#promptfest '22

[silmkinkmeme]

Day 22 - Soft Russingon - comfort fic

Prompt: You can't tell me that Fingon didn't have some sort cold weather related PTSD after crossing the Helcaraxe. Obviously he comforts Maedhros after Maedhros is rescued, but I would love to see Maedhros comforting him because Himring is so cold and it reminds Fingon of the Helcaraxe.

Additional tags: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Chose Not To Warn

Ao3 link | dreamwidth link

This prompt has a fill:

All the scars we can not see by waitingfover

[thepromptnetwork]

Hiya! I’m new to TSN fandom. It doesn’t look like you ran TPN last year (unless it’s under a different account I couldn’t find). Will you return for 2024? I’d hate to see one of the few surviving fandom events disappear. Especially with the frustration of all the dead links and purged/deleted posts, accounts and journals. Thank you for your work and I hope to see you again later this year

hello friend!!! 💖💖💖

i'd love to bring another season of TPN back this year - although TPN started with 3 admins, it is for the most part just me (@princewardo) these days, which would be fine except i work A LOT!!!! 😿

the future of TPN

......actually..........i'll pop some polls up soon, as i've had some interesting recent discussions about future TPN events. please let me know (however best suits you!) any thoughts you have and vote on any polls you see!!!

this last end of year period we officially threw our support behind our friends at TSN Holiday Exchange for the 2023/24 season! https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2023tsnholidayexchange/profile

the TSN Holiday Exchange works are actually going live on Valentine's Day!!! that's right, this coming Wednesday 14 February, so please stay tuned to the ao3 collection or the TSN tag on ao3!!!!

where to find the most recent updates

ultimately i'd recommend keeping an eye on the @promptnetwork twitter for updates as that's the channel i tended to take care of, and the place most of TSN's active fandom members reside. i'll try harder to cross post to the @thepromptnetwork tumblr account. :)

here is the twitter: https://twitter.com/promptnetwork

background

monarchs, @queuebird and myself ran TPN in 2021 over 2 seasons of fortnightly rounds during 2021, a redux promptfest for end of year 2021/22, and another promptfest for end of year 2022/2023.

the overall TPN collections/subcollections are here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thepromptnetwork/profile

[leupagus]

Anything involving Mary meeting Ed. I am but a weak Claudia O'Doherty fan.

Inspired by this glorious artwork:

If really pressed to think on it, Doug probably would have admitted that he considered Stede Bonnet a bit mad. In a genteel sort of way, although he'd never quite understood the chatter in town about how Stede was harmless. Sometimes Doug fancied he could still feel the bite of metal against his neck, Stede hissing down at him with the blank fury of someone who could do something very rash indeed.

The first time Stede died, Doug had rather thought that Mary and the children were avoiding his name as if they might summon him back into their lives, the way his grandmother never spoke of sea-monsters while his grandfather was out on the water. Which had given Doug a rather bleak view of what kind of husband and father Stede might have been, though it turned out that their misery was more akin to a canvas stretched badly on a frame unsuited to bear its tension; you could paint what you liked on its surface, but the picture itself would never hold fast.

But when Stede had died again, riding off with nothing more than half of Alma's orange, the remains of his family mentioned him freely, even fondly; his penchant for storytelling that would often give Louis nightmares and give Alma ideas; his high clear voice that would lead them in song at church, sometimes warbling a bit to make the children giggle when the service dragged on; his fumbling kindness that they knew was borne of love, but a stifled, miserable sort that could never find the right words. A dreamer, longing for something over the horizon, but anchored to a place that he could never call home.

So, yes, a bit mad, to want to leave Mary and Alma and Louis for the sea; but Doug wanted to leave his studio and his work for Mary and Alma and Louis, so perhaps all men were mad, in the end.

Then Doug realized what madness truly looked like.

"You would think, wouldn't you," said Edward "Blackbeard" Teach, terror of the West Indies, brigand and murderer, wanted by every navy in the civilized world, "You would think that the bastard would have the, the, the guts to sit down and tell you what he's feeling, wouldn't you?" He slammed his hand on the table, making his empty glass jump and tumble sideways. “Be a bit fucking emotionally available!”

"You would!" exclaimed Mary, righting and refilling it with whatever vile liquid was in that bottle Blackbeard had brought with him. One of the bottles, at least — Blackbeard had brought a lot of bottles, when he'd washed up at the Bonnet estate a few hours ago, a muddled mess of black leather and ash and hair, demanding to be taken to Stede Bonnet's grave so he could piss on it.

