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the land is inhospitable and so are we by FortinbrasFTW
Fandoms: Pluto (Manga), Pluto (TV)
04 May 2024
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“Helena,” Claire looks up at the sky overhead. “Do you know what they used to call it?”
“Nope,” Maggie lies. She’s not sure why. Maybe she’s just used to getting people to tell stories. It helps you know the way they bluff. Then again, maybe she just wants to hear her say it. There’s a way words fill her mouth that feels like it fits just right in the warmth of a spring day.
Claire smiles, watches, sees. “’Last Chance’.”
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“Are you alright?” Cassian asks.
Kino just stares back at him. And it really is him, isn’t it? He’s wearing a little knit cap that covers his hair and a heavy cargo jacket that swallows his posture and Cassian feels himself cracking a smile. Because it’s a stupid question, because he’s been shot and they’re standing over the body of a bounty hunter in a back alley of a rim world. But it’s Kino. It’s Kino.
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Booking joint swim lessons for yourself and your five year old daughter sounds like a great idea until you're waist-high in chlorine, trapped in a pack of other single parents, with an obnoxiously cheerful instructor dropping cliches on you like they're going out of style. All of which is bad enough without an unfairly hot guy doing casual laps across the pool — an unfairly hot guy who won't stop grinning at you.
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There are some days, when he will simply open his eyes, feel sleep bleed out and the world bleed in, and know, without a shred of a doubt, that it’s going to be a shit one.
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An alternate ending to The Hunt for Red October where we make it to Montana after all.
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A series of micro fills for Alternate Universe prompts from twitter.
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“Did you mean it?” And when he speaks this time, for a moment, for a shiver, Edward almost looks afraid. “Your Oath?”
It’s a strange question. Does the tide mean to follow the moon? Oaths. They were supposed to be choices, weren’t they? That’s why they mattered, that’s what made them their own kind of magic? Because you Chose. But this had never felt like a choice. Izzy doesn’t think the tide has a choice either. That doesn’t make it love the moon any less.
“I meant it.”
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Flint stares. “Excuse me?”
“We should fight,” Izzy repeats. He knows his voice isn’t as hard as it could be but he’s hoping the grate of it will make up the difference. “Like, actually fucking fight.”
Flint looks him up and down once, eyes narrowing. “We fight plenty,” he says eventually.
“Not really,” Izzy notes, holding onto a casual tone for dear life. “I let you win.”
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hate a fucking chartreuse by FortinbrasFTW
Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV), Black Sails
20 Apr 2022
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Izzy hates the Spring. He hates how everyone winds up waltzing around with wonder-filled faces, gazing out at the world like it’s suddenly Better just because the sun’s in a slightly different place. He hates how much longer it takes to park the motorcycle when bougie little scooters and e-bikes take up all the spots, how quickly it gets too warm to wear any decent looking jacket without sweating to death, and he especially hates how the color palette of everything from looming adverts to flowerbeds is attacked by a jubilant army of tacky pastels keen on pissing him off personally: all pinks and purples and chartreuse. Izzy hates a fucking chartreuse.
In which a year has passed, Stede still has a pitbull named Venny, Ed still has a terrier named Cat, Izzy Hands is a begrudging babysitter, and it's yet another lovely spring day in Washington Square Park for talking shit with hot strangers.
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“What are you doing?” Izzy manages, his voice is very strange in his ears, like it’s coming from someone miles and miles away.
“Marrying you!” Ed laughs. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a great bloody joke. “Don’t worry," he winks, "can divorce me soon as we get the discount on this fucking room."
Or how Edward Teach gave Izzy Hands a ring that he still hasn't managed to take off.
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“This your ship, then?” Izzy asks dryly.
The Captain makes an affirming sound. He’s still by the door, nudging it shut and twisting the metal of the lock closed. Izzy paces over the smart creak of the wooden floor, thumbs hanging off his belt, letting himself take it in.
