Body of a man I bring thee, Noble even in its ruin.

- RP Blog for Captain James Flint 18 + only please! Written by els, new to RP life so if I slip up, don’t be shy to tell me!

[cryingadenium]

in this house we love and appreciate James, Miranda, Thomas and their love

[sunvault]

Merrick@Raphael, p-canon] Tiny specks of pollen are curling 'round Raphael's head, each one burning tiny streaks through the sky; a glowing reminder of the Saint he would have become. "Please, Raphael." Merrick keeps his voice low, and softer than the tickling breeze. His hand is settled, palm up and still against his solid knee. "You can't worry forever." He bows his head. "I won't turn to dust." He feels his own warmth bleeding into the strange stone-skin. "You can hold me. Just for a second."

@songofthestone

He isn’t due for another period of stasis; not a long one, at any rate, or the doctors would have told him. But knowing that and trusting it are two different things, and whenever Raphael thinks of Merrick in his arms he cannot help but also think of the Bedlam girl that had been trapped in her markayuq lover’s arms until only her bones remained.

He wonders if the markayuq has woken since then. The thought of either outcome fills him with dread.

He shakes his head, just once to either side. He hates denying Merrick anything, especially himself. But those bones come into his mind again and he rubs at his wrist, slower than he was twenty years ago but still feeling cobwebs on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, in English. His voice is a strange, humming rasp these days, when he uses it at all. Then in Spanish, guilt and longing tightening his throat: “A second is all it takes.” 

You could turn to dust, he thinks. I could blink and you’d crumble in my arms. 

He nudges his knuckles against Merrick’s hand, but doesn’t take it. He wants, badly, to wrap his arms around him; to kiss him; to hold instead of merely leaning into him as he does now. But he won’t. His other hand, when it presses against Merrick’s chest, remains resolutely flat.

[returned-to-the-sea]

Merrick sighs, gazing at their hands; curled beside one another. Touching, but not: the tender distance of this curious life of theirs.

It wasn’t fair of him to ask, to twist at the raw fear that grates at Raphael’s heart.

Sometimes he can’t help but wonder whether Raphael would be happier without Merrick. To sleep without fear of time stealing away your love in the night.

Simpler to watch a world that doesn’t long for you.

He aches to hold him, to be held.

To taste, and be tasted, to pull unsteady huffs from Raphael.

He worries privately that this must be some sort of terrible hubris: the wish to tease pleasure from a living god. But their touches- close or careful - are filled with reverence, and grace, and Merrick only wants to pour the heat of his heart over that thick, unbending skin.

He can hear his heart thumping slowly under those cool, firm fingers, and he wonders for a moment what it would be like to die; wrapped in loving stone, to feel your heartbeat bleed away until you stand as still as the arms around you.

Gone, but still held fast.

He leans into the touch, letting his own hand move to press against the firm line of Raphael’s ribs, his stomach, his hips. Tracing circles, caressing edges.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds bright, and far too loud in the silence.

He wants to ease the worry, to temper the regret in Raphael’s voice. When he speaks now, he sounds like a swarm of tired bees, crawling through damp clay.

“Not now,” he whispers, fingers knitting knots around Raphael’s wrist.

It’s alright. A wordless promise, sung in string. It’s alright.

Careful to keep his palm flat, he lifts the hand still weighing on his sternum. Slowly, and it has to be, he drops a kiss, firm and open mouthed, to the smooth skin of his palm.

Raphael won’t feel the warmth, the damp, the little huff of breath.

But he’ll feel the pressure. It will be enough.

[iwt-v]

★  Thomas Hamilton  ★

       ↳ 2 01-2 05

[returned-to-the-sea]

@intolerablexsacrifice from here

[...]

“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” says James, quietly. “And it hardly hurts.” He moves to clasp his hands back behind himself again, out of sheer habit.

“I had thought you would be displeased with me,” he admits (and the instinct to say my lord is there, a notable silence hanging where the title should rest). “The damage I might have done to yours and your wife’s reputations, the rumours that will no doubt arise–I thought you’d dismiss me.”