"Or cry, that's still possible," he'd admitted, swaying slightly on Mary's doorstep. Doug and Mary had reached out to catch him — but Stede, hurrying up from God only knew where, had beaten them to it.

"You can cry or relieve yourself on it if you like, but I’d rather you didn’t vomit on it," he'd huffed, slinging Blackbeard's arm around his shoulder with the ease of what looked like long practice. "Mary, my apologies for this, but he really kept insisting that he'd only forgive my corpse, and I thought this might be a good compromise."

"I've done the first two myself," Mary had said, holding the door open. “Haven’t tried the vomiting, though. Might help.”

Blackbeard had squinted muzzily at her. "I love you," he said, with the air of someone making a profound discovery.

Now, Stede and Doug were banished to the parlor while Blackbeard and Mary shouted gleefully at each other in the salon, though occasionally Doug peered through the doorway to see how things were progressing. There hadn't been any talk of going out to the gravesite yet, at least, and no one had vomited or relieved themselves. There had been a bit of crying.

"I'm sure Mary's just humoring him," Doug told Stede, wondering if he should pat him on the back. Blackbeard was roaring something about Stede's huge...solutions, or something.

Stede sighed, clutching at the tray of water glasses. “No, no,” he said, “I deserve this.” And in a show of bravery fit to rival any of the stories he’d told of derring-do on the high seas, he lifted his chin and said, “Refreshments, anyone?” as he ventured into the salon.

[bookish-bogwitch]

Hello! Thank you for the tags @martsonmars @facewithoutheart @artsyunderstudy and @stitchyqueer. It's so fun and inspiring to see what you are up to.

First, it's the fall equinox, aka the 26th anniversary of Simon's conception ritual in the White Chapel. Best wishes and grim sex to all who celebrate.

Second, I've made tons of progress on Basil Pitch's Diary, despite having very few finished words to actually share. How? I figured out that I am very much a plotter and more of a re-writer than a writer, and so benefit from a very very detailed outline. I'm trying the Snowflake Method for outlining a novel longfic. While many people would find so much structure unnecessary, if not smothering, it's really working for me. I've also learned that (1) a format is not a plot, and (2) it is better to write the jokes around the plot than vice versa.

ALSO! I have not touched my promptfest WIP because I figure if I have such good momentum in this one, I should go with it. But I can feel that change in the weather coming on, and am also getting homesick for Simon's POV, so--SOON.

Anyway, here are some sentences from my BPD outline--some in Baz's voice, some notes to myself a la @whatevertheweather. Words & tags below cut.

Ugh did I forget VERA???

Baz is an UNRELIABLE narrator. Don’t forget this.

Make it c r u s t y.

Rabbit blood: fine but not as good as dog tbh. Haven’t had one of those in a while. Try to get only strays, which are few and far between in prosperous Hampshire, thank you Bob Barker.

Whoring around might be good for getting over Simon but (1) cannot whore until over him, is catch-22, and (2) should probably not hook up with someone who looks like Simon, although is objectively most attractive way to look. Fuck fuck fuck.

Was stupid to ever think I could get over Snow. Is impossible if past self keeps rubbing present self’s nose in Snow’s [REDACTED].

High-fives to @palimpsessed @takitalks @johnwgrey @bazzybelle @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @fatalfangirl @cutestkilla @forabeatofadrum @ivelovedhimthroughworse @ileadacharmedlife @moodandmist @urban-sith @captain-aralias @aristocratic-otter @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @confused-bi-queer @creepyspice @sillyunicorn @frjsti @basiltonbutliketheherb @technetiumai @dragoneggo @ic3-que3n @nightimedreamersworld @whogaveyoupermission @wetheformidables @hushed-chorus

[homestuckpolyswap]

Hi - I discovered this event a few days ago, and discovered the sign-ups were closed (and, as it turns out, they colored in June!) I would love to participate in one of these events, so I wanted to ask whether there’s going to be a next one - and if so, roughly when it is planned to take place? Also, do you need any more pinch hitters? Thanks, and I really look forward to the Polyswap pieces :D

If you’re 18+, you’re in luck! We’re having a flash promptfest starting tomorrow (here’s the link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Polyswap_Winter_Promptfest_Dusk_2020/profile) and running through Monday at noon, Eastern Time.

