#my gates

[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]

[ @ Hal, pre series, Hal recovering from an injury ] When he wakes up, it's dark and stifling - but he isn't alone. Flint is dozing in a chair at his side, brow furrowed even in sleep, his worry unending. His hand is on Gates'. When Flint's eyes open he freezes- but then he sees Hal awake, seems to sag with relief, all pretense gone. "Fuck, Hal," Flint rasps, "Thought we'd agreed to /avoid/ the enemy's guns, not run into them." He's joking- a rare thing in itself. He squeezes Hal''s hand.

Fucking christ, he’s sore. He grunts, trying to shift his weight but there’s something tight on his chest, squeezing the breath from him as he moves. Some sort of - aggressively wound bandage.

“Fucking hell Flint, what bastard tied this.” He’s wheezing at the effort of speaking. “I can’t bloody breathe.” The rest of the room comes into sharper focus as something warm is snatched from the back of his hand. He peers over at Flint, still a little woozy, thinks he sees a flicker of hurt.  Damn. He’d smack his own head if he could.“You tied the bandage.” He tugs at it a little, loosening the pressure and sits up. “Of course you did.” Hal sighs, annoyed with himself, and missing the hot pressure of Flint’s hand over his own. He watches Flint, those wide green eyes unblinking. Fixed on him. Hal’s used to that stare. Rather likes it. Perhaps indistinguishable to most from his usual repertoire of glares, but Hal can see the desperate need behind it. The refusal to look anywhere else until he’s certain that his quartermaster is safe. 

He wants to smile at Flint, feels a grateful flutter in his belly that this ridiculous man had stayed here, stayed by him. God knows there must be a million messes to sort out. He lifts his own hand, finding it heavy and clumsy. Decides he’s too tired to care and drops it onto Flint’s hand that lies on his knee, thumb twitching now and then. 

“I’m grateful you stayed.” Smooths his thumb over Flint’s wrist, resisting the urge to tug him close and yield to the desire to embrace his idiot Captain. “Probably kept my guts where they need to be with the binding.” He pats his own belly, offers Flint a soft smile. “And now,” he keeps his voice bright, “we can go back to pretending you don’t care and you can tell me what happened to the prize after some bastard decided to go for my innards.”

[returned-to-the-sea]

[for Hal, werecat time] There's a cat at Gates' feet. A very familiar cat. A cat that is very obviously only taking this shape because he doesn't want to be yelled at, and it's harder to yell at a cat than it is to yell at a man. The second Hal looks down, Flint chirps at him, kneading one of his boots. [ as if he needs to transform to butter this poor bastard up, really, ]

[HOW DARE YOU BRING THIS INTO MY LIFE. HOW DARE YOU]

Hal sighs, and eyes the creature trying to poke holes in his best boots. Only boots.

“You look like a scruffy little runt, you know that don’t you.” Hal is disgusted at the note of fondness creeping into his voice. He rolls his ankle, trying to dislodge the ball of fuzz sprawled over his feet. He’s rewarded with a hiss; a sad little mew.Fuck you, he thinks, fuck you, don’t you dare flatten your ears.He’s feeling guilty. He is actually, really, here and now feeling bad about upsetting this cat.

“If you don’t stop prodding at my feet like that, you little menace, I will wash you.” He lowers his face, narrowing his eyes at that green gaze. “I will take you outside this cabin, and I will give you a bath.”

Distressingly, The Cat decides not to listen. Or care. The kneading increases, and now a soft little cheek is rubbing against his leg, leaving cat hair in its wake.

[returned-to-the-sea]

[flint @ hal, pre-series] "I'm devastated," says Flint flatly. Hal is, once again, informing him that he's done himself no favours by being an uncooperative bastard during their latest meeting. Flint is, once again, choosing to ignore his advice entirely, fidgeting with his beard and slumping in his chair with a sigh. It's like having an overbearing wife, he thinks. Albeit one that could snap him in half. "Was that all?"

He has absolutely no idea why he bothers. 

“Flint, you little shit.” He is fucking mutinous. “What is the point,” he growls through his teeth, “of having me as quartermaster, of asking my opinion, if you are never going to listen to me.” 

He straightens up, feeling exhaustion settle over him like a cloud of mist. Stalking towards Flint, he bares his teeth, pushing his face close to the lounging bastard and batting at his hand, still fucking fidgeting, like a bloody child being scolded by his nanny.

“I won’t go until you shove me out.” He’s hissing, the urge to pick him up and slam him into something pulsing under Hal’s skin. “Is that what you want, Captain?” He hasn’t budged, huffing heavily into Flint’s face. “Would you like me to quit this crew?”

[returned-to-the-sea]

[ @intolerablexsacrifice a starter for youuuu bc I can’t write snappy asks anymore. Hal @ Flint, pre series, YOU DECIDE IF THIS IS THAT AU OR NOT]

Hal isn’t concerned, exactly. He’s not sure he really has it in him to be worried  anymore. But Flint hasn’t spoken in three days now, not since Gates had narrowly avoided being quite permanently bisected by a wayward machete. Frankly it’s proving very inconvenient and it’s giving him a headache.