Thomas wants very much to fling caution aside, to clasp James tight to his breast, but with some great wealth of restraint he had not expected to possess, he does not. For once, he holds his tongue, filled though he is with a thick, hot desire to whisper away the doubt in his friend’s mind. He can see his words, and his fervour, settling slowly over James. He strives to calm his own heartbeat, to find the patience to wait for James; wait until he understands that Thomas does not intend to allow harm to come to him. To them.  He thinks it is some sort of hell to have to hold a man like this at arms length, but he stills himself, watching the rise and fall his lieutenant’s chest as it heaves, betraying the tumult beneath that stoic face. 

James murmurs then, a quiet plea; the first he’s truly asked of Thomas.

He is standing, as stiff and still as a soldier facing his end. His jaw a terrible mess of trapped and mottled blood, and Thomas feels his innards turn against him at the frantic worry in his friend’s eyes.

He hears, as if his horror had conjured him, the low and long forgotten drawl of his father, oozing slowly under muttered conversation. His horrible gaze had been pinning an ageing gentleman; someone grand but stooped, and suddenly quite without friends in the musty, smoke filled room.  We are all quite aware, and his father’s voice had been filled with a darkening threat, how that little man has gained such favour with your young heir. 

Thomas, young, naive, and not yet full of the disappointment his father would slowly feed him over the coming years, had been eavesdropping. He had risked a snarling glance to his head to be told what it was that little man had done. And his father had looked disgusted, as if Thomas were muck off the streets and hissed that he had willingly given that which was asked.

The child, who grew into a man, who understood those words, had never forgotten the cold hatred or violent distaste in his father’s grey eyes. The laughter, that had spilled from cruel mouths at the suffering of another man.  It had pained him, torn at his mind, had for too long lingered sourly at the corners of mouths he kissed.

Thomas shakes his head, as if to slough off the stench of that memory. He lifts his hand from James shoulder, aching at the loss, but no longer blind to the truth of the venom behind the taunts that had pushed him to untethered rage.

And James had, for small, breathless second, caught his eyes, and trusted him with a glimpse of those brave and beaten knuckles before tucking them carefully out of sight. 

Thomas holds his questioning gaze, for as long as he can, and slowly nodding, he places his own hand - pale and untouched, and softer than butter - against his breast. He splays his fingers, stepping back a little way.

“I swear it.”

He will keep his word. He owes James his loyalty, at the very least.

I had thought you would be displeased with me, he says, and Thomas wants to weep.

He feels the thundering space behind his ribs bloom and wail, pressing too tight against those flimsy bones, writhing sadly around the sweet little seed of fondness. A bright, sharp edged knot; shaped by the waves and shining like green and glinting seaglass, lodged firm at the core of him.

But the truth behind his quiet admission, James’ spilling grief at the thought of having damaged something as worthless as a reputation, of losing his place amongst them, drags him from his own pity. He can mourn himself another night.

He reaches out again, letting his fingers brush gently down his arm and tugging lightly until James allows his bloodied hand to be held in Thomas’ own. It rests, hot and bleeding still, on his palm. “We should bandage these, before they heal crooked.” He touches lightly at the bruise on James’ face, at the cracked knuckles, his swollen thumb joint. He lets fondness brighten his face at last, and smiles.

“One cannot dismiss a friend, James.”

[returned-to-the-sea]

intolerablexsacrifice replied to your post [S@T] "Well." Silver holds up the abomination that...

[ i’m loSING MY MIND HHFJKFNKJLNJ ]

Thomas vc: I am beyond criticism and I will dye all your jackets bright yellow

[returned-to-the-sea]

[S@T] "Well." Silver holds up the abomination that Thomas seems to believe can pass for a respectable shirt. Raises both eyebrows at him, looking very much on the verge of laughter. "This is horrific." But then he's draping the garment over his lap, pulling his own shirt over his head in easy, swift motions; he balls it up, tosses it at Thomas' chest with a 'hold this a moment' before pulling the new shirt ("shirt" is a strong word) on. He looks down at himself. Cracks up.