As for the main event (a gift exchange centred around polyamorous ships), signups will open in late April and close in early May! We always need more pinch hitters, but we won’t be noting down pinch hitter signups until signups actually open, at which point you can either email us or send a Tumblr Message to the blog.

If you’ve got a hankering for NEW POLYSWAP CONTENT in the meantime, the Polyswap Winter Promptfest: Dawn Edition has 22 works!

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

[Podfic] Of night, light, and the half light

by Silverkat1620

From genrenommer's suggestion during Promptfest '22:

  What if for Reasons, they need someone to pretend to be a woman, and so the obvious choice is Stede (look, Jim just isn't very convincing) (Stede played the heroine three years running in the school play, of course he knows his way around a skirt) And Ed is very interested in this look. Very interested.

Words: 0, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Audio Format: Streaming

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/41579919

[trashangel-dee]

Chardee Promptfest Theme Days

Monday, January 22- AU Day

- How would they be in “another world”? If Paddy’s wasn’t a thing.

Tuesday, January 23- Sweet Dee Day

- A day all about Deandra Reynolds.

Wednesday January 24- “Missing scenes” Day.

-We know the before and after, but what actually happened. Fill in the missing pieces: cooking the steaks together, the negotiated s1 lunch, how they started smoking together, what did they do while Mac & Dennis were in the suburbs? etc.

Thursday, January 25- Charlie Kelly Day

- A day all about Charlie Kelly.

Friday, January 26- “What if…” Day.

- What would’ve happened if things had gone another way? What if Dee said yes in Rules the World? What if Dee had left for New York? What if they really did stay behind in Hits the Road? etc.

[leupagus]

For the prompt request: Stede's post-finale plan to win Ed back is to slap on Jim's fake beard and pretend to be Blackbeard himself. He's surprisingly good at it (fuckery, etc) to the point that multiple people have pityingly informed Ed they know he's not the real Blackbeard, mate, he doesn't even have a beard.

The first two cannonballs make an impression, and the merchant ship runs up a white flag. The problems start with the boarding.

"No, you're not," says the captain, frowning like Ed's gotten his order wrong at one of those fancy parties Stede liked so much. "I've met Blackbeard."

Ed doesn't remember him. "When was this, then?"

"Three weeks ago," and Ed definitely doesn't remember that. "South of Nassau. Terribly fearsome, really quite intimidating. And he had an actual beard." This last is said with a somewhat disapproving appraisal of Ed's face.

Ed debates the merits of running the guy through then and there. "Look, it's growing in—"

"Son," the captain says, clapping his hand on Ed's shoulder, "I'm sure you'll be a despicable pirate in your own time whose name is whispered fearfully in every port from here to Virginia. No need to use borrow someone else's fame."

"This Blackbeard, then," says Ivan, sidling up. "What did he take? Because you have quite a lot left on board, don't mind my saying." He jangles a bag full of coins meaningfully.

The captain shakes his head, clearly fond. "Bastard stole every book we had on board. And all the marmalade and jam we had stocked away for the journey. Heartless, I call that."

Ivan sucks at his teeth. "And he had a black beard."

"Well, more of a darkish brown, really," says the captain, "And it's the oddest thing, now you put me to mind of it — some sort of blonde wig on."

"Why'd you think it was a wig?" asks Ivan, because Ed really isn't ready to talk yet. Ed feels — he's not sure. He's feeling a lot of it, though.

The captain shrugs. "I've never seen a man so fair as that," he says. "And that's not to say there's anything wrong with a wig — we all like to cling to our youth. Or, some of us," he adds, a little doubtfully, looking Ed over.

Ed's still busy having an internal crisis. A fair-haired man with a black beard, taking books and fucking jam from other ships and...

"You want me to burn the ship down, Captain?" asks Ivan, sounding sympathetic. "Might make you feel better."

[leupagus]

PLEEEASE any sort of modern AU, PARTICULARLY washed up rocker Ed. There are a few fics in this vein but not enough. THANK YOU ETERNALLY.

Getting Louis to sleep is fairly straightforward: a few chapters from the latest Wings of Fire book and he's out like a light, drooling trustingly into his pillow. Alva, who selects and reads her own books, ta ever so, usually needs an argument or two before she can lay her weary head to rest. Divorce is the theme for this evening, though not quite in the way Stede's been dreading for the past few months.

"Why didn't you get divorced sooner?" she demands, shoving her seventeen different Pusheens into a vaguely better arrangement so that she can sleep amongst them and suffer only mild hypoxia. "Doug is so cool, he took us to the museum and we got to paint our own versions of the portraits. And he has a cat."

