji for Thomas H

{ Nonverbal Starters }

“Please – “ A deep, shuddering breath racks through him, and it is all he can do not to lose what little he has retained upon the plate so kindly offered him, “Don’t help.”  

The last thing he wanted was for these men to think that he was weak. He understood that he had a very great deal to prove to Captain Vane, regardless of the kindness inherent in the quartermaster’s offer. Seasickness he was sure was understandable to some measure – but it had been two weeks at sea with no sign of issue from Thomas until now. 

He was not ill – not in the sense of having eaten something wrong, or having been turned up by the sea – but in the mind, in ways that could not be seen. This morning’s breakfast – the consistency of it – had damn near broken him, and now it was all he could do to maintain dignity, and pray that he could overcome this before it marked him as a detriment. 

@tidefated

💥@thomas in the miranda lives too au

{ Nonverbal Starters }

image

This was it, of course. The moment he had known was inevitable, as inescapable as any other fact of life. As sure as death itself, this loss had been perceived from the very moment of its birth, for no joy could mask sorrows that tracked so deep as this for long, without turning to bitter ash upon one’s tongue. 

It was all he could do, to contain within himself every ounce of his rage, to restrain behind his teeth the venom that pooled upon his tongue like the forgotten taste of sweet and perfumed wines. He would remember this moment for years to come – with the same cacophony of frustrations echoing inside of himself as he recalled so many more, but for the singular difference of pride. 

Too long had he been haunted by the times in which he had been helpless against those who wronged him. Terrorized by the sensation of being dragged to his knees screaming by the force of all that which stood against him – figurative and real alike. And in this moment, when the power rested solely in his hands – he refused to sound as he did then. 

He would not be the animal hauled howling into its confinement, but rather the man who would – with every ounce of dignity remaining to him – wash his hands of it. The chains that bound him to the past had been lifted – and he would be damned if he let his wife and his lover tangle him back up, until at last he was strangled by the suffocating weight of what they claimed had been done in his name. 

Drawing his hand away from the wall it braced itself upon, he faced her one last time. Allowed for her to see his resolve – the stubbornness she claimed to have fallen in love with, and the ferocity that lay behind it. When he spoke, it was not in fury but rather, in the natural finality of what he knew must be said between them.

He had loved her, once. In his own way, he had found the very stars to guide himself in her smile. Her laughter had been incentive enough, at times, to carry on when it felt as though it might be wise, just this once, to not pick up the fight. She had soothed his storms for years, as surely as she had fuelled them. He would do what he could to preserve that between them – it was the last of the promises he owed her. For better or worse indeed – just as death, surely, had parted them.

The death of the life they had once shared together. Of the man he had once been, and the woman who had loved that man. Whomsoever stood before him now – this Miss Barlow – was no more his wife than James Flint was his lover.

“Goodbye, Miranda.” 

Pretty

intolerablexsacrifice:

@oceanfoamed (from here)

Flint stares at him. Then he stares some more, because it’s not immediately clear to him that Hal might be joking. His face twitches like he’s barely containing something (that something being both amusement and sheer exasperation with the bastard), the back of his neck warming. 

“Always,” Flint says, dryly. Just for that, he fusses with the collar of Gates’ shirt again, then steps back to finally let the man breathe. “No harm in looking presentable, Hal. You’d think you’d been hauled through a bush coming in here.”

Every now and again, a man found himself faced with an age old choice: to mischief, or not to mischief. Hal considered himself a man with a great immunity to the urge of the former, but every now and again the temptation was so fucking heady he just could not restrain himself. 

“You never tell me I’m pretty though, so how’s a man to know?” He asked, not giving a fucking hint to the man whether or not this was a jest or a genuine criticism. Flint struggled at the best of times to read a room, and games like these were almost mean in a way because of it – but at the end of the day, Hal was only human.

Sometimes, he had to have a little bit of fun. 

“In case you missed it,” He gestured to the interior around them, “We’re surrounded by bush. I kept to the path, thank you. Not my fault I got a bit rustled up on the way in.” 

“I keep hoping it’s a dream,” Flint says, quietly. His mouth twists up into a wry-looking smile. “Keep wanting to be awakened somehow.” [ @ survived!gates in That Verse ]

{ Heart Of Everything Starters } 

Hal opened his mouth to say something, and in the end found he had nothing in his repertoire for this. He could hardly imagine what it must be like – to spend so much of one’s life twisted up in a revenge story against an entire country and way of life in the name of one person was wild enough. To suffer the loss of someone so deeply and discover them alive and well was an emotional upheaval in and of itself. 

To have the person one had forged themselves into the sword of turn around and retire you – Hal honestly couldn’t even begin to sympathize with such a dramatic set of circumstances, let alone offer empathy for it. The whole thing was beyond his sphere of understanding – but in the end he knew he had to try. At this point, he was one of the very few who seemed interested in doing so – and the other two were just as confusing as he was!

What must it be like, Hal wondered, to have three men whom you tried to kill with full intent – and in some cases on multiple occasions – being the ones to hold you up and check in on you when the one you fought for, killed for, and lost everything for decided you weren’t what was wanted? 

Reaching out, he gripped the man’s shoulder. There were no words for any of this, he knew, so in the end he just pulled Flint to him and hoped that a hug might suffice where words fell short.