Thomas, absolutely certain that the admittedly rather lopsided, but frankly stunningly embroidered square should at least pass for shirt adjacent, raises his brows. “Why, Silver!” His eyes are sparkling. “Quite the sartorial authority, I had no idea.” He rises, gazing intently at the scraps hanging off his sturdy frame. Could be a little more snug, he’ll admit, but really, it’s a tremendous first attempt.Advancing swiftly, his hand darts forwards to snatch at the striped rag that perhaps was once a pair of breeches, but now hangs limp and fetid against Silver’s warm thighs. He grins, bending close. “I tell you what,” he declares: his voice soft and enticing, “I shall fashion you a new pair of these, something bright and shiny. And you can sit by me, and tell me where I’m going wrong as I stitch.” He glances up at Miranda, her face straight but her chest heaving with unsung laughter. “I’m certain I can improve on these terrible jackets of yours too. Perhaps some lace, or a handful of feathers?”

[returned-to-the-sea]

@thatwasdark from here

They don’t have to touch. But Silver does touch, wants to touch. One hand stays tight on the crutch, the other slipping out of the stranger’s hand and up to the back of his neck, thick fingers curling firmly around it. There is the barest breath of hesitation- the sound of the waves receding- and Silver closes his eyes, tilts his face up, and kisses him.

He half-expects it to be like the breaking of a dam, but there’s only the steady, rising heat; he hears a soft, pleased noise, realises it’s come from the back of his own throat; and that it doesn’t matter, and that he still simply wants.

Adam feels it, surging through and him skimming bright at the edges of his senses; that wonderful thrum of promise. It’s the sigh before a song, the hush before the storm. The lazy thump of a heart before desire melts between two bodies.

God, those thick, rough fingers rubbing slowly at his own feel so good.  He lets his body breathe it in, innards blooming joyfully, his skin tender and thin with anticipation. When it comes, the press of lips soft against him, the sweet, deep growl poured into his mouth, he cannot stop the wide grin from spreading over face. His hands flutter up to clutch at the stranger’s face, cradling his jaw lightly, feeling at last the tickle of those endless curls. Adam presses forward, leaning down to deepen the kiss, to lick and taste and feel. 

Seconds drip by, slower than the honey-sunlight, before he pulls back slowly, head dizzy, lungs full, heart swelling with pleasure. He holds the stranger’s gaze for a long moment, his face still aching with a smile, stroking his thumbs slowly across his sharp, dark cheeks. He hums, low and pleasing, turning over the kiss in his mind, admiring again those bright, inscrutable eyes. 

“What is it you’d like then, my beautiful stranger?” He lets one hand slip from his face, dragging slowly over a thickly muscled shoulder, before resting hot and weighty over his breast. “Tell me,” he murmurs, hunger deepening his whisper, “what is it you want.”

[intolerablexsacrifice]

The Lieutenant - /James/ - he thinks, with a soft smile, is early. His face is blank, and he’s standing erect; buttons gleaming, his coat still firmly on. Thomas nears, smile fading to a frown. He looks like a man awaiting some terrible fate. He aches to reach out, to temper this strange distress, but he stops, shocked by a dark bruise blooming beneath his eye. “My dear Lieutenant,” he murmurs. “What on earth has happened?” He moves, as if to touch, catching himself just in time. “Does it hurt?”

James’ heart is not pounding. He had thought it might, with the looming danger of being dismissed from Thomas Lord Hamilton’s service, but his pulse feels slow and steady in his chest, too calm for the events about to unfold. 

His face is carefully neutral, hands behind his back; the sight of Thomas drives a scarlet spark through him, even now, and he believes more than ever that what he did yesterday evening was right. That Pickram - or his friend, James cannot remember now who received the worst of his wrath - deserved his bloodied face and his likely permanently-misshapen nose and jaw. 

He would do it again, he thinks wildly, even as he braces himself. He would do it again without hesitation or apology.

Something in his gut flutters nervously at the endearment Thomas greets him with; the slight start of his hand, almost reaching towards him. James resolutely does not move. The knuckles behind his back are bruised and aching but in this moment he barely feels them at all.

“You didn’t hear? I assumed someone would have told you by now.”

