#desuetude

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

Au n°31, la scène est figée dans le temps. Le petit balcon désert tente de faire la causette aux volets clos, tandis que le vent murmure doucement des histoires perdues aux oreilles attentives qui osent s'approcher.

[o3ak]

Desuetude - Chapter 2

Ed Teach x Stede Bonnet OFMD

Also on AO3.

I suppose this wasn’t a oneshot after all. This is now NSFT / not safe for minors; features mentions of sex without explicit consent and there may be sex scenes in later chapters. Expect mentions of self-harm, suicide, and piracy-era violence.

When his chest stops heaving and the fire in his knee subsides to a dull ache, Ed takes a shot at thinking. Stede knows their meeting point, and the absence of blood trail implies he can make it there, so that's where Ed must go.

On the sprint back to the dock, he dreads finding himself alone and waiting again, and this time around, hopeless. At the dock, Ed finds a void; dread emerges victorious, pleased. A violent kind of comfort overtakes sadness.

What did you think was going to happen?

In Ed’s mind, the words are spoken in a gravelly, spiteful, familiar voice.

As he rows back to the boat, he feels nearly empty. Loss drips down his cheeks and fills him up like cool water, from his toes to his hairline. A part of him, no larger than his pinky, holds stubborn reserves of hope. Maybe, it says, maybe he'll board the Revenge and find Stede there, waiting for him, wrapped in his golden robe, smelling of lavender.

Stede is not aboard the ship.

For a few days, Ed allows hope to fester.

They drop anchor near the shore – Stede may be looking for them.

On day one, Frenchie sings sad songs for Ed. On day two, Ed sings along with him. On day three, Ed forgets the lyrics and slurs the words; the songs come out all twisted and wrong. The crew don’t make eye contact much after that.

On the sixth day, Izzy’s blade is pressed up against Ed’s chest. He’s saying something about Blackbeard -Ed’s not paying attention, he’s far too nauseous for this- about looking ridiculous, something about Stede ruining everything he touches – Ed’s brain flickers at that, the mirage of Stede’s broad palms and long fingers is here, then gone. He doesn’t remember what happens next, but Izzy is on the floor with tears in his eyes, wheezing and rubbing his throat.

As the crew chant his name, Ed looks out the window. In his reflection, Blackbeard meets his eyes.

Once Izzy’s toe is gone, and Stede’s pets are gone, and Lucius’ hopefully rotting at the bottom of the ocean, never to breathe a word of breakup advise again, all is well.

Blackbeard strategizes, sails, pilfers. Occasionally, he finds the odd remnant of Stede, a book or a trinket. They all go out the porthole and into the sea (he keeps Stede’s cravatte – he can’t be bothered to untie it).

He goes days without eating, then eats two days’ worth of food at once; he drinks. Sometimes, after poring over maps and supply logs, Blackbeard pins Izzy against the desk and takes him. It’s always a quick, silent fuck; Izzy is quiet as the dead, and always willing, which might as well mean he never is. It’s a convenient arrangement: the quiet helps Blackbeard’s mind replace the leather under his hands with cashmere.

Blackbeard always finishes on the floor after a few minutes of thrusting in the tight, warm hole. He doesn’t know if or where Izzy finishes; he doesn’t ask himself that.

Sometimes, Izzy lingers before leaving the room. He lands his fist awkwardly against Blackbeard’s arm, a brief, violent impact, followed by quick withdrawal, before retiring to his quarters for the night.

Izzy’s departure rarely signals the end of the night. Blackbeard’s never been good at sleep, and he’s been getting steadily worse at it after Stede’s departure. Sometimes, he finds himself rock hard again, another half-bottle of rum later. He sits back on his chair, carefully pushed away from the window -it’s not that he’s concerned about being seen when they make port; it’s that direct sunlight makes his headaches worse these days, and the silver moonlight burrows in his brain, reminds him of red silk, cuts worse than a knife. As he unbuckles his pants and pulls his cock out, his other hand goes to the cravatte, wraps, twists, and pulls.

Years ago, he knew someone who used to ask for this; Blackbeard was eager to oblige -always most accommodating in his encounters- and he'd let himself be choked too. It lasted less than it does now; but then again, back then, Blackbeard did not want to die. Nowadays, he wraps the cravatte tighter and tighter around his palm, until he comes in quick, almost painful spurts.

Miles away, Stede Bonnet smiles.

“His name is Ed,” he whispers.

[bigmoodword]

photo by -- Daria

[daniel-levy-chemisier]

For your shoes gentlemen. #winterpalacehotel #shoeshiner #deathonthenile #elegance #egypt #desuetude #chic #intemporalelegance #daniellevychemisier (à Winter Palace Luxor)

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

Dans le tumulte des pensées tourbillonnantes, il a trouvé refuge dans un bar solitaire. Entre les pages écornées de sa vie, il a découvert l'harmonie dans chaque gorgée amère, où les mots des écrivains perdus murmuraient à son âme assoiffée.

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

« Au Tremblant », un nom étrange pour cet hôtel qui cache certainement une histoire passionnante (mais laquelle ?). Ce bâtiment, situé sur la commune de La Chaise-Dieu (Haute-Loire), a vu le jour en 1902, juste après l'ouverture de la gare locale. Sa position sur le plateau du Livradois l'exposait aux éléments déchaînés et c'est ainsi qu'il a été baptisé le « Tremblant ». Pendant un siècle, il a accueilli des voyageurs d'affaires, des vacanciers en quête de repos, des soldats permissionnaires et a été témoin de nombreux repas de famille ou banquets d'associations. Malgré ses deux étoiles, il a dû fermer ses portes au début des années 2000, faute de pouvoir se conformer aux normes plus strictes et à la concurrence des nouveaux modes d'hébergement et de consommation. Les vacanciers sont sur l’autoroute, les commerciaux vont dans les hôtels des zones industrielles, le train a disparu depuis fort longtemps… Le Tremblant est désormais un souvenir, mais il restera certainement dans la mémoire de ceux qui ont eu la chance de séjourner dans ses murs.

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

La France désuète et abandonnée : le Bar du Stop.

[arsenicetvieillesenseignes]

Cette maison a connu des jours meilleurs, c'est évident. Délaissée, le temps a décidé de lui ôter toute sa splendeur. Pourtant, cette façade décrépie attire l'attention, elle possède un charme inexplicable qui la rend fascinante. Avec ses couleurs qui essaient tant bien que mal de revenir sur le devant de la scène, on croirait presque à l'oeuvre d'un peintre. On peut imaginer les années qui se sont écoulées depuis sa construction, les histoires qui se sont déroulées à l'intérieur, les drames qui ont marqué ses murs. C'est un témoignage de l'usure du temps qui lui donne un petit quelque chose de poétique. La beauté se cache souvent dans la décrépitude !