No Legacies

Who Lives? Who Dies? Who Tells The Story?

[nolegacies]

      That pain, that fear, that despair has made you someone else, someone you barely recognize, against your will. Rules |||  About  |||  Verses 

                               Meme Tag  |||   Open Starter Tag  Mature Content | 18+ to read | 21+ to interact Indie RP Blog | Highly Selective | Mutuals Only Canon | Black Sails | Treasure Island | Multi-verse Multi-ship | Plot driven

[ronmanmob]

How the drawing of battle replaced a world's worth of inputs into one point of singular focus for men who, like Ron, lived and breathed for this shit wasn't something he could easily describe for folk who didn't. Even those who thought they did, like the cloud of chancers Ron knew to be Richardson whelps before any one've 'em spoke Ol' Man Charlie's name in vain-- Even they wouldn't get it, couldn't get it, didn't live for the split second spark-roar of adrenaline through a body trained out of its natural inhibitions against violence like Ron did. They favoured noise and posturing, threats with knives and cudgels and were met, for the infraction they'd thought nothing of making before they'd made if but that each now regretted to his bone marrow, with a pistol's muzzle and a mastiff's teeth - artery seeking.

Mob justice, it would'a been.

Mob justice if, at the very second Ron's finger tightened on that trigger, Boy hadn't risen, turned, gestured and...drawn them up and in like he'd clenched a fist round the strings of so many fucking puppets.

The tremor the moment sent through every atom surrounding it turned Claude on a penny. With a yelp that screamed he pelted tail tucked through the door between bar and back of house faster than Ron could track. Not that he had the focus to split between the dog and what he was witnessing. His shooting arm dropping second-to-second as whatever not-magic Boy was working got worked, black eyes could only widen and fix and stare.

He'd known.

Not what the lad and his tiny counterpart could do, but what they were. The whole world knew and was curdling round folk like this pair like it did round the marginalised and the persecuted in times not so long past and Ron, who sat firm in at least two of those persecuted groups, had sworn blind and backwards that that All Goddamn Fucking Shit weren't ever to be allowed in His Manor. He'd shifted his focus, left Reggie to cultivate more of their illegal workings while he turned his resources to the better good of those that needed safety most and because of that shift, that relative lack of showing Face in gangland circles, Ol' Man Charlie's newest prospectives saw fit to challenge the East End's Bad Man in his own fuckin' house.

The cheek of it would've raked Ron's sense of place beyond description in any other circumstance. But now? In this moment? As seven young men had their water stole away into the air round 'em and a voice that didn't sound right outta Boy's face proclaimed like he was preaching on the Mount-

"The human body is made up almost entirely of water....did you know that?"

-Ron didn't have it in him to find his pearls easy to clutch. And then...Then the air looked like it was bleeding, and pearls be fucked...Pearls be fucked, all there was left behind Ron's wide black eyes was the stunned uncoiling of disbelief in what he was seeing as being possible, even though he knew it was.

Dead weight the marionette men hit the deck.

Dead weight and along with their fluids they hit the deck and the room became still. The atoms in all of everything ceased their screaming vibration and where once...Where once there'd been--

Wait.

Ron forced a deep breath into lungs that'd been screaming for air since he'd taken and held in a breath when he'd levelled the muzzle of his pistol at the nearest chancer's brow. Breathe he told himself. And he did.

In.

Out.

And as he did the space where the adrenaline prospective murder had lived in him filled with...something else; something of the same species of logic that had him fill shotgun shells with ice instead of buckshot so the damage done couldn't be traced. Pragmatism, he'd call it. Sick in the head others might, but others could fuck off.

Boy'd gone down like a pile of sticks before Ron had his phone to his ear. He stepped round the bar, round the pile of fuck-awful leftovers and what remained of their fluids and locked the pub down total. Both doors deadbolted, blinds down tight as the dial tone purred and then--

"Boss?"

--connection.

"Clean up's needed at th'pub, Pat."

"Aht th'door already, mate. Sasha got a feelin' y'd need us."

Ron's brows hitched up a hint at the dainty woman's mention. She was startling good at predicting all kinds was Pat's lady-friend; all kinds but especially calamities. It made Ron wonder if there weren't something Boy-like or Girl-like about her, but now weren't the time for that kinda idle conjecture. He rang off with thanks to Pat and his sidekick, gave the blinds one final adjustment and then turned and looked at Boy over the wreckage he'd left in his wake.

It was like he was looking at a different being altogether if the sight of him now was for direct comparison to what'd been when he'd spoke of water and bodies. Collapsed in on himself and tormented, the lad looked like he was trying to disappear and that - Ron knew through a lifetime of stories he'd never tell - was the worst place to go after an explosion of massive violence. And so he picked his way across the space towards Boy, settled maybe five foot from him so he didn't crowd him in and, in the gentlest voice he could muster, Ron spoke.