Thomas doesn’t know, which means the duty of telling him falls to James. He should be grateful for that- grateful for the opportunity to explain himself- but all he feels is a low and steady dread.

James’ eyes flicker over Thomas’ face, the bruises on his jaw and beneath his eye throbbing. His heart is no longer as steady as it was.

“I struck a fellow officer.” If only it was as simple as that. If only it had been just one blow. James takes a breath, as if steeling himself, and shifts his weight slightly. “He and his… companions made an attempt to provoke me,” (he could lie, if he wanted to, but he cannot imagine telling a lie to this man and sleeping at night afterwards) “Through insulting your wife’s name, and yours.” 

He hesitates.

“It worked. Admiral Hennessey was forced to intervene.”

[returned-to-the-sea]

Something inside Thomas is roaring. A hot and raging cry that twists at his nerves, and deafens his mind.

He’s staring, hard and seething, enraged at the nameless cowards who no doubt sullied Miranda and struck his friend. Who poured oil on a sparking soul just to watch it consume itself in its own glorious blaze.

In his minds eye he sees James, wild and bright, and warring. Relentless.

He would have burned, with all his icy fire: righteous and certain of himself for a hot, mad moment.

Thomas feels his chest tighten, his breath leaving him in a shaky huff, and he focuses now on the blank face before him. Pale, save for the wide and darkening marks - more than he first thought, he sees.

“James.” His voice is low, soft. Steady in his rage. He wants very much to embrace him, to soothe his anger. He does not. He cannot even seem to catch his eyes.

“James,” he repeats, softer still.

“What are the names of these men.”

He watches the carefully blank face tighten, a muscle in his cheek twitch just once. He wonders how many reprimands he had to suffer from Hennessey before tending to those blows.

The silence thickens, horribly, scarcely a breath to be heard.

Unable to bear the weight it, Thomas settles one hand on James’ stiff shoulder, feeling his burning warmth beneath, and squeezes lightly.

“Let me find something cool to press on your jaw. Slow the swelling, if we can.”

Thomas sees again, the image of McGraw, towering and bloody in the midst of a throng of men, and thinks of split knuckles and cracked bones.

He barely hesitates, before shifting his hand, gripping his friend’s neck with long, firm fingers. “James,” he bends his head, just a little, to finally hold that lovely gaze. “Will you show me your hands?”

[twostepsfromtemerant]

I’m here, I’m queer, I’m ready to make the British Empire disappear

Captain James Flint

[dailyjamesflint]

They say they will pardon us all, but I say to offer to pardon something one fears is the act of a coward. To offer them in volume suggests that their fear of us is becoming unmanageable,that we have shown them what we are capable of and it terrifies them. Do any of you want to surrender to men who fear you? Lay down arms in a battle that we are winning? Neither do I. fuck Benjamin Hornigold,his king,and their pardons.This war isn’t nearly over.-Flint,Black Sails 301.

[dailyjamesflint]

They say they will pardon us all, but I say to offer to pardon something one fears is the act of a coward. To offer them in volume suggests that their fear of us is becoming unmanageable,that we have shown them what we are capable of and it terrifies them. Do any of you want to surrender to men who fear you? Lay down arms in a battle that we are winning? Neither do I. fuck Benjamin Hornigold,his king,and their pardons.This war isn’t nearly over.-Flint,Black Sails 301.

[sailorsally]

James Flint Mcgraw, hot and bothered, sprawled out on the bed and pouting when Thomas has to leave him for 5 minutes to retrieve the oil: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away

[intolerablexsacrifice]

pre series post smooch] Thomas is sprawled between James' legs, nosing fondly at his stomach, hands gripping firmly at his hips. "Ask, my love," he murmurs, dragging the tip of his tongue across skin, soothing his side with a long finger. "Tell me, ask me." He tips his head up, eyes soft at the sight of James warring with his own mind. "You won't upset me, James. It isn't wrong." He presses a kiss to the soft skin at the top of his thigh, shivering a little at the heat on his lips.

