#criticalfai1ure

[hatigave]

@criticalfai1ure august said to adelé : ❛  they  say  a  siren’s  call  alone  can  drown  a  man  before  she  swallows  him.  ❜

❝  what  a  heartbreaking  tale.  ❞  rests  her  back  against  the  railing,  favours  looking  at  august  rather  than  the  sea.  has  seen  enough  of  the  waves  to  last  her  a  lifetime.  knows  it  better  than  she  knows  the  scars  littering  her  own  hands.  has  no  such  familiarity  with  august      ⎯      not  yet  at  least      ⎯      so  it  is  in  hazel  eyes  where  new  knowledge  lies.  ❝  for  the  likes  of  men,  that  is.  it  says  enough  about  your  sex  that  you  are  drowned  before  you've  ever  even  seen  a  siren's  tit.  but  let  me  guess,  you  have  looked  one  in  the  eye  and  survived  both  song  and  breast  ? now that seems like a feat to gloat about.  ❞

[lcfthaunted]

@criticalfai1ure • Basher sent : “y’ think I have a concussion?”

“It’s likely.” Her fingertips are under his chin, tipping his head so she can see the injury better, dabbing it gently with antiseptic. She stands between his knees, expression soft as she studies him. “I’d keep you on bed rest if I thought you’d do it. And before you try,” she chides fondly, dimples appearing in her cheeks as she tries not to smile, “sex will make your symptoms worse.” She sets aside the antiseptic, unwraps a butterfly bandage. As she works, she continues, “And if you end up with post-concussion syndrome, you will be very, very unhappy. So let’s try to avoid that, please?” She presses a kiss to the skin above the injury when she finishes.

[glasshcldhigh]

@criticalfai1ure * Pax sent : “You're not alone.”

“I know,” Ingvi snarls at him, then winces. He’s not the real target for her ire. She sighs and shakes her head. “I know,” she repeats, softer. “It’s just—” she gestures toward the stairs to the deck, toward August. “It’s not often it’s the three of us against him, and he usually doesn’t refuse to listen when that happens.” It’s so transparently a trap, and the captain refuses to tell them why he finds it so important to return to England out of season. Ingvi pinches the bridge of her nose. “If his sister was sick, he would say,” she grumbles. “So that’s not it. But I can’t imagine—” she gestures her frustration, then stops cold, staring at her hand.

Oh. She can imagine. She counts on her fingers: one, two, three. Just as she feared. Wide grey eyes fix on Pax, but she presses her lips tight together. She’d promised the duchess not to say anything. Unfortunately, it looks like she is alone in this. “I need to talk to the captain.”

[champagneprobllems]

@criticalfai1ure

“Well.” She’s changed out of the slinky silver gown she wore on stage, though the pale pink corseted minidress she now wears is equally distracting. She hops onto the barstool next to him, leaning on one arm, and tips her head to look up at him. She leans harder into her accent here than she does at school, but that should only make her more recognizable to him. “If it isn’t Henry Holliday. You sure have grown up, haven’t you? Though I doubt you remember li'l ol' Lulah.”

[trickstercaptain]

@criticalfai1ure sent: ❛ if you don’t want a sarcastic answer, don’t ask stupid questions ❜ from james 😎

       The tensing of his jaw, a twitch in the curl of his lip was the only indication of Jack's annoyance — all too brief, and all too swiftly replaced by the cat-like smile of a predator looking to play with its food. The pretence was all he had left at this point ( at least until he could somehow get himself onto the Flying Dutchman come dawn ) and, while it might have been sensible to ignore Norrington's sudden appearance here on Shipwreck Cove and the mix of bitterness and admiration it brought, Jack had never been sensible. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

       “ Not a stupid question, then: how did the — admiral, was it? Too busy being dead to keep up with the news of the day, I'm afraid — of the fleet go from enslaving Jones and facilitating Beckett's extermination of piracy to joining the rabble misguided enough to put up resistance to it? ” He cocked his head, searching Norrington's gaze, before taking a daring step towards him. “ What did King Swann promise you, I wonder? ”

[premleague]

“what if we left  …  ran away ?”