"Well, if your mother and I had gotten divorced sooner," Stede points out as he settles her blanket over her shoulders, "Then your mother wouldn't have taken that art class in January, and hence wouldn't have met Doug, since he only moved here from the States in December."

Alva is only temporarily stymied by this, pointing out that perhaps Mum would've found someone even better, like someone with a dog. Stede meekly agrees, and pinky-swears that anyone he himself falls in love ought to at least have a convertible or a pony or a swimming pool.

Mary and Doug are back by nine, slightly wine-flushed and trying to tell Stede about the Lyft driver's cologne while they pull out the various desserts they'd nicked from Mary's gallery opening. "Sort of a rotted cinnamon? Flavor? I can still taste it," Mary says, dropping an absent-minded kiss on the top of Stede's head as she passes his chair on the way to the kitchen. Stede collects the essays into a haphazard pile — Frenchie's the only one getting an A thus far, with a somewhat bewildering theory about colonialism and split infinitives that is oddly compelling — and opens the boxes.

"It did kind of get into your respiratory system," Doug admits, setting out the plates quietly — any louder and the kids will be up in a flash demanding that they share, and none of them want that. "How was everything on the home front?"

"We watched Moana again, and Alva wanted to know when Disney was going to make a movie about the Heartman. I told her that's probably not a family-friendly sort of story, which she took offense at, since the Heartman only carves out bad children's hearts and there are apparently a few of her classmates whose deaths could be very funny. At which point Louis asked what the Heartman was and the evening got a bit away from us."

"Oh Christ, he's going to have so many nightmares," Mary sighs, plunking some silverware down on the table. "Stede—"

"It's not my fault! Besides, it's part of his heritage!"

"Just because we were born in Barbados doesn't—"

"You should try this chocolate cake pop," Doug says, waving it between Stede and Mary like someone in a dinghy, desperately flapping a white flag between two battleships. "Has a raspberry center that'll really knock your socks off."

Stede frowns, but he takes the cake pop. It really is delicious. "Anyway, it's fine, he got much more traumatized by what happened with Luna and the Othermind in the latest chapter."

"Spoilers!" Doug says, cheerful, as he digs into a tiny cheesecake. Stede fights back a smile, which fails completely when he catches Mary's eye. They all sit down and grab more treats, and Stede gets to tell them about his insane new client. Or Oluwande's insane old client — but until he comes back from paternity leave, it's up to Stede not to mess things up.

"So this weirdo musician offered you a job helping him write lyrics," Mary says, "And invited you to his exclusive performance tonight? And then you watered his plastic plant?"

"Please don't say that like it's a euphemism," Stede sighs. "It was a very realistic-looking fichus."

"I'm sure it was." She taps her fingers absently against her thumb as she stares into the middle distance, the way she always does when she's thinking. It used to worry him, before — about what she might be working out, what she might be trying to fix or change or realize. Now, he's startled to discover it's… cute. "If he's paying someone to mind his fucking plants, he's got to have money, right? So was he not offering enough?"

"I know I'm a mere adjunct professor right now," says Stede, sniffing a bit, "But it wasn't the money that was the issue."

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Doug asks, snagging a coconut ball. "Country music star or something? One of the Mumford sons?"

"Mmm, no, no one I've ever heard of. An Edward Teach? Used to be in a band called—"

"Blackbeard?" Doug shoots out of his chair so fast it clatters to the ground; from down the hallway Stede can hear the telltale double-thumps of small children alerted to adults having fun without them. "Ed Teach from Blackbeard invited you to an exclusive concert tonight?"

"…yes?" Stede says, glancing from Dough's round eyes to Mary's covered ones. "Should be starting in a bit, actually."

"Honey, I love you, me and your ex-husband have to go," Doug says, and drags Stede out of his chair just as Louis comes round the corner, demanding to know if there's any biscuits.

[leupagus]

OFMD prompt: What if for Reasons, they need someone to pretend to be a woman, and so the obvious choice is Stede (look, Jim just isn't very convincing) (Stede played the heroine three years running in the school play, of course he knows his way around a skirt) And Ed is very interested in this look. Very interested.

-

The plan goes off without a hitch — Lucius gets the jewels back from the Widow Badminton, Oluwande sets the herd of criollos loose, and Stede is charming enough to prevent people from getting too suspicious whenever Ed grabs the wrong fork or steps on a foot during the fucking contradance.