James is twitching, flushed down to his chest and fighting the urge to squirm under Thomas’ gentle, firm hands. He wants- wants badly enough that the heat of it is dizzying, the sight of Thomas’ mouth so close to him but not touching nearly unbearable. The thought of putting it into words–

He trembles when Thomas speaks, pushes a forearm over his own eyes. Has to swallow the instinct to protest. Deeper than his shame runs the absolute conviction that Thomas is the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen; that loving and being loved by him cannot be wrong; that he wants James to ask, wants to hear it from him. 

James takes a moment. His forearm is warm against his too-hot face and he pulls it away finally, looks down at Thomas again, hands curling anxiously into the sheets. 

He curls one of them into Thomas’ hair instead, stroking through it. Traces the curve of Thomas’ ear with his fingertips, just to see if it makes him shiver. 

“I– your mouth on me.” He says it quietly, softly, like a confession. His thighs are trembling. Shame does nothing to cool the desire pooling in him as he watches Thomas’ face, eyes flickering. “Please.” 

[returned-to-the-sea]

James is gazing down at him, pink and wide eyed, and gloriously undone.

Thomas feels his hand press tentatively into his hair, and brush sweetly at his ear, and his body sings delightedly, louder than the wail of creation.

Just the touch of James, the wild want in his eyes, makes him tremble; his heart full, and swelling larger at the sight of his love, trying so hard and mumbling brave, and charming words.

He sighs - half a hum, half a groan - and bites gently at the soft skin of his twitching stomach.

“My love”, he murmurs, pride and desire blending dizzily in his bright and bursting mind. “My love, you’re doing so well.” He leans back, just an inch, pushing his long hands further around those tight, tense hips, before grasping firmly at the smooth, round curve of his behind. “You’d like my mouth?” His voice is low, a hot whisper and barely that. He tips James, tilting his hips, and drags his lips, wet and wanting, up the hard and heavy line of his cock.

Pushing his nose to the softer, musky curls between his helplessly pinned and trembling thighs, he inhales, scraping his cheek across the gentle skin. Blinks up at James, to see the light of his beautiful eyes, his own heavy and lidded with desire. “I’m going to taste you, if I may, my love.” And he takes him, just a little, just lightly, into his mouth.

[finngualart]

I dug up some old sketches and here is one that I like a lot but still never finished!

[returned-to-the-sea]

@intolerablexsacrifice (from here)

“Why didn’t you? Make me leave.” The quirk of his brow is visible, this time. He doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t heckling Hal on purpose. “Looking for an excuse to complain at me, no doubt.”

Flint shifts his weight, eyes soft and lashes pale against two endearingly pinked cheeks. Hal bites back a groan at the feeling of his soft, sleep-warmed skin dragging over his belly. The scrape of stubble, the flutter of breath, the slow throb of Flint’s steady heart.

Flint’s leaning on him now, arms folded on his chest, his voice low and rumbling through his ribs, mouth pulled into a sweet, wicked grin. Hal presses his eyes shut, letting his head fall back against the curve of the canvass.

Does he know, he thinks, anger burning sudden and wild beside desire. Does he know how maddening he is, how fierce and huge he feels. Hal howls in his own mind, lamenting years he might have had: years spent, content to love and never feel this soft, hot touch.

They’ve curled together before, drunk, exhausted, hurt and mourning. And sometimes, just so furiously alone.

Flint has never lingered this way. Not once.

And his eyes now, deep but dancing like sun on a wave, are falling lazily to Hal’s lips; tracing the edges of his face, his thoughts. And still he’s lying, hard above him, crowding his heart, his mind.

Flint’s asking him why, why didn’t you make me leave. Mutters something light, his eyebrow raised, his face angled and sharp again, but lined with something close to fondness, close to want.

Quicker than the flash of a blade, Hal parts his knees, grunting a little as Flint’s weight falls heavier and closer, the muscle of his thigh sitting firm against his groin. He holds Flint’s gaze, holds his body, and slowly, tentatively, he settles his hands back against him, fingers brushing at the back of his ribs. Pushes one hand up, into his hair, pressing his head down to meet his own brow.

“Couldn’t shift you.” He’s huffing, breath coming hard and fast, his mouth too dry for wit. “Didn’t really want to.”