"--Oh my lad...My lad, lissen t'me...Lissen t'your Ron, yeah? Lissen aht 'ere. Come aht...I's safe now...Ain't nuffin' t'get yah...Ain't nuffin' gone wrong...Ain't nuffin' broken...Ain't no foul tha' can't be fixed...Ain't no injustice done...Defence ov self 'n place ain't f'condemnation...Lissen t'me...Come aht..."

He meant every word, but hoped more that his tone - the calm in it, the ease in his cadence, the even, settled sound might reach the poor soul in a crumpled heap on his floor before meaning caught up.

"--Pick up yer 'ead, lad. Fix on me."

[nolegacies]

Disembodied.

Its the only word he has to describe it. What it feels like when what just happened....happens. Like he involuntarily stepped into and fell out of something. Some invisible stream, that threatens to wash him away every time he stumbles into it. Like whatever this power is inside of him could wash him away too if he let it. So it is just as much physical recoil and shock as it is the emotional kind. Lungs that gulp for air between body shuttering sobs. He doesn't mean to. He doesn't really understand why he's crying. Doesn't really realize he even is. And blunt nails dig a little more into his scalp. Pain the only thing he can think of to find a handle on the moment.

Oh my lad...

It's small. He doesn't hear it, not at first. But for every word uttered. For every syllable stacked on top of another--the rushing tide in his ears starts to ebb. The shake of shoulders begins to ease. Lungs that sop seizing up every other breath. And there is a tension that is slow and then more or less all at once. Knees that knock together and stay put. Hands that fall away from a head, and tuck themselves away under his arms. A head that comes up, and keeps going. Leans back until it connect with one of the bar stool's braces. Gulping breathes that grow deeper, further apart, though the adrenaline drop is already setting in. The shaking of his body now simple exhaustion not psychosomatic turmoil. And eyes that finally slit open. The aftermath of his panic the only thing he can see.

The bodies remind him of mummies he had seen once on a poster, and yet some how--wrong and unnatural. He doesn't know why. Maybe its because mummies were supposed to be made of the course of hundreds of years not seconds. Brows that knit because he doesn't know how or why he knows that; as blue moves onward. The weapons that have fallen from hands or slipped from pockets in the fall. They weren't friendly whoever they were. And something inside him feels relief, as he moves on again. Takes in the water lined floor. He...he should fix...that. Can't leave any trace but--

He's so tired isn't he? He hadn't been prepared for that kind of exertion. Not enough meat on his bones, not enough strength. If he had both maybe he could have handled this different. Maybe if he wasn't so easy to panic. So easy to frighten.

"I-....I-I'm s-sorry."

The stuttering is from shivering not nerves. Soaked as he is now in a cold sweat. Arms that tighten a bit more around him. Knees that come flush together.

"I...I didn't...."

Eyes are pulled shut again. Deliberate breathes to try and still the shaking. It's making his brain rattle. Or at least that's what it feels like. Rattling like it did the day they'd escaped. The day he had simply willed up a tsunami that wiped an entire island of life. Or at least that is what the news said. He hadn't much stuck around to find out. To concerned with--wi--

"Br--Brightness! "

Where was she? Eyes darting back to the bodies on the floor, to the door that lead to the stairs. To--wait. No. Seven. There had been seven and there were seven bodies. She...she was fine. But he asks anyway.

"Is...i-is she o-okay?"

[barkjunhee]

“I’ve got a confession to make…  The Singleton affair, when Jack and I attempted to alter the vote on your ship, see Flint deposed. It was intended to induce key men on your crew to defect, then to recruit them ourselves. But most specifically… It was with an eye to recruit you.”

[perfectmetaphore]

The laugh that follows with the kiss is gentle, unguarded and perhaps he dares to admit it is a little happy as well. But aside from all that, it is bittersweet. The grief and fear that has been carved on the inside of his skin holds such a tight grip on him that Silver fears it will never ever go away. Or perhaps he simply holds it there, keeps it there because it's the only thing he knows. His only reminder of where he comes from.

A smile when he looks up at Billy, when he reaches out to brush a thumb against high cheekbones.

"Go to them, you don't need to entertain me. Me and my infuriating self can handle ourselves quite well on our own"

It isn't to push him away, but rather out of guilt. There is a certain hatred within him that tells him how selfish he is. That because of his return he has pulled Billy away from his crew, away from the family he has created for himself. Always the impostor. Always the one to come in and shake things into motion when things would have been better off the way they were.

A sickness. Or perhaps a curse. The curse of John Silver that simply leaves grief and ruin in his wake-- and here Billy is, speaking of a beauty that doesn't exist. There is no beauty in curses, no beauty in mourning either. Or perhaps it is? Perhaps he simply has carried that grief in the most ugly form he could think of.