He sniffs. “Looks like shit.” It looks incredible. “And a bit small, isn’t it?” It’s the biggest ship Izzy’s ever set foot on.
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that looks on tempests by FortinbrasFTW for veganthranduil
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
09 Apr 2022
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“I'm sorry." Francis halts on the geometric carpeting, rolly-bag trailing to a stop behind him. Overhead, a metallic voice drones above the noise of the crowds. Francis covers his free ear, pressing the mobile closer. "You're going to have to say that again."
“I can take you." There’s a pause. “If you'd like, that is."
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Stede leans all the way back on the bench, eyes closed, tilting his chin up towards the sky. The breeze in the park is utterly delicious, wriggling with the smell of things that are quite eager to be alive, the feeling of a warmth that’s leaping at its chance to be known once more, the sound of people laughing, dogs playing, and–
“Oi! Fuck off! Stop that!”
Stede sits up, frowning.
In which Stede has a pitbull named Venny, Ed has a terrier named Cat, and it's a lovely spring day in Washington Square Park for falling in love with strangers.
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The first thing Izzy realizes is he looks absolutely fucking furious — which yeah, alright, fair enough. He’s got shorter ginger hair. A beard like Izzy’s but kept neater. Earrings like Izzy’s but worn simpler. Bleeding like Izzy but, well, maybe a bit less.
And he’s handsome.
Izzy realizes it suddenly and slowly somehow all at once. Bit like a bloody painting even. The kind you saw up on walls in rich folk's houses. Only, well, no painting had eyes like that, did it? You’d have to be mad to keep a painting with eyes like that in your home. They were bright and clear and looked — honest-to-fucking-Christ — ready to set the whole damned world on fire.
Izzy’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night takes an interesting turn thanks to a completely different sort of pirate captain.
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“The fuck?” Ed manages, instantly getting his foot stuck in a nearby bucket.
“Sh-shh!” Stede pushes two fingers against his lips to shut him up.
Ed goes still and a bit cross-eyed, staring down at the hand on his mouth. Stede moves it away, with a mouthed “sorry!” focusing intently on the sounds outside the shed instead.
In the alley, hurried steps and shouting voices rush past; they catch fragments of: “Where the fuck did they go then?” or “Keep looking!” and even “The short one looks like a bloody birthday cake, how do you lose that—”
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“Twice? Are you kidding me, Cornelius - fucking twice?”
Title Card Script Reads: HICKEY GETS TRAPPED IN A PLAYGROUND COIL (AGAIN).
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John gives up, letting his head drop into his hands. He is being punished. He’s not sure what for exactly, but it must be something terribly wicked or unforgivably ordinary or maybe this is just who he is: John Irving, a man destined to get trapped in the sweater of life only to emerge wearing it backwards.
He looks up into Tommy’s big pretty eyes that stare back at him as though he’s just told him he’d like to give it all up for a serious shot at a career as a mime. “What do I do?”
Tommy’s expression shifts into a mean edged sort of pity. He shrugs. “Pray?”
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Thomas can’t help the bark of laughter that flies out of him. He tries to catch it back again, succeeding only in choking on it with a wheezing cough and then he’s falling into bloody giggles as the other man shakes his head and chuckles. The doctor’s wearing a smile that shows all of his teeth and Christ that’s nice. His hair’s a little more mussed than it had been before he left, isn’t it? Or is he just imagining it…
“Surprised?” the doctor asks.
Thomas wipes a tear from the corner of his eye with a knuckle. “Will ye despise me if I say no?”
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Convinced to join a week away to the sandy tip of New England, Francis finds himself knee deep in Jim Ross' jubilant offspring, a cozy town full of barely clothed celebrants, and a convocation of old friends who don't seem nearly as willing as he is to accept he's good for little more than vanishing to the ends of the earth.
All of it might be bearable, even enjoyable, if it weren't for an old sailing friend of Ross' with insufferable affectations, impossibly obnoxious hair, and (Christ preserve us) a social media following, not to mention the most unique penchant for getting entirely under Francis' skin.