"I did say you should pay more attention to your footwork," Stede laughs, his right hand measuring out one-two-three-one-two-three while his left hand gathers up the yards and yards of fabric that make up his dress. "It's just like fencing, you know. All in the tempo."

They're back on the Revenge; Lucius and Oluwande have already disappeared now that the ship is under sail and headed back into the open waters. Stede didn't bother changing while they'd gotten underway, so he's still wearing his complicated getup they'd picked up in Bridgetown last week — clouds of blue-silver silk satin with buttons and buckles that put any of Stede's hoity-toitiest outfits to shame. He's already tugged off his gloves and taken off the hat and wig, which came as a set; his hair, long enough to pull into a queue now, curls at his neck and his temple. He's beautiful and absurd and beautiful, just as he's always been.

It's been three years since Stede left him. Six months since he and the crew came back; five and a half since Ed forgave Stede; four and a third since Stede forgave Ed. Three months and four days since Izzy tried to kill Stede; three months and three days since Ed killed Izzy. Two and a half months since they agreed to sail on together. And in all that time Ed has kept his distance as well as he's able, telling himself that Stede deserved to take his time, that if all he wanted was Ed's companionship, that was fine. That would be fine.

But tonight was… confusing. "Mr. & Mrs. MacGillicuddy" needed to be arm in arm, and so Stede was pressed up against him for hours on end, his hand curled around Ed's elbow, pushing and pulling him in all the directions a man's body could go and more besides. Ed's been half-stalk in his trousers since the ballroom, and uncomfortably stiff since watching Stede take over the helm from Buttons while the quartermaster hunted 'round for his trousers.

All Ed wants to do is retreat to his own quarters and jerk off, but just as he's about to escape from the deck, Stede smiles at him and says, "Could you help me with this thing? Lucius's wandered off, and while it turns out I can do without a valet, it seems like this might require a few lady's maids." And he lifts his arms to demonstrate, smiling slightly.

Ed can say no; can scoff and tell him to get Frenchie, or Ivan, or the Swede. Can say that he's no lady's maid. He can do those things the same way he can dive into the sun, if he really wanted to.

The corridors down to Stede's quarters (always his; Stede's Revenge, a better name than anyone could've guessed) are noisy, the men riotous and gleeful that they've gotten the jewels and gotten away, two of the most important aspects to any successful plan. Stede returns the embraces and handclasps but continues on; Ed can't pay attention to anything but the glimmering silver-blue of him, though he thinks it might be a bit quieter, when they see him follow Stede inside.

"I have to say, there was a time I thought I might run away and join the stage," Stede's saying as Ed closes the door behind him. The candelabras are half-lit, shadows swaying lazily on the walls as Stede carefully places the wig and hat and gloves on his desk. "When I was at Eton, we would be permitted to see the occasional theatrical program. All terribly scandalous, but it seemed like good fun. Fortunately, it seems piracy has afforded me ample opportunity to hone my skills." He lights the candle behind his water-sphere, lighting him up from breastbone to navel, and turns to Ed, still smiling slightly. "I suppose I look completely ridiculous. I did try my best to wipe off the paint in the carriage."

Ed has no idea where to start. He's always thought of Stede as slightly bigger than reality; but even in his fanciest frock coats, the space he takes up is only so and so large, a few feet in every direction, a distinct line between himself and the rest of the world. Tonight, here, now — the dress billows out in every direction, making it impossible to see where Stede begins or ends, or if the whole room and the whole world is Stede Bonnet, cool silk in the warm light. If Ed steps forward he'll be swallowed up, consumed, taken into it and vanished without a trace.

He takes a step forward. "You'll have to show me what to do," he says — first thing he's said in hours, his voice half-rusted shut.

"Start here," Stede instructs, gesturing at the front. "It needs finer eyes than mine." There are pins, dozens of them, holding the blue-silver silk to the silver-blue corset. "It's actually the stomacher," Stede murmurs, from scant inches away. Ed finds another pin with his finger, flinches away before blood can soil anything. "The corset is underneath this bit, here."

Swearing under his breath, Ed unpicks another pin and places it in the little bowl Stede's holding out to him. "How you didn't get stuck like a pig with Lucius helping you—"

"Oh, I did," Stede laughs, his chest rising and falling treacherously. He did get most of the paint off, but there's still a bit lingering where the stomacher, whatever it is, runs along his chest, the white chalk fading to freckles. "Fortunately all on the left side, though, so no harm done."