"Go have fun"

[nolegacies]

The touch pulls invisible strings. A mouth that hitches up, crinkles the corner edges of an eye. Something soft. Something so rarely seen by anyone else if at all. Not that kind at any rate. And maybe he leans a bit heavier on one elbow than the other. Doing everything the opposite in action that John says he should do in word.

Oh should he?

Can John then?

Well that's too fucking bad now isnt it?

"I think the teenagers can survive without the old men for at least another half an hour."

A grin that says everything it needs to. That he's joking and that he means it all the same. The rum bottle retrieved from one cargo pocket while the other is relieved of a pack of John's preference and two cigars of Billy's. The rum and smokes of both kinds held up and given a little shake. A head tossing behind Billy to the couch seating just down the deck from them

"Be old men with me for a bit longer, Mister Silver?"

[nolegacies]

all but two done. things are que'd for the morrow.

[nolegacies]

okay...wow that took all day im so sry...ugh...likelihood i do it again tomorrow on luka's blog is high but i dunno. *sigh* okay off i go to drafts. hmu if u like.

[gideongriddle]

oh i can’t hear you are you talking to me? now I can’t hear you did you say that you’re happy for me? bitter poem // cold war kids

[perfectmetaphore]

The groan is a new feature he will have to store away in his mind for later. A sound he will do his very best to pull forth again and again for as long as he is allowed. For it is something about the knowledge that he can bring even someone as stoic as Billy Bones to a plane of raw need. Well, he shouldn't be surprised. Most men melt the moment you put your hand or mouth on them, they are easy like that. What makes this even more interesting is his reaction next. The hand upon his face, lips against his skin and that deep rumble. Something that makes him shiver and gasp. Fuck, maybe it is Billy who has the upper hand after all?

He feels the pressure against his hand, feels Billy move even closer. Enough so that table almost tips over against the wall. Silver laughs, lets out a breathy series of chuckles into the kiss, because how can he not? Billy Bones growling into his mouth. Rubbing against his hand and showing his desires quite clearly in doing so. How can he not when he is allowed to see this side of him. John Silver of all fucking people.

And of course, who is he to deny such desires? If anything, he sees it as a challenge. ' shut up ', oh, we'll see about that, Billy, now won't we?

"Oh, but Billy, I think you like hearing my voice, don't you? Did you think about me earlier today when you were tightening those ropes down at the beach? Or when you walked past me and I just so very subtly, allowed you to brush against my hip?"

A grin, it is playful. His words are coated in velvet as he shifts the position of his arm a little, making it less of an awkward angle when he begins rubbing his hand against the growing bulge. Feels how it twitches in interest, how it grows under his touch. His own interest is there as well, but Silver has learned to contain it. Greed might be his biggest weakness, but that greed lies in taking others apart in their pleasure before his own.

"What do you desire?"

He feels the outline of Billy under his hand, follows it with his touch as he strokes it over the fabric of his breeches. It isn't enough to cause pressure, to allow free desire to flow, he knows this. No, this he does simply to tease him, simply to cause a reaction and see the result. Let go, Billy, I know you want to.

[nolegacies]

The gasp sends liquid heat down his spine at the same time it shoot a cool wave back up. And maybe John's not the only that has to work through a stutter. Maybe he's not the only one questioning who is steering who. Because his ears are heating up--turning color. Hating how accurate John's call outs are.

Because he's not wrong on any count or point he makes and that infuriates doesn't it? Eats Billy up and drags itself right out from under his skin. Because he hates how easy it is. How open booked he seems to be to John. Because no one's ever really managed to work him out. Not fully. Not even the old man. So its infuriating.

Oh John allowed it did he?

The next sound is deeper, more resonating yet short. Aggravation writing itself into every vein, every muscle. John's being a shit on purpose. Billy's not stupid. But knowing it doesn't do shit about the fact that it is happening. And maybe that hand around John's face shifts. Slides back along a jaw until a thumb finds where it fits, fingers splaying out into dark curls. The other hand mirroring the first, as he chases and consume a mouth that just can not stop. Can't let things lie and burn up in the already blistering heat. No he has to fan it. Has to make it brighter...more all consuming.

Billy would be a liar if he said he didn't like it. And an even bigger one still if deny how much he can't help it. The gravitation of himself into John's touch. The way Billy can't stop the forward motion. Even if he knows there's a million other places within this room that would suite--he can't take his hands--his mouth---every part of them that touch--away long enough to attempt find it.

What do you desire?

Echoes like canon fire in his ears. Defiance because it should be clear. But the table's complaints get louder and it throws everything a little askew. Throw it just enough off kilter maybe a few ducks manage to escape between bites of oxygen John's kiss has become.

"Yo--u. Ifuckingwantyou."