Their breaths meet, sour, hot; sickly sweet with sweat and rum. Hal licks his own lips, the tip of his tongue catching lightly at Flint’s open mouth.

He barely moves, fingers pressing gently against the rise and fall of Flint’s back. He nudges at Flint’s cheek, just once, with his nose.

“Want to leave now?”

[returned-to-the-sea]

[S@F, postcanon] He had lied to Thomas. He tries not to do that. If it isn't connected to--who he isn't (who he was), he tries. He doesn't always succeed. And he'd known Flint would feel it; would hear the lie in his voice. He'd said it anyway, and moved on. But now, in the evening, when they haven't really spoken since, Silver lingers in the doorway. He says: "Captain." Somehow that one word sounds like a plea: /please understand/.

He’d seen, as he always does, the flicker of his features, the too-bright tinge at the edge of his voice. So slight, so easily missed, that were he not alerted by the half breath of silence before the easy lie, he might have declined to pay attention. But Thomas is talking, asking about his hand, the shape of his letters - and when did he learn? He’s delighted, that’s all it is, James can see the light in his eyes, to know another lettered man. Silver spins something, sliding the conversation away from his own past.

Silver is staring past him now, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, his hand clasping tight to the handle of his crutch. It’s a blank plea, but the honest misery behind that scant-used title bleeds through. He sighs.“I won’t lie, Silver.” He keeps his voice low, but not unkind. Presses a closed fist to his shoulder, pushing gently. “But he won’t ask.”

[intolerablexsacrifice]

The evening is chasing them, hours spilling past with little concern for their work, for their intentions. James seems lost in a page, his thumb tapping idly on the dark wooden desk and Thomas feels his heart fill, as it always does, watching his mind work; furious, yet silent. He stands by his side, and gently lays his own heavy hand over those busy fingers. They stay, joined and quiet for a while before he speaks. "I would ask you to stay, but I - " for once he's lost, a little. "You needn't."

James’ heart catches at the sound of his voice. He looks up at Thomas, feels that bright, scarlet spark inside himself flare joyfully at the sight of him this close. The work slips from his mind like sand through splayed fingers. 

It’s a curious thing, to see Thomas hesitate like this. James glances towards the window, the light already dying as the sun descends. He’d be late getting back to his lodgings, he tells himself; so late that he might as well not sleep at all, with the time he’d need to be awake again. His heart tugs towards Thomas like a hound straining at the leash.

“I want to.” It’s nearly an interruption, so eager is he to banish that faint, uncertain tone from Thomas’ voice. James’ hand grasps his, laces their fingers through one another. He meets Thomas’ eyes and finds himself utterly unafraid. He says, a little more tenderly: “I’d like that. Very much.” 

[returned-to-the-sea]

It has been a week since that frantic evening with his father.

Only one, short week since a bright, blazing figure had risen like an angel at his own table; his voice firm, and free, and caressing Thomas with such aching sweetness.

He had never before seen quite such courage and beauty in just one man. It had spurred him to wondrous madness. To soft lips and skin against skin, and hearts pounding together, married as one. And then, James had stayed. By their proposal, by his own word. By Thomas’ side.

He trusts James, truly, trusts his heart and the weight of it. Enough to cradle him close, lay him down and offer himself whole. But he would rather lose James that take that heart for his own, take him without permission. 

I want to. Almost a cry, it flies from him, a soft breath of desire. The need curls tight around his heart, as James’ fingers fold firmly around his own. Very much.

Thomas holds his gaze, unblinking for a breathless moment, before pushing long fingers into James’ soft, neat hair, scraping lightly at his scalp, tilting back his head, and curling a thumb around his sharp cheek. 

“Good.” He kisses him, delighting as the mouth beneath his own yields, his tongue hot against parted lips, his body begging to curl about this glorious man, and his beautiful face. He pushes a knee between James’ legs, smiling widely at the heat he finds there. “I’d like that too.” He strokes lightly at his thigh, gazing fondly. “May I touch you, love?” Pushes his brow to his temple, no longer able to breathe easily at the sight of James open and flush beneath him.