Ed wants to smile; perhaps it's as simple as smiling, then. The last pin comes out and the stomacher slides loose — it's just a fancy bit of fabric, a long triangle that flutters to the floor before he can grab it. The rest of the dress — "Mantua, is the name for it, I stood on that dressmaker stand for long enough to hear the entire history of the blasted thing—" parts and half-slides off of Stede's shoulders, but it's too tight to fall without help. Ed moves around behind him and eases it down and off, the sleeves of a familiar loose shirt billowing up and loose from the silk as Stede shakes his arms.

"You wouldn't think such a beautiful thing would be so heavy," Stede says.

Ed's arms are full of the heavy, beautiful thing. "It's not so bad," he mumbles, turning away from the light.

"Next time we'll get you fitted for one, then," says Stede, grumbling behind him.

Ed puts down the dress and looks back at Stede, who's flapping uselessly at his back. He does look ridiculous, without the dress; he looks tired and happy and utterly at home. The whole room isn't really Stede; it's just that Stede fits here, like a marble in a peg-hole. "I'll need help for this too, I'm afraid," he says, "And these."

This and these are the corset and the petticoats, tied up and together in a hundred places, it seems like. Stede is fussing at the knots at his front, which leaves Ed to tug at the ones at his sides and back, until the mess of padding and whalebone and hoop and ruffle gives way with a thump onto the floor. Ed startles back, but Stede only sighs with relief and steps out of it, kicking it in the general direction of the closet. His shirt hangs loose to his thighs, now, wrinkled from where it was trapped under the corset. Ed can just see the blue ribbons holding up Stede's hose, tucked in neat behind the swell of his calves.

"Thank you, Ed," Stede says, stretching his arms out wide before letting them drop to his sides, facing him. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Ed draws the other chair close, sitting down before he can think too much about it. "Your foot," he says, gesturing at it. "Buckle could be a bit tricky."

"My — yes, of course," Stede says, blinking down at him. "Though—"

"What?" Ed asks. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.

"Perhaps you might be more comfortable yourself," Stede tells him, voice quiet and still. "If you wanted."

Ed shucks off the jacket — one of Stede's, the white one with blue trim, he'd picked it out to match Stede's dress but he'd really picked it out because Stede had worn it once, years ago now, to that party where they'd met Jagvir and set fire to the boat. He should be careful with it, but Stede is standing over him and he doesn't seem to mind. The vest is loose — he'd forgotten to tie it at the back — but the buttons turn slippery and mutinous in his hands.

"Here," says Stede, and Ed leans back in the chair, his fingers clenched tight around the arms of it. Stede is frowning down at the buttons, coaxing them open one at a time, and it's better than most sex he's had. "There we go."

"Stede—" Ed says — pleads.

Stede doesn't taste of paint; he tastes of salt and oranges and bergamot, of the sea in autumn and the moon in the summer. Ed gets dragged to his feet by the front of his trousers; Stede's trousers.

"I've been told on good authority," he protests, giddy and thrumming as Stede shoves him toward the bed, "That these were very expensive, and you oughtn't ruin them."

"Yes, yes, three cheers to you for sounding sophisticated," Stede mutters, "Get them off." But he makes it bloody fucking difficult, pressing in close to kiss him again, and again, bunching his hands up in Ed's shirt. "I wasn't sure you wanted—" he says. "I was afraid you didn't want—"

"I wanted you from the first time I saw you," Ed promises. "I'll want you until I'm dead, and probably after that too."

"That's very sweet," Stede says, breaking away to frown at him, "But I'd just been stabbed and hanged the first time you saw me, so that doesn't speak highly of your standards." He's tugging Ed's trousers down while he's saying it, though, so he's probably not mad or anything.

Ed sits down on the edge of the bed and kicks them off, then gestures for Stede's foot again. This time Stede obeys, planting the shoe neatly between Ed's knees, and Ed leans down to brush a kiss against his shin before undoing the buckle. Lifting Stede's leg carefully by the ankle, he slides it off, letting it clatter to the floor as he runs his hands up Stede's leg slowly, slowly, to the tops of his hose and the tempting little ribbon.

"I think my standards speak for themselves," he said, tugging the bow loose, the fine-woven wool pooling down, down, leaving his leg bare and glowing in the light.

"Oh, goodness," says Stede, and Ed slides his hand up further, under the fall of Stede's linen shirt until he can feel Stede's cock, can take it in his fist.