[nolegacies]

drafts almost there i think yes. will que once they are! ^_^

[perfectmetaphore]

' i will die first '. As if dying is a thing of grace. A reward for all the hardship that must be endured beforehand. If it weren't for the exhaustion, for how broken and torn he feels, Silver would have almost deemed it a little romantic. Macabre, but romantic. But this is not a competition of who gets to go first, because Silver for all his selfishness, will deny Billy that right. He will deny him death. It is not his right to do so. It is not his right to deny anyone anything, least of all death, but he simply cannot imagine doing this without Billy by his side. He is not allowed to die.

( he is not allowed to leave silver alone in this misery )

A hand moves. Moves to rest on top of Billy's. It is not subtle or discrete, Silver doesn't care about that anymore. Doesn't care which light people might see him in, because as for right now, he is fairly certain he could make a grown man weep out of fear. Fairly certain he would kill anyone who dared make a wrong comment about him or Billy-- for a door has been opened, one that doesn't want to be closed again.

The touch moves again, moves his fingers to card through the soft blonde hair of his lover. It is what they are, after all, lovers. He has never shied away from that, has never found it any weirder than he would anyone else, and he isn't about to stop now. He leans forward, allows his fingers next to cup a chin, to brush against the stubble there. If anyone were to see them? Fucking let them. What does it fucking matter anyway?

"No. You are not allowed to die, if you must, then I will too. I cannot lose you... please, do not go down a path I cannot follow"

He breathes out. Every movement sends pain shooting through him, but that hardly matters right now. It is only a distraction, painful but so very irritating. Makes him grit his teeth and close his eyes once more in an attempt to regain control over the pain. His fingers tighten a little against Billy's chin before the hand moves away entirely. Drops to his side as Silver doubles over.

"You can't die, Billy. Not when yours are the only voice of reason I have left. Please fucking promise me"

[nolegacies]

Moments like right now are so few and far between. So tiny in their happening. The length of a breath to just a few heart beats. And it has taught him to stretch the moments out hasn't it? Make them last longer than they really do. Seconds where everything seems to slow down. The hand against his, that he wants to turn his own over to accept but it's moving on again before he can. Shifting up, running fingers through his hair that have his eye lids hitching on the back end of a blink. He remembers falling asleep to that doesn't he? But there is much yet left to do, and--

Fingers to his chin, that draws his gaze to center. The slightest notice that John's closer than he had been a second ago. And perhaps for a moment the horizon evens out between them. Maybe for a second there's a calming or Billy could just be wishing too hard.

....please do not go down a path I cannot follow.

A path John can not follow? Oh how that hurts. Oh how that wounds and bleeds a man who isn't that anymore. How it whispers of words that won't be written for centuries yet. Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch. And its all the more shattering because John thinks it is Billy that will some day take a road John ca--wait. That doesn't make sense does it? Not in the literal sense, and a mind is suddenly rushed to find an explanation. Had Billy misunderstood?

Maybe but its pushed away by hurt not of his own self. And brows gather, a gaze that tries to pin point how it hurts. A hand that comes up a fraction to late to wrap around the hold on his chin. John's hand dropping away. And maybe Billy's own simply hover for a second like he can't decide where his touch would be least likely to break something else.

You can't die, Billy. Not When yours is the only voice of reason I have left. Please fucking promise me.

Palms find shoulders, long fingers find shoulderblades. Trying to help brace where he can. Trying to help even though he knows nothing he does is going to do that. Is going to make it stop. But---well Billy has to try doesn't he?

"I'm not fucking going anywhere, John."

Billy means that with every single fiber of his being. He might have utterly forgotten about John's choice of words in the moment, but the sentiment remains the same. Billy Bones will die first. Or well he would it's just there's the little problem these days, that Billy just can't seem to stay dead. And many years from now, he might find the whole thing marginally amusing.

"Come on, lay down. I'm going to find that rum bottle I saw in the g-kitchen. And get some hot water made. We need to clean it--change the wrapping, all right?"

[nolegacies]

did i just spend 2 hours trying to find an rp that i was starting to think literally never existed? yes. yes i did. did i find it? also yes. okay thanks that's all. going to drafts. hmu if u like.

[nolegacies]

new theme is up. let me know if anything is broke. k thanks byeee

[uniiicornsources]

Send anons to my muse as someone from their canon: prod them about anything in character!

From the mundane to the dramatic and everything in between! Sometimes we want random characters to interact with but don’t need a blog to do it!

For multimuse blogs, please be sure to specify a muse

[nolegacies]

what i should be doing drafts probably... what im actually doing: changing up billy's theme guys...im so sad i gotta let that one go but -deep breaths- maintenance for a bit so if shit seems broke im working on it swear.

[knifelesbianjo]

BLACK SAILS 1.02 | 4.10

[nolegacies]

here there and probably over there and here too. whoops. hmu if u like. weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[nolegacies]