He's sat in his favorite armchair, the one with the perfect view of the ocean [ he can't believe this is his life...! ] with his guitar on his lap and his eyes fully focused on the strings. Riddy's voice always draws his attention, though - she could say something in the middle of a crowd and he'd pick up on it, he just knows he would. The gods made him to love her, and he'll love her every second of every minute of every day for the rest of his life. Into the next life, too - after Renewal, he'll find her, however she is, whoever she is, and he'll love her then, too. "Ran away?" There's a laugh in Orpheus' voice as he sets aside his guitar and stands up. He crosses the room to her, cupping her face in his hands, looking down into those gorgeous brown eyes of hers. "Ran away?" he repeats, unable to stop smiling. "Ran away to where? Where'll we run to, will we leave Krete? Is Dennis coming? Dennis's got to come, y'know. Can't let him miss out on all the fun of running away, can we."

@criticalfai1ure's riddy for orpheus from here !

[dxsole]

🌾 CAN YOU HEAR IT | @criticalfai1ure

He doesn't shush the other outright, but he does press a finger to his lips, giving Doc a hard stare. Quiet down. Listen.

When voices cease, the prairie takes over. You don't hear anything, unless you really listen; then comes in the faint calling of doves and buzzing of flies. You hear the rustle of dried grass blowing in the wind. You hear a cow moo and the far off barks of the cattle dog.

Yet while life is happening all around them, it's silent. Completely silent.

No birds, no bugs, no animals. Not even the wind stirs up a sound as it breezes by.

"It's been like this for three weeks." Jericho murmurs, voice barely rising above a whisper. "I can scream and I get no echo back anymore." He doesn't know what it means, but perhaps Doc could shed some light on the situation. Or maybe just assure him he's not going crazy.

[critica1neutra1]

it doesn't feel right. everything's gone to shit since charles' death, and anne's body screams from the torment of being upright. of holding her balance rigid even as the ship rocks gently in the waves. it isn't torture, but it feels near to it as she stands beside @criticalfai1ure on the deck of de vlinder. fucking cowards shouldn't have to be asked in the first place. as far as she's concerned, they're all culpable in this- every last one of them as guilty as the last for every death they've endured when a gun, a blade, might have been the difference. she keeps her own council, she said her peace to jack before they boarded. she won't undermine him now, even as her palms sting with the violent urge to do something- anything to make them pay attention. there's the wayward glances from the crew not involved in the conversation, but they all go about their tasks like their lives aren't tied to this in the slightest. like they have nothing to lose as the crown erodes them all day by day and she hates them for it. she tells herself she hates them for it every last bastard aboard because it's easier to hate than grieve. this isn't to appease the wishes of a dead man, this is fucking survival, and not a single one of them seems to give a shit.

from her vantage beside jack, she casts an eye across the crew- at least those above deck. trying to gauge which might be useful in a fight and which are more likely to end up rotting on the beaches of nassau--- jack says they'll only be backup but it feels dishonest to even think it. there can be no holdouts in a war like this. anne makes snap judgments, mental checklists swaying one direction then the other, the biology of the thing versus what she's seen in action when push comes to shove. she's about to write off the woman sat on the deck, tucked into herself like she means to hide in the shadows, as a coward on principle. if she were worth anything a name would already come to mind, a position, anything remarkable at all- but that isn't what catches her intention. instead the glint of something when the light catches it just so. the slow and intentional way in which she polishes a blade, almost reverently. it wouldn't be anything of note, no more than the woman herself, but recognition sparks, kicking back like a poorly balanced flintlock and an expression that had been neutral at best turns to a violent snarl and she takes a stiff lunging step in her direction. ❛. that thieving little cunt--- ❜