They tumble back into the blankets and pillows, pulling each other close — pulling each other close, Stede as hungry for him as he is for Stede, landing kisses on his chin and cheek and neck. "Come on, then," Stede whispers in his ear, his hands both fumbling at Ed's waist. "Come on."

Ed takes them both in hand, sweat and slick and heat between them and nothing else, and Ed was right, the whole world is Stede, and Ed is too, beneath him and around him and clean through his very soul, bound up in his heart. He says something, as he comes. He might have said everything.

Stede collapses, in a messier heap than the petticoats. Ed shuts his eyes and feels the weight of him, the undeniable fact of him, here in Ed's arms. He thinks back to three years ago, to six months ago, to two hours ago. He thinks that he was swallowed up and consumed; he disappeared, and only now is he starting to see himself again. It makes him laugh.

"What are you on about, you lunatic," Stede mumbles, trying to move off of him.

Ed holds him tighter. "Oh, I was just thinking," he says, and he can see Stede get there a half-pace beforehand, glowering even as he's giggling, "You wouldn't think such a beautiful thing would be so heavy, would you?"

eta: now on ao3!

[leupagus]

Hello! I saw you were looking for prompts! I would murder for awkward Edward who prefers to have Stede think he cannot read rather than admit his eyesight is going to shit and he needs glasses. And then Stede gets him glasses. And then Stede ravishes him. Because he's hot, but hotter in glasses. 💚

Cheers!

It had been (not a trial, a term Stede might have used before being put on actual trial) a pain in the arse, was likely the best phrase for it, and fitting too, considering his profession and position. But something had to be done.

"Hm, try these," said the fellow — a Mr. Martin, who had been surprisingly calm about the capture of the vessel taking him from Nevis back to his home in London. Perhaps it was because he had a naturally phlegmatic constitution, which was Stede's theory.

Or perhaps it was because what he had of such value on the ship wasn't immediately apparent, until he'd noticed Ed squinting at a particularly fine copy of Stultitiae Laus.

Ed made a face. "Do I have to?" he asked, perilously close to a whine.

Mr. Martin said nothing, but turned to Stede as if in appeal. Which was fitting, considering Stede had been the one to make the bargain in the first place — the release of the vessel and most of its valuables, in exchange for Mr. Martin's services.

"Yes," Stede answered Ed. "Trying new experiences is the key to inner growth, my dear."

Ed sighed as he tried them on — a pair of rather cunning spectacles, with a bit that extended past the frames to wrap around the ear. "They make my face look all weird and sharp," he complained, examining himself in the mirror they'd liberated from elsewhere on the ship.

"The sharpness is because you can see clearly," Stede felt compelled to explain. "Things aren't supposed to be blurry all the time."

"Things aren't blurry all the time, just close up," Ed argued, turning to look at him — then stopped, his eyes wide, though it was difficult to tell if that was the effect of the lenses. "Fuck, you look even better now," he said, admiringly.

"We'll take them," Stede decided.

"Too bloody right we will," Ed agreed, waving his knife around half-heartedly. But Stede slipped a few guineas into the man's pocket as they departed. It wouldn't do to let standards slip.

[leupagus]

You know, the thing I keep thinking about is Stede having to complete these impossible trials to defeat Blackbeard and win back Ed’s heart. Very fairy tale, “making a rope of ashes” type stuff, to prove that his heart is true.

-

She'd been given the list when she was barely a woman, by her first and deadest husband Paul; he'd gotten it long ago, he'd said, from a witch. "Didn't think much of it at the time," he'd gasped, his beautiful face now waxy and sunken with disease. Jackie had gripped his hand tighter. "Witches were a dime a dozen 'round here; never hurts to tip your hat and take what's offered freely. I put it in my pocket and might've forgotten it; but not two days later, that bastard Hornigold's ship comes into harbor."

"You're telling me Hornigold was the—" Jackie'd said, smiling wide and bright the way she'd done in his last days, making sure he never saw her weeping. "Honey, if you could get up out of this bed I'd tell you you've got sunstroke."

But Paul had shaken his head, chuckling soft enough not to start coughing again. "No no. Not him. Hornigold comes swanning off the boat, his crew behind him, and I see this lanky young hand with a limp in the crowd."

"You're talking about Blackbeard?" she'd asked, her smile slipping.