“Captain.” He supposes he ought just to let it go, let Flint brood over whatever it is that’s caught his tongue, but he’s baffled and just a tiny bit unnerved. “Captain,” he presses, a little firmer now. “Would you please tell me what I am supposed to have done to deserve this maddening silence?”

Decides that if he’s bothering with this then he might as well go all in. Places a heavy hand on Flint’s shoulder, and squeezes gently.  “Can I ...” he hesitates, before hissing; “help?”

[returned-to-the-sea]

@intolerablexsacrifice continued from here

This, this is why Flint doesn’t drink. It’s too easy to slip up; to allow himself the indulgence of dangerous banter like this. Under the hot buzz of rum he expects one of two outcomes: disgust, or a joke in return. What Hal actually gives is a third outcome he hadn’t considered: near-indifference. The usual closeness. Not a trace of discontent.  

He goes where he’s led, sits on the hammock, watching his quartermaster lazily. Nearly stops breathing when Hal kneels, wondering if he’s misjudged the indifference–but Hal just focuses on his boots, and Flint nearly relaxes.  

Until he realises Hal’s looking up at him, strong hand wrapped around Flint’s ankle tight enough that it hurts, and Flint’s pupils blow black and wide enough to swallow his irises, whole body suddenly drawn taut.

If he were sober. If he were slightly less smashed. He might pull his legs up onto the hammock, turn away and be done with this before it can go anywhere either of them might regret.  

The cabin is very quiet. Too small. Too warm. Flint’s hands twitch on the edge of the hammock and he doesn’t move, Gates’ hand still on him. He wants to know what will happen if he moves and if he doesn’t.

“Hal,” Flint murmurs, voice low. He can’t tell if he’s trying to snap Gates out of this–whatever this is, or draw him further in.

Oh hell. Gates feels something clench in his chest. He squeezes his eyes tight shut, drops his head. That doesn’t much help, he can still hear his wayward Captain breathing, feel him. Smell him, they’re so close.  Something in Flint’s voice had sounded raw, wild. Tender. His name had felt  cradled by the soft murmur, hardly sighed above him.

Seconds thump by, and neither man moves.  

Hal wants to stand, press this strong, rigid idiot back against his cot, slip his hand roughly from ankle to thigh, to the hard warmth sitting thick between his legs. Lick at his skin, find out whether sea salt tastes stronger than the sweat clinging to his temples. He wants to feel the weight of him, hot in his hand. Wants Flint to feel how heavy he makes his quartermaster.

He shifts now, his knees sore, cock aching and stiff against the seam of his breeches. He grips a little tighter, lifting his head to see again Flint’s darkened eyes. That terrible green just a thin line now, hugging pupils that seem deep enough to drown in. Feels the jump of Flint’s calf muscle under his hand.

He can’t seem to let go.

So he pushes forward, his cheek and the scruff of his beard rubbing hard at the inside of Flint’s leg, holding on tight, everything too wild and too sudden.

It does little to lessen his desire.

[returned-to-the-sea]

[Oisín@Hal, postcanon] Oisín is a giant of a man. Taller than Hal by far- but not nearly as broad, and hunched, always, shrouded in his hair. He came here seeking Miranda's company, not Hal's, but it is what it is. Pirates still make him nervous, even--ones like Gates. Maybe especially ones like Gates. "You sailed with Captain Avery, so I'm told," Oisín says, quietly. He's staring at Hal through his hair, the bright, mismatched eyes wide and wild. "And then Flint. And now no-one?"

Hal had been sitting on the sandy steps, bare feet pushing into warm ground. The morning, hot and still, had stolen past him unawares.His elbows are resting heavy on splayed legs, a thin knife in hands working skilfully at a soft, pale chunk of wood. It barely resists his flicks, melting gently under his fingers into whatever mysterious shape he alone had seen in the gnarled, salted driftwood half buried under rank kelp and rotting shells. The grain feels firm in his hand, spooled up under the cracking, sun blanched shell like a ream of thread, waiting to be felt and followed. Unwound, unearthed and sewn anew. His mind is calm as he traces the edges, sloughing away unwanted slivers. Far from thoughts and frets, he follows his hands, and it takes him minutes longer than it should to notice he’s being watched. Hands clench too hard around his blade and quarry.He stills himself slowly, chin lifting to see the thin, bent shape in front of him; a shock of hair and eyes, almost clinging to the edge of the only fruiting tree on their land. He recognises him, man with bees, he thinks. He recalls the fond twinkle in Miranda’s eyes, the gentle warmth of Thomas’ smile and James - even James. There had been no warning in his voice concerning that name. 

The lad’s said something. Hal has to shake his head a little to pull the day back to him, before catching the question. 

And now no-one?