"The same," Paul had whispered. "I saw and I knew, my ruby. I knew then that he had come crawling back into the world, on the back of that sad-eyed boy." He'd patted her arm with his other hand, pointing to the scrap of paper on the blanket. "Keep it close, and keep yourself in his good graces as long as you're able."

It was almost three years before Jackie could read well enough to understand all the words on the list. She'd been furious to realize it wasn't anything more than the rhyme she'd heard countless times growing up, in lullabies and field hollers and once, set to the music of a fiddle and banjo on the deck of a ship. There'd been comfort in that fury, in feeling something other than the roaring grief that still howled in her chest every time she thought of Paul. But she'd kept the list; kept it closer than her knife and pistol.

Bonnet protested when she handed it over, his voice climbing the register faster than a deckhand swarming up the rigging on a clear day. "There's no such thing as a rope made of ashes!" he protested, while his scribe boy squawked at something else on the list. Oluwande, staring at her from Bonnet's other side, gripped his scimitar more tightly. "This is preposterous, it's a child's nonsense song—"

"Then you're refusing?" Jackie asked as she leaned back in her chair, one of her husbands (Bernie? Herbie?) helping her prop up her feet on a stool. "You said you wanted Edward Teach back. Only way to do that, Blackbeard's got to die. And there's only one way to do that without killing Ed, too." She took a deep drag of her cigar and waited until Bonnet settled back down, his blotchy face shifting from red to grey.

She'd done her spy-work on Bonnet in the past few months since he'd first crashed into her tavern, scattering chaos like buttons from his hot-white coattails. For all Bonnet's high manners, he was born in the salt-sands of Barbados, just like her; the island ran through his veins as thick as his blood. He knew the stories. Hell, he'd probably sung this list himself.

"I'm not refusing," he said, quick enough to make her mouth twitch. He knew the stories, all right. "But this can't be — are you saying it's real?"

"That's outside my purview, as the mermaid hooker so famously said," Jackie shrugged. "But it's not like you can lure him out with milk and plantains."

"No," Bonnet sighed. "Nor am I likely to find a bottle to fit him in." His voice was thinner now, reedier. Not with fear, though; Jackie could smell fear, and Bonnet had reeked of it before now. This was something else. "Do you really think I can — do you think there's any chance at all?"

"Better chance with you than anybody else."

"A better chance with me?" At least Bonnet was smart enough to find that hilarious. "Why?"

"Because you're an idiot," Jackie told him, figuring he needed the truth. "Because you left a rich and easy life. Because you don't know what you're doing, or just how impossible it really is." She tapped at the paper, the last time she would ever touch it. "Because you came to your mortal enemy and asked her for help, knowing she's been itching to add you to her nose collection. Because you're so in love with a man that you're gonna try killing the monster who lives inside him with nothing more than a fairy-tale list and a pair of soft hands."

Most folks would be smart enough to leave it at that, and leave. But Bonnet really was an idiot; probably part of his charm. Jackie wondered how many pieces he'd come back in, if he failed. How terrifying he might end up being, if he didn't.

Instead Bonnet smiled, said, "Thank you, Madame Jackie, for the pep-talk," got to his feet and honest-to-God bowed. His flunkies stumbled upright and followed him to the door, where he turned back. "We're not mortal enemies, surely?"

"Get the fuck out of my bar," Jackie said. "Don't come back until you've got one of those things."

She'd say it eleven more times, before the end.

[leupagus]

AO3 Playing Cards Promptfest!

The recent Archive Of Our Own pledge drive included a playing-card deck as one of the rewards for donating; I got mine yesterday and guys... they're SO PRETTY. Each card has a specific tag (like "gen" or "slow burn" or "amnesia") and so I'd like to do a promptfest with them!

Rules are: send me an ask with:

a fandom (can be any fandom you think I might have heard of - if I need more info I'll let you know)

the characters you want in the scene (you can specify if you want them to be romantic, friends, enemies, whatever)

a playing card (ie seven of clubs, joker, jack of diamonds) (you can also say "dealer's choice" and I'll just pull a card)

Please limit yourself to one prompt per ask, but you can send as many asks as you like! (I'd prefer asks to replies or messages, since they're the easiest to use in promptfests like this.)

I will post a picture of the card in question and a drabble-ish-sized scene. This will obviously be somewhat random, since I don't want to show the cards ahead of time, but that's part of the fun! I'll do this from now until July 4th, at which point I'll post pics of all the cards in case any of them didn't get selected; everything will be tagged "promptfest cards" if you want to see what cards have already been picked.