He fixes him with a stare, unblinking but not unkind, and hums in agreement.

“Aye, and now no-one.” 

He’s enormous, Hal realises. Taller than Thomas, but he peeks through his wild curls like a child. His voice is like song, and softer than rain on still waters. Hal sees a depth of life in his curious, hidden eyes: a bright mind gazing over the world like a boy in a pond lifting rocks. Turning them thoughtfully, stroking the worms, seeing so much and understanding nothing. 

“Now I sit in the sun, lad.” He offers him a smile, and shifts a little. Freeing up the step beside him. Holds out his flattened palm, to show him his handiwork.“Whittle wood when it speaks to me. Sleep when I need. Take my time with the people I love.” He beckons him over with a jerk of his head. “Eat that damn fine honey, when Miranda shares it.” 

Hal waits a little, letting the silence build and bloom between them. Pushes his knife carefully over the emerging shape in his hand, smoothing off the head of the creature and waiting for movement, a reply, or peace.

[returned-to-the-sea]

@intolerablexsacrifice continued from here

In a place like this, warm and cramped and semi-crowded, every touch feels like a brand. It isn’t that Flint is ashamed. It isn’t even that he’s afraid, exactly. He’s only… careful, the way they both are, because in this place, with reputations like theirs, information is always a weapon. And Flint, given–the obvious, has absolutely no fucking desire to let the truth fall into the wrong hands.

Hal’s finger curls against his. Flint turns a soft, rum-warmed gaze on him, the back of his neck prickling pleasantly as he considers the question. The offer.

It’s probably a bad idea. But then, so are they, and Flint lives off bad ideas.

“Alright.” It’s a quiet, fond rasp, the corner of Flint’s mouth curling into a rare grin that he can’t quite hide by taking another sip of (bad) rum. He wants, quite suddenly–Christ, he wants to lean into Hal properly, to have the bastard’s arm around him, to dip his head and rub the scruff of his jaw against Hal’s cheek. To kiss him, for Christ’s sake.

If this were a different world, he’d be doing it already. But the world is only this one, and Flint peers at the rest of his drink instead, to keep from looking too long at Hal. To keep his want veiled.

“The rest of this drink, and then?”

Christ, he feels like a lad again. The gentle promise in Flint’s eyes lingers like smoke: a soft curl tickling his skin. He drops his head, huffing out a chuckle, rolling the bottom of his glass on the warped wood of the bar. Flint’s grin is soft. Fond. Hal feels his cheeks growing warm, his fucking heart clenching. He clears his throat, laying a heavy hand on Flint’s forearm. He’s bare to the elbow, and Hal lets his fingertips tickle the softer, paler skin. Tiny movements, once. Twice. Hell, he wants to take this man apart. His lodgings aren’t far. More private than the ship.

“Aye.” A deep murmur, full of promise. He knocks back his rum, and stands, pressing a closed fist gently to Flint’s shoulder, meeting his gaze again.  “And then.” 

Flint follows him into the fresh air. It’s a warm night; the stars hanging low beside a fattened, yellow moon. They walk together, slower than either would like, hands brushing, the silence thickening fast with want.

Hal feels the edges of him quivering, he wants to grasp at Flint, tug off his breeches and taste the salty warmth beneath. He curls his hands tight to stop from holding Flint: embracing him here in the open. The last few steps are without breath, his heart hammering, desire flooding him. He fumbles a little, cursing at the lock, before pushing open the door and grabbing at Flint’s hand, pulling him inside. The touch of his fingers to that hot, rough hand sparks a need in him, dragging at his belly and filling his mind with bright, fierce light. It’s pitch black inside his ratty room: as still as the grave, and darker than his hungry eyes. He wonders wildly whether he’s invented Flint. Whether the sun will rise on him alone, these lodgings as empty as they ever are. But he feels that hand, still in his own, and shudders. Hal lets go, his blood hot and throbbing. Fumbling for a match, he drags a light through the silence, kindling the lamp in the grate. Flint is still. Waiting. Hal looks at him, at his brightly glittering eyes, and wonders what’s singing in his maddening mind. The dim light glows like a fire in his ruddy hair, the shadows falling over that beautiful fucking face stealing the air from Hal’s lungs. He strides over, anticipation coursing through him and quickening his pulse until his head is spinning and his breath is quick. 

Too slow. It’s all too slow. He surges forward, gripping Flint, his belly pressing against his firm, lean torso, his hands curling hard against his neck, clutching at his shoulders. He can hear their breaths mingling, feel them hot on his skin. He reaches up, raking his fingers through Flint’s hair, scraping at his scalp, hands heavy and needy. Feels his cock twitch, the heat pooling beneath his skin.  The brush of hair feels delicious on his skin and he growls, pushing closer, needing to touch.

“Can I,” he grunts, licking his lips, hand fisted in Flint’s shirt. “Can I take this off now.” He pushes his mouth, open and greedy against Flint’s neck, scraping fiercely